L I E> RARY
OF THE
U N I VER^S ITY
or ILLINOIS
I/. /
OWEK:-A WAIF.
BY
THE AUTHOR OF
NO CHURCH," AND "HIGH CHURCH."
■ What a waive and stray is that man that hath not Thy marks upon him '."
DONN-E.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
HURST AND BLACKETT, TUBLTSHERS,
SUCCESSORS TO HKNRY COLBUUN,
13, GREAT MAKLECROUOa STREET.
1862.
27ie rigftt of Translation is reserved.
LONDON :
printed by r. born, gloucester street,
regent's park.
CO
3
^
V, I
DEDICATED
TO
WILLIAM KERSHAW, Esq.,
IN KINDLY REMEMBRANCE
OF
A PAST
AS DEAR TO HIM AS TO HIS
OLD FRIEND AND SCHOOLFELLOW,
THE AUTHOR.
^
BOOK THE FIRST.
CONTAINS THE HISTORY OF ONE STEP.
VOL. I.
OWEN:-A WAIF.
CHAPTER I.
MARKSHIRE DOWNS.
Lucky the rain had kept oif so long from
Markshire Downs ; for Markshire had been
holding its annual cattle fair thereon, and
it was not a pleasant place to be caught in
stormy seasons. The wind and the rain
had always done much damage there, and
old Markshire folk considered the wet season
set in regularly at fair time. It was a wise
dispensation that the cattle fair occurred on
the first week of September — when the corn
b2
4 OWEN.
was in, and the harvest beer drank, and the
harvest junketings ended. It always rained
at Markshire Fair, people said ; and people
no more went thither without their stoutest
boots and most weather-proof habiliments
than Markshire folk would go to church in
their Sunday's best without a baggy cotton
umbrella, by way of weather-guard. But
this particular year in which our story
opens the weather-wise had been balked in
their prognostications, and people had pre-
pared against the fury of the elements in
vain ; there had been sunshine on the
Downs all fair time, and, though the wind
had blown a little fresh occasionally, yet it
blew from the right quarter, and the
aborigines were not too particular. Lucky
the rain had kept oif so long then from
Markshire Downs. So genial a fair time
had scarcely been known by " the oldest in-
habitant ;" there had been an extra attend-
ance of sexagenarians and children in con-
sequence, and brisk buying and selling, and
OWEN. 5
exchanging and swindling, had been the
order of the day.
What that the rain came down when the
last Welsh colt was sold, and a wretched
animal of eighteen years, with its teeth
scoured and its tusks filed, remained still a
dead lot on its owner's hands, the bond fide
cattle fair was at end, and the drinking and
quarrelsome evening that invariably wound
up the proceedings was an illegitimate ap-
pendage, only countenanced by a nondescript
crowd and a few Markshire roughs. Sober
people had wound their way down the
steep hill to the town, and their respective
villages lying ^yq^ ten, fifteen miles beyond
the Downs ; and those who had stopped to
revel and get drunk after the day's business
deserved a wetting for the nonce, and there
was no honest Markshire soul to pity them.
It rained hard and it blew hard ; revelry
had up-hill work, and even getting drunk
under a canvas roof, which kept the rain oiF
for five minutes and then let it down all in
b OWEN.
the lump, was dispiriting and grew mono-
tonous. People who knew Markshire gave
it up at last, and, despairing of fair
weather, made a dash homewards, and
left the Downs to the tent-keepers and
cattle-dealers. Had it remained fine, or
been even moderately wet, the nomadic,
heterogeneous classes up there would have
been melting away by degrees in the night's
darkness, and the morning sun would have
discovered but a few crazy skeletons of booths.
But it was a terrible night, and those most
anxious to be gone thought twice about it,
after a glance at the black prospect beyond
the feebly -lighted, miserably-dripping can-
vas tenements.
There were no signs of clearing up, and
men and women resigned themselves to cir-
cumstance, and made the best of it. Stand-
ing, at eleven o'clock at night, on the
Downs, a few paces from the scene of all
the day's life and strife and barter, an ob-
server might have fancied, from the dead
OWEN. 7
silence, and his inability to distinguish
objects in advance, that not an atom from
the great cattle gathering was left there,
and that the Downs were free again to sheep
flocks. And yet there were all the elements
of life and life's discord beneath half the
soddened tents — the world has a guilty con-
science, and can sleep not.
There was life — and restless, unsettled
life, too — in Jack Archer's tent, where the
rain came in with less affectation, and the
wind swooped underneath with no ceremony
at all. Jack Archer was not a particular
man himself, and did not like his company
particular. His was not even a respectable
tent, but a sort of tent-of-call for all the
black sheep that a cattle-fair collects toge-
ther. A decent coat, a clean face, linen of
anything under a month's wear, would have
been out of place therein. There were even
some cattle-dealers who preferred to give it
a wide berth ; and the rural constabulary,
represented by half-a-dozen mild young men,
8 OWEN.
whose trousers did not fit them, ran for
their lives another way whenever the ru-
mour of a fight in Archer's tent got wind.
And they fought often and with vigour
there, and Archer's tent was always lively
in fair time.
But the fair was over, and Archer's tent
participated in the general gloom, albeit all
life was not quenched out by the night's de-
luge. A woman was awake, at least, and
moving uneasily from one part of the tent
to another, amongst men and tables, and
even horses and donkeys, varying proceed-
ings by now and then lumping heavily on a
form, or struggling with the canvas screen
before the opening, and squeezing a damaged
bonnet through an aperture too small for it
in the vain endeavour to find signs of clear-
ing-up — an operation not always received
with cordiality, or even common civility,
by those trying hard to sleep, as it let in no
end of extra wind, which threatened to have
the tent up by the roots.
OWEN. y
" If you do it again, I'll pitch you out by
the scruiFjby ! " roared Jack Archer, who
had been dozing on his extempore counter
under a pile of horse-cloths, previous to the
woman's last attempt to ventilate the place
— ^' you and that devil's imp of yours !
If I stand any more of this, mind you, I'm
1 " and Jack Archer's oily oaths slipped
from his lips one by one, till sleep and beer
fumes gained the mastery.
The woman dropped the canvas screen,
and stood, with some appearance of defi-
ance, looking back at her reprover. There
was a lantern on the counter near Jack
Archer's head, and its feeble light indicated
two wild eyes glittering neath the shadow
of the bonnet. The light showed little else,
it was so weak, and struggled so hard for
existence with the elements. The woman
was tall, and poorly clad, and hardly sober :
one could see the first, guess the second,
and have little doubt of the third, as she
moved uneasily back, and wentr the whole
10 OWEN.
length of the tent with an irregular tread,
pausing once to steady herself at a table,
where three or four men sat huddled toge-
ther all asleep, and snoring, and holding
in their grimy fists, short, heavy-handled,
shabby riding- whips.
There were, at least, twenty persons in
the tent, all of whom, if not asleep, had
lapsed into some semblance of quiescence,
with the exception of this troubled woman.
To and fro, to and fro, she paced uneasily
after the last remark of her un courteous
host, pausing now and then to make sure
that the rain continued unabated, with-
out risking further indignation by re-opening
the tent.
After half-a-dozen turns, or thereabouts,
she walked to the darkest corner of the
tent, and groped about the grass and the
legs of morbid donkeys with her hands, till
they met with a bundle of rags of some
kind, which she shook roughly once or
twice. "
OWEN. 11
'^ Owen," slie whispered — " Owen, are
you asleep ? "
To which question silence responding in
the affirmative, she rose and re-commenced
her peripatetic exercise.
" It's better as it is — it can't be worse,"
she muttered, after a time. "What's the
odds to him or me, for that matter ? "
This assertion not appearing wholly sa-
tisfactory, the woman finally dropped on to
a form, and took her chin between her two
hands, and moaned a little.
" Can't you sleep ? " asked a voice, so
suddenly at her side, that the woman
started.
" No," was the sullen response.
" You won't try — and you won't let
others, more tired and more inclined than
yourself, sleep either."
It was a mild reproof, and in a woman's
voice ; and the first woman looked hard
into the murky atmosphere before her, and
could make out something wrapped in a
12 OWEN.
plaid shawl, sitting with its back against
something taller that snored.
"People who are miserable, or sick of
life, or anxious to be gone, don't sleep,"
muttered the woman, either as a moral
reflection or as a half-apology, according to
the humour of the party addressed.
"You have been pretty merry all the
fair, too."
" How do you know ? " was the short
inquiry.
" I haven't been here with my eyes shut
all the time."
" Oh, you're one of the 'cute ones, per-
haps ! " said the woman, with an awful bit-
terness. " You've a living to make, and
bread to earn ; and I've money to get drink
with. "We can't all be up in the stirrups at
once."
" Ah, no ! Try and sleep a bit now, will
you?"
" For your sake or mine ? " asked the
other sharply.
OWEN. 13
" For both, perhaps."
"Then I shan't!"
"Very well," said the other, yawning.
" Oh, dear ! how cramped I am ! "
"You should have minded your own
business, then," said the restless woman, as
though cramp were the natural result of
intermeddling, and served her right accord-
ingly.
The woman in the plaid shawl, who was
evidently not inclined to quarrel, returned
no answer ; but seemed to huddle closer to
her companion for more warmth and com-
fort than his back afforded.
" The idea of asking me to sleep ! " com-
mented the woman, who could not shake off
an aggrieved subject, and evidently trea-
sured an indignity — " of asking me to sleep
in Markshire ! "
Her late interlocutor continuing taciturn,
she had all the conversation to herself
" Why, I was born here, my good woman ;
had a father and mother here, who both
14 OWEN.
went to the churchyard — broke their hearts
about me, fools say ! I saw their grave last
Monday. What a sight for one like me to
come and see at fair-time I " and her hand
smote the table angrily.
" Hush, hush ! Don't make a noise —
you'll wake the people ! " cried the other.
" Ah I well, I don't want that, mind you.
All's fair with me, and I don't want that.
Oh ! this rain ! "
" Are you in a hurry to be gone ? "
" I can't sit waiting here. I'm a mad-
woman at heart; and my brain won't steady
down — it turned when I was younger by a
good ten years, and well it might for that
matter."
" Don't shake the form so," said the
woman, in a hasty whisper, glancing ner-
vously over her shoulder.
" Oh ! you're all donts ! " was the peevish
rejoinder ; " as if I cared for them, and
hadn't been hardened to them years ago.
Say, don't make up your mind to drown
OWEN. 15
yourself in Markshire river ; and see what
I shall say, or how you'll balk me ! "
"Why, you never "began the other,
and then stopped and laughed a not unplea-
sant musical laugh. " Ah ! you have been
drinking too much. You'll feel better in
the morning, if you can only sleep a bit ;
do try, now ! "
" What, in Markshire ! " scornfully cried
the woman again.
" Yes, to be sure. What's to hinder
you?"
" I'll drown myself, by all that's holy — I
can't live ! "
"Well, for a woman who is quite cer-
tain about that, you are rather particular
as to the wet," was the somewhat sarcastic
remark, as the plaid-shawl made another
effort to collect a little extra warmth in its
folds.
"You're a bit of a pert hussey — that's
what you are," retorted the woman; but
the pert hussey aforesaid had made up her
16 OWEN.
mind to be lured no further into conversa-
tion ; and the half-dozen acrimonious obser-
vations that followed failed to arouse her
from her apathy. The woman even relin-
quished the attempt, and shuffled to her
feet, and re-commenced her weary walk,
once stopping before the bundle, and whis-
pering Owen as before. Owen slept, how-
ever ; and the woman, after muttering
something over him — a prayer, a curse, a
warning, a dreamy soliloquy having no sense
or object — either or all four, for what could
be learned from the few words whispered in
that dark corner — went with the same
vacillating gait to the front entrance,
ripped suddenly from top to bottom the
aperture that had been closed by a needle
and pack-thread late that evening by John
Archer, licensed to sell beer on retail,
and passed on to the Downs, admitting at
one fell swoop the torrent and the wind,
which blew over forms, and whisked off
Dick Archer's fur cap, and the lantern, and
OWEN. 17
swelled out the tent and cracked more than
one of the tent cords, and woke up three-
fourths of the sleepers in dismay.
" Jack ! Jack ! the tent's coming down !"
cried more than one voice, whilst the earliest
aroused were hurrying to and fro, and Jack
Archer, foaming at the mouth, was leaping
unprofitably in the air, and hurling male-
dictions at the world and its eyes and its
limbs generally. It took several minutes to
organize these startled atoms, and bring them
to something like use for the common weal,
and secure the tent, so far as circumstances
permitted, against a similar repetition. It
broke up rest in general for that night,
and the ill-wind blew extra customers to
Archer's double X, and made many thirsty
and noisy, and hindered sleep in the few
who were inclined that way after the first
alarm had subsided. There was but one
who, amidst it all, slept soundly and peace-
ably on — who, in the first tumult and con-
fusion, had, for a moment, looked from his
VOL. I. C
18 OWEN.
rags like a young wild beast cub from its
lair, and then subsided quietly do\\nnL again ;
and he, perhaps, had the greatest reason to
evince alarm at the incidents of that
night.
For the mother who bore him, the reck-
less woman of the preceding hours, who had
begged and stolen for him for nine years —
perhaps had taught him to beg and steal
for himself — had shaken him from the sha-
dow of her wing, and cast him a waif on
the world.
The woman, planning her escape either
from him or from the life she had grown
weary of, had muttered, at an earlier hour,
" It's better as it is — it can't be worse !"
and possibly affairs could not present a
more forlorn aspect, or turn out worse for
the waif. The world had been ever before
him, and met him with a hard, unpitying
countenance — the face of a Nemesis re-
venging his appearance on a society that
hates such things I — and the mother had
OWEN. 19
been a strange woman, who had not loved
him, or taught him what love was.
Will he wake to much despair when his
nine years are startled by the information
that he is alone in the world ? Would he
have cried out with much agony in his
sleep had he dreamed of the dark river, and
seen Ihe woman he called mother standing
irresolutely on the brink, in the searching
wind and rain ?
c2
20
CHAPTER 11.
" TAKBY."
The wind lulled lialf an hour before sunrise,
and the rain came down more steadily. A
cold, incessant rain, that gave no promise of
clearing up for that day, and suggested to
all loiterers the expediency of removing to
more habitable quarters.
Life woke early that morning, and pro-
prietors of booths and drinking tents were
hammering away at uprights, and stowing
away their large bales of canvas long before
the night's shadows had crept down the
westward hill reluctantly. Cattle-dealers
OWEN. 21
brought forth their surplus stock from un-
accountable quarters, and trotted away ;
carts and waggons, and houses that
went on wheels, were disappearing down
the hill. Some broken bottles and loose
straw, some cut-up turf that would take till
next spring to replace, would shortly in-
dicate alone the site of the great fair, which
had been the pride of Markshire since Queen
Bess, of blessed memory, granted the charter
in 1567.
At seven in the morning Jack Archer s
tent was level with the ground, and his
customers divided, and Jack Archer himself
was harnessing a lank horse to the shafts of
his cart, whilst a ragged boy of nine years
old stood with his hands in his pockets
shivering and watching the operation.
"Ain't you anything better to do than
stand there ?" inquired John Archer, adding
force to his inquiry by a jerk of the left
elbow that rendered there somewhere else on
the instant.
22 OWEN.
" No, I haven't — and keep your hands to
yourself."
. "Why don't you be oiF after your
mother?" growled the man. "If it warn't
your blarmed mother that let the wind in
and nearly split the tent in half last night,
I'm a innocent. lonly wish I had kicked
the couple of you out before the rain began,
that's all."
The man made a suspicious movement
with the reins ; and a pair of sharp eyes
taking note thereof, their owner sauntered to
a respectful distance, and left John Archer to
proceed with his arrangements unobserved.
There was something cool and easy about
this boy, singularly in contrast to his years
— a bold, unabashed, almost defiant air,
partly, mayhap, an inheritance from his
mother, the greater portion thereof the
natural result of such stern teaching as the
world's experience had afforded him. On
the Downs, in the midst of strangers, with
his mother absent and himself hunsrrv, he
OWEN. 23
appeared unconcerned and at home — caring
nothinoj for the rain that soaked throuorh
his scanty clothes, and looking as sharply
round for stray morsels of bread and meat
from those who were dashino; throuo;h a
hasty breakfast, as the half-starved mongrels
that waited on their master, and showed
their teeth at each other and at him.
Each minute after sunrise noted a depar-
ture and a decrease in the numbers on the
Downs, and by eight in the morning there
were not twenty people left to keep the
deserted boy company.
From that small cono^reo:ation a woman
in a grey plaid shawl called to Owen.
"Here, young one — I want you a mo-
ment."
The boy, after a suspicious glance towards
her — "to be wanted" was a suspicious
phrase, and suggested many unpleasant re-
miniscences — walked towards the woman,
who was seated on a costermonger's barrow,
with an umbrella over her head, carefully
24 OWEN.
screening from tlie wet two large artificial
roses in her bonnet, of which she was evi-
dently a little vain. At the head of the
barrow, engaged in a little dispute with a
donkey, that objected to be backed between
the shafts, was a tall, round-shouldered, bul-
let-headed young man in fustian, whose
first glance towards the boy was on a par
with the looks he had already met with in
his pilgrimage.
" Where's your mother, boy ? "
" I don't know."
"Haven't you seen her this morning? "
"No— I haven't."
" Oh I good Lord, Tarby ! " — addressing
the gentleman at the head of the vehicle —
" if she's been and gone and drownded her.
self, as I was all along afeard on ! "
" Get out ! " was the scornful reply to so
extreme a supposition.
" I told you how wild and skeared-like
she was last night — like a lost thing,
Tarby."
OWEN. 25
" Wo ! back, you blackguard ! " cried
Tarby, who, more interested in his donkey
than his companion's remarks, was becom-
ing excited over the animal's refractoriness.
" Poll, this is a hanimal to come nine-and-
twenty miles for."
And Tarby tapped the animal's head hard
with a cudgel.
"But, do listen awhile, Tarby, to this.
Something ought 'to be done — somebody
ought to be told, you know."
" It's no business of ourn," said Tarby,
regarding the boy mth more intentness.
" If the young shaver's mother can't take
care of herself, we can't be bothered."
"What's your name?" asked Mrs. Tarby,
turning to the boy.
" Owen."
"Owen what?"
" Owen nothinof. I've 2:ot no other
to'
name."
" What's your mother's name ? — she had
one, I suppose ? "
26 OWEN.
" Madge they called her — that's all."
" Where do you live ? "
" Mann's Gardens, Tower Street."
"What!— in Lambeth?"
" Yes. We lived there till the rent-man
turned us out, and then we came on here.
Do you think mother's drownded ? "
" I don't know— God forbid, boy ! "
" She said she would do it last week," he
remarked, coolly.
" And what did she think was to become
of you ? " said Mrs. Tarby.
" Oh, she never thinks," was the answer,
accompanied by a short laugh — " 'more do
I. How it rains ! "
" Ain't you hungry ? "
" Rather," was the emphatic answer, and
the keen black eyes looked round for some-
thing more substantial than words to follow
the inquiry.
"Tarby, I think we'll give him the rest
of that loaf," said the woman, with a timid
glance towards her lord and master. Owen
OWEN. 27
glanced anxiously in that direction also ; it
was a matter of importance to know what
Tarby thought of the suggestion.
Tarby, having harnessed the donkey, evi-
dently stood reflecting on the matter.
"Times is bad! — we've parted with the
old mare, and come down to donkies. Poll ;
and meat's on the rise, and we're three weeks
back with the rent, and — and the damned
winter's coming ! "
And Tarby's face, pitted deep with the
small-pox, took a darker and more swarthy
hue.
" Times is bad, Tarby," the wife remarked ;
"and perhaps half- a- twopenny-loaf would
make 'em badder if we gave it all away at
once. It's astonishing how fine we have to
cut it sometimes."
This, the reader will understand— the
reader who has not had any opportunity of
studying Mrs. Tarby just at present — was
polite satire, intended to touch Tarby to the
quick ; for Tarby, last night, had not been
28 OWEN.
full of such economic thoughts, and had
consumed rather more than a gallon of beer
in Jack Archer's tent, despite the objections
of his better half to the proceeding.
"Give the boy the bread, Polly," said
Tarby, after a pause ; " perhaps he is hun-
gry, the young warmint."
Polly produced the bread, and Owen,
with an unceremonious half-snatch, pro-
ceeded to despatch it, regarding Tarby,
meanwhile, with increasing interest.
" I know you ! '^ he said at last, with an
artful twinkling of one eve — " I've knowed
'to
eye-
you ever so long."
" Oh 1 have you ? " was th^ quiet reply ;
" 1 hope you'll know your manners some
day too, and understand what thankee's
for."
" Thankee's for the bread — I forgot !"
" You're welcome, boy," said Mrs Tarby,
heartily, " I wish there was more of it."
" Oh ! so do I^ — just," was Owen's reply.
"And so you know me?'' said Tarby,
OWEN. 29
looking down on this shrewd specimen of
human nature ; " where did you see me
last, I wonder ? "
" In the station-house, last Whitsun-
Monday. Oh ! wasn't you drunk ! "
Mrs. Tarby, who had no fine feelings,
laughed at this ; and Tarby 's visage relaxed,
as he gave a nervous twitch to a lock of
straight hair behind his left ear.
'^ That's a neat memory of yourn — take
care on it," said he.
He was sitting on the shaft of his barrow
a moment afterwards, gathering up the
reins in his hand.
" I wonder what you wanted in the sta-
tion-house," said Tarby, after a moment's
pause ; " you wasn't big enough to get
drunk, and then go fighting like the holiday
•folks."
" I got hungry, and took some cheese off
a shopboard ; and the man saw me."
" You'll be a credit to society when you
gets bigger," said Tarby, drily.
30 OWEN.
" Will you give us a ride off the ©owns?"
asked Owen.
" Bless your impudence ! "
" I'm no weight ; feel how light I am ! "
" He is a little fellow," commented Mrs.
Tarby ; "if our Jemmy had lived, he
wouldn't have been unlike him, Tarby.
Don't you see a look of little Jemmy in the
eyes there ? "
" I can't say as I do," said Tarby, with-
out looking for the resemblance indicated.
" Jump up, will you ? "
''Me!'' cried Owen.
" Ah ! just for a while ; it's hard on the
new mohe^ though. Come up !"
They were rattling and bumping along
the Downs, towards the narrow chalk road
that led therefrom, down, down by many a
circuitous turn and twist to the level coun-'
try, and the London road. Owen sat be-
hind on an empty basket, enjoying his
eleemosynary meal ; and the excitement of
an unlooked-for lift on his journey.
OWEN. 31
Mrs. Tarby, accustomed as she was to
London boys — to tliose iDrecocious speci-
mens whose home is the streets — sat
and looked with no little interest at this
youth, perched on the end of the barrow,
with a monkey-like sense of security.
"Do you think you'll find your mother
in the town ? " asked she.
" I shan't look for her, marm," was the
reply ; " she'll find her way back to Lon-
don, and we shall meet in Mann's Gardens
right enough. She often gives me the slip
for a week or so, and goes ofi* to drown her-
self. She is fond of drowning herself, I can
tell you."
" And how'U you get to London? "
"Walk and get lifts, and so on — if Mr.
Tarby's afraid I shall kill his donkey."
Owen elevated his voice at this, but
Tarby did not hear him, or considered it
policy to be deaf to the hint.
" Do you know anyone in London, boy ?'*
asked Mrs. Tarby, after a while.
32 OWEN.
" Only the Doctor."
"Doctor who?"
" He's called the doctor — I don't know
why — he wouldn't doctor me if I was ever
so ill. He buys pocket-handkerchersy
" I wouldn't try to find him," said Mrs.
Tarby. " He'll never be of good to you.
So, here's the town ; just look about for
your mother."
" Oh, yes —and sure to walk to London
then," said the boy, dropping lightly from
the barrow. "If she wants me, she'll be
looking out herself I say, Tarby."
"Hollo!" replied Tarby, looking round
sharply at this familiar address.
" Thankee for the ride so far — thankee.
Sir.
The boy laughed shrilly, and Tarby gave
a hoarse laugh in return, and cracked his
whip at Owen's little legs, which were too
quick for the compliment, and darted away.
Mrs. Tarby saw no signs of Owen's mother
in the town, although she troubled herself
OWEN. 33
more about catching a glimpse of the well-
known battered straw bonnet of that lady
than her son, who ran lightly beside the
barrow till it drew up before the "Mark-
shire Arms." Tarby spent a quarter of an
hour in the " Markshire Arms," and finally
emerged therefrom with a blue and white
china mug frothing over with that ale for
which Markshire has reasonable call to be
proud. After Mrs. Tarby had drunk, the
mug was returned to Tarby, who tilted it
slowly upwards, and his head gradually
backwards, till his left eye became aware
of an observer. Tarby drank less fast,
paused to take breath, looked fondly
into the interior of the mug, and then,
with a kind of wrench of his better nature,
said,
" I suppose you wouldn't watch every
drop a feller drinks like that if you wern't
thirsty. Here."
Owen snatched at the mug, drank off the
contents, and, possibly by way of return
VOL. I. J)
34 OWEN.
for Tarby's kindness, ran with it into the
bar. He lingered at the bar some minutes
watching the evolutions of a paroquet at the
back, and when he was in the street again
there was no sign of Tarby's equipage.
Owen set off at once in pursuit down the
wet London road ; it was still raining,
and the deep puddles with which the road
was studded were cool and refreshing to
Owen's bare feet, as he ran splashing through
them. The boy was light of foot — good
practice, the constant pursuit of that society
which ignored him and mistrusted him, and
with which, young as he was, he was at
war, had rendered him a swift runner ; and
he dashed along in pursuit, keeping his
head flung back, his chest forward, and
moving his legs at a pace that astonished
many a Markshire rustic whom he passed
on his way.
Owen soon caught sight of the donkey
trap ; and the owner, looking round Mrs.
Tarby's umbrella, as quickly discovered
OWEN. 6[)
Owen advancing towards him, at a pace
difficult for his donkey to outstrip.
Still Tarby was a little tired of the young
gentleman's society; Owen's persistence tried
his temper, and he applied the whip to his
donkey in consequence, and rattled down
the hills and round the corners at a rate
that bumped three-fourths of the breath out
of Mrs. Tarby's body.
But all the perseverance in the world,
accompanied with a sharp whip and blas-
phemous adjurations, will not excite a don-
key to feats of any great importance after
the first mad impulse to prance has been
surmounted ; and Owen gained upon the
barrow, to the inexpressible annoyance of
the proprietor.
" How well that boy runs, Tarby ! " com-
mented his wife.
" He's an aggravating boy, and I don't
like to be put upon."
Tarby gave the donkey an additional cut
with the whip, which caused a spasmodic
d2
36 OWEN.
elevation of the hind legs, but added no-
thing to the rate of progression.
It became very evident that there was no
running away from Owen — no tiring that
youth, or rendering him too short of breath
to follow. Whenever Tarby or his wife
looked round, there was Owen a few yards
from them, grinning from ear to ear, or
waving his cap or his hand, by way of polite
assent to Tarby not to put himself out of
the way on his account.
He was level with the barrow at last, and
holding on behind as he ran, and some-
what anxious to attract the notice of Mrs.
Tarby.
" Don't hang on behind like that, young
feller ! " shouted Tarby. " Don't you see
it*s hard work for us up the hill ? "
"All right, guv'nor," was the response,
and Owen proceeded to run by the side,
and, as the way became more steep, to take
the precedence, and look behind at the
equipage somewhat derisively.
OWEN. 37
On the brow of the hill he condescended
to impart the information that the rain was
clearing off a bit, and then that the donkey
looked " blown," and Tarby inspected him
with a stony gaze, and was very cutting
with his monosyllables.
Tarby did not attempt to leave Owen
behind again. He had many miles of
ground to get over; and, though he was
a sufficient judge of donkey -flesh to know
that he had purchased a first-rate animal of
its class, yet he felt perfectly assured that
pitting him against a young vagabond, whom
nothing seemed to tire, was not a judicious
experiment so early in the day.
Still, he had no idea of adding any extra
weight to his barrow ; nay, more, he had
begun to consider Owen's perseverance as a
personal afi'ront to himself, and one that
required putting down in some way. He
was not fond of boys' society at any time ;
and although the boy had made him smile
once or twice by his ready answers, yet
38 OWEN.
that was no reason why he should carry
him to London, free of all demands. The
boy's officiousness annoyed him also. Once
he dropped his whip in the road, and, be-
fore he could slip off the shafts, Owen had
picked it up and put it in his hands ; and
once, striding along to relieve the weight,
Owen had volunteered, in the coolest man-
ner, to take the reins a bit, if Mr. Tarby
liked — which he didn't.
The rain ceased when they were six or
seven miles from Markshire ; the blue sky
struggled with the fleecy banks of cloud,
and gained the mastery, and scattered them
so much that the sun shone forth and sowed
the hedgerows and grassy banks with dia-
monds. The change in the weather, or an
extra pint of beer that he had slipped into
a roadside inn to procure, did not improve
Tarby 's temper, however ; and Mrs. Tarby
having fallen asleep, with her head on one
side, and her bonnet half down her back,
Owen was left destitute of friends. He was
OWEN. 39
used to that state of things ; it was his nor-
mal condition. He had been born so, lived
on so — everybody had been against him
from his birth. He could have borne and
put up with a great deal, and not considered
himself aggrieved ; and Tarby must have
been far more churlish and unmanlike be-
fore he could have shaken off the good im-
pression that past kindness had left on the
boy. Owen was of a pushing order, and
had not much bashfulness. Like a dog one
may have unintentionally caressed by the
roadside, he had become intrusive, and soli-
citous for a few more of those kind words
and looks to which his life had been fo-
reign ; and even the sharp sidelong glance
that he occasionally bestowed on Tarby
had something of the animal instinct in
it — that instinct to be friends with a mas-
ter who has lately used the whip or the
harsh word.
Mrs. Tarby awoke, after half-an -hours
nap, and looked about her, and nodded at
40 OWEN.
Owen, who brightened up at her patronage,
and gave a quick jerk of his head in return
for the salutation. The morning was grow-
ing late when they entered a little town
some ten or twelve miles from Markshire
Downs, and drew up before another road-
side inn, where some of yesterday's cattle-
dealers and nondescript personages were
lingering about. Tar by exchanged a few
words with one or two who had fraternized
with him yesterday ; and Mrs. Tarby went
shopping, on a small scale, at a general
establishment over the way, whilst Tarby
saw to the wants of his new purchase, pre-
vious to lighting a short pipe, and entering
the tap-room. Owen, leaning against the
post that held the creaking sign above his
head, observed all this, followed with his
eyes the movements of Mrs. Tarby, saw her
cross the road and join her husband, with
a slight feeling of disappointment, perhaps.
Surely it was animal instinct that kept
this lad waiting for the humble pair, who had
OWEN. 41
been, to a certain extent, charitable towards
him, that led him to make friends with
Tarby's donkey, and pat its neck, and rub its
lumpy hairy forehead with almost a younger
brother's aiFection. There seemed even more
sympathy between Owen and his asinine
companion, than between Owen and his
fellow- creatures. They understood each
other better, and were more inclined to be
friends. Both had seen the world, and ex-
perienced its hardships, and been kicked
and beaten, and sworn at, treated cruelly
and unjustly, in fact, from the earliest age.
Both were poor and disreputable, and wore
no livery to command respect.
I do not know if any similar thoughts
occurred to Owen, as he leaned his little
shock head against the donkey's neck ; pos-
sibly he was thinking more of the bar-par-
lour, and what it was likely Mr. and Mrs.
Tarby had for dinner. He stood there very
quietly ; and, as he is handy for his portrait
42 OWEN.
at this juncture, perhaps the reader would
like him at full length.
A boy of nine years, or thereabouts, tall
for his age, with large jet-black eyes, that
gave him a gipsy look, and would have
added more interest to his pinched face if
they had been less inclined to sharp, suspi-
cious glances, that had no small amount of
cunning in them. What the face might
have been under happier auspices, it is
difficult to say — possibly frank and rosy,
and expressing the candour and inno-
cence of youth ; for it was only a face to
shrink from at first sight, my respectable
sirs and madams. Look at it closely, and
with that interest which all God's creatures,
and especially such poor strays as these, are
entitled to — look at it, remembering our
common origin and brotherhood — and the
face is but pale, and pinched with famine
and anxiety, and the brow is heavy and
contracted only with the knowledge that
every man's hand is against its owner, and
OWEN. 4^
prepared to thrust him from the door. The
nose is long and straight, and may turn out
an aristocratic nose ; and nature has had
nothing to do with the thinness and white-
ness of his lips. Push the cap off his fore-
head, and brush therefrom that villainous
lock of hair which trails into his eyes, and
there are thought, and intelligence, and
energy expressed.
In the boy, as he stands there, are mate-
rials to make a man of — a clever man, per-
haps, whose way, properly indicated, may
lead to greatness ; but there are few teachers
in the highways, and such boys as these are
disregarded by the philosopher in the crowd.
The thought, intelligence, and energy are
misdirected — surrounded by things evil,
they are applied to evil purpose, and the
tree brings forth the fruit after its kind, as
God's law indicated from the first.
Owen waited as patiently as the donkey
for the Tarbys ; he had no thought of push-
inor on and beinor overtaken some miles
o o
44
OWEN.
further on the road. He was not anxious
to reach London, or concerned about his
mother, or his school, or his work. There
were no friends waiting for him at the
journey's end ; no advantage to gain by
returning to London, save that it was a
crowded city, and in crowds crusts are
earned and things are picked up more
easily. It was rather pleasant there in the
sun, with the inn before him, and the great
trees rustling over the roof from the back-
garden, and the flowers nodding to him
from the first-floor windows, and the pure
country breeze blowing his rags about and
cooling him after his toil up that last hill
where he had distanced the donkey by
whose side he stood. He drank some water
with that honest donkey from the trough ;
iand if Tarby had only given him another
crust of bread, he would have been as near
happiness as most people. He wondered if
the bakers' shops in country towns kept
their tins of penny loaves as near the door
OWEN. 45
as London tradesmen, and then — which was
a better subject to dwell upon, and did him
less harm — if the buxom landlady behind
the bar would give him a halfpenny if he
begged for it. He tried that experiment,
and failed ; and, without much concern one
way or another — for he was inured to dis-
appointment — returned to his old post, and
looked about him once more. It occurred
to him to enter the bar-parlour and beg of
Tarby and his wife ; but he felt Tarby
would say No, and perhaps add a piece of
his mind about keeping him company for
so long a period. Besides, he was not par-
ticularly hungry — he had fasted thirty,
forty hours, more than once in his young
life, when a roving fit of his mother's left
him in Mann's Gardens, in an apartment as
empty as his stomach.
He had fallen into a speculative reverie
concerning an imaginary shilling — what he
would do with so large a sum supposing he
could find it in the roadway — when the
ii5 OWEN.
voice of Tarby roused him to waking life.
" What ! — you are here still, are you !"
grumbled Tarby.
" I'm in no hurry, you know."
" You don't think you're going to have
another ride, I s'pose ?"
" I don't want one, thankee."
" That's lucky."
" I can keep up with the donkey, off and
on, I daresay."
" What do you want to keep up with the
donkey for — ain't you had enough of that
game ?" asked Tarby, biting his short pipe
hard, and looking down at Owen.
"Well — I — I — it's along way home alone,
and I thought you'd like company, perhaps."
" You're wery kind," said Tarby, with a
withering satire that was lost upon the
youth whom he addressed.
"And lookee here," said the shrewd
youth; "when you want to stretch your
legs with a walk, I can jump up and hold
the reins, and keep the donkey from bolting."
OWEN. 47
" Is that more of your imperence?"
" No — I mean it. I always mean what /
say, Tarby."
" You're a rum customer."
Mrs. Tar by appeared at this juncture, and
said, "Well, boy," in a friendly manner, which
made amends for her husband's harshness.
Owen took that phrase to heart, and built
hopes of future patronage on it ; and as
Tarby was not particularly severe upon
him afterwards, he c(5nsidered himself one of
the party from that time forth. Besides,
he had his reasons for admiring Tarby,
which may appear a few pages hence, in
their natural sequence.
Tarby and his wife set out again, and
Owen proceeded to run by their side so long
as the speed of the donkey necessitated it,
which was only for the first half mile, and
then the donkey dropped into a leisurely
walk, and was deaf to the persuasions of its
owner's cudgel, and Tarby, and even his
wife, had to give up riding and lighten the
48 OWEN.
labours of the quadruped toiling on to
London, by toiling on to London after its
fashion also.
It was noticeable during this journey the
proneness of Tarby to straggle towards each
public-house that they passed, and indulge
in a half-pint or pint of beer, as the case
might be, and the sturdy determination of
his wife to have nothing herself, despite his
offer once or twice during their progress.
Tarby's manner appealed to soften a little
beneath these constant stimulants on the
road ; he was less inclined to speak sharply,
and his condescension to Owen exhibited
itself once or twice in quite a fatherly man-
ner. Owen was more often addressed as
" a young shaver " than " a warmint," and
Tarby's wife was always " Polly " and " old
girl."
A church clock was striking six, and the
evening shades were stealing over the land-
scape, when they had performed about eigh-
teen miles of their journey, and arrived at
OWEN. 49
a breezy common, where sheep and oxen
were browsing and boys playing.
" We'd better not go on too fast, Tarby,"
suggested his wife. " I'd take the donkey
out of the barrow, if I was you."
^' How about London, Polly ? "
" We'll do it — Lord bless you, we'll do it
easily."
" It's a long pull," remarked he, with a
grave shake of the head.
" To-morrow's Saturday, and market-
morning. We always are early to market
on a Saturday."
" Ah ! " was the vague response.
^' We can have a bit of a rest here — then
a rest and a bit of late supper some miles
further on, and so early for business to
Co vent Garden before we go home."
*' You're a woman of business, Polly —
you alius was," said he ; " but nature won't
stand too much, and you're tired."
" Not a bit," answered the woman, cheer-
VOL. I. B
50 • OWEN.
Tarby looked doubtful as he unharnessed
the donkey and gave him a little hay, but
appearances were in favour of the assertion,
and there was no direct evidence to the con-
trary. Mrs. Tarby bustled about, and with
her own strong arras pushed the barrow up
the rising-ground to the comraon — an ope-
ration in which Owen assisted her — whilst
Tarby sauntered a little way in advance,
preparing a fresh pipe of tobacco.
Presently they were seated under a great
elm tree, which had kept the grass dry during
the long rain ; and Tarby was full length
on his back, with his brown skull-cap
cocked over one eye.
*' What a nice place this would be with
lots of beer ! " he observed, after a pause.
'' What a stunning place ! "
"Ah ! it's been a holiday for us, Tarby,"
said the woman. " You and I haven't had
such a long speU at the country since we
were born."
" Three whole days !"
OWEN. 51
" And it hasn't been a loss, hardly. We
sold the pony well at the fair."
" Pretty well, considering."
"And we shall clear the rent off, and
have a pound or thirty shillings for the
savings-bank again, if we take care."
" Ah," responded Tarby, dreamily.
" You'll let me manage it all, Tarby ?
Why, it's my turn this time ! "
" All right, my girl."
Tarby responded in a manner still more
drowsy, and to the next question there was
a dead silence, that told of the senses be-
numbed, and the fresh air and late half-
pints being a little too much for Tarby.
Tarby's wife sat and watched him for a
little while, took off her plaid shawl, and
rolled it into a pillow; finally, raised his
head and placed it underneath him, with a
care and a gentleness of touch as delicate in
a costermonger's wife as in a duchess.
For this woman was fond of Tarby —
faithful and honest and true to him; al-
e2
52 OWEN.
though Tarby had not been the best of
husbands in his day, but hard to please and
understand, and fond of drink, and impro-
vident in his habits, and quarrelsome. It
had been a love-match between them years
ago, and Tarby, after his fashion, was at-
tached to his wife also. He was a thought-
less man, and never took into account what
she sacrificed for him, how laboriously she
worked, what a way she had of making the
best of things, and finding a bright side
even to their troubles ; and how, amidst the
trials and temptations of their poverty, she
was always cheerful and energetic. He had
struck her more than once in his drunken
fits, and she had cried a little and re-
proached him when he was sober enough
to understand her ; but she had been a true
poor man's wife, enduring much, and keep-
ing strong to the last.
They had had two children, and lost both
a few weeks after their birth, although there
was a probability of the race of Tarby being
OWEN. 53
yet perpetuated, if fortune were more fa-
vourable the third time. Mrs. Tarby looked
forward to that time as to better days that
were in store for her, instead of days which
would add to the expenses in fifty different
ways — poor people are so inconsiderate in
these times !
It was Mrs. Tarby 's love for children that
had led her to treat with some degree of
kindness the shock-headed youth who had
remained with them for so long a period,
and that then induced her to unroll from a
series of papers a slice of bread and meat,
which she had reserved since dinner-time
for Owen. Owen nodded his head by way
of thanks, and proceeded to consume the
offering in haste, and with evident relish —
Mrs. Tarby eyeing him meanwhile.
" What do you mean to do, if your
mother s not at home, lad ? " she asked,
when Owen's second meal that day was
despatched.
" At home ! we ain't got no home
54 OWEN.
now ! I told you the rent man turned us
out."
" Where will you find your mother,
then ? "
" Oh ! at the ^ Three Compasses/ or the
* Spanish Patriot,' or the ' Jolly Gardeners '
— everybody knows my mother."
*^ And if she should stay away altogether?"
^' I should live, mum. Why, I can sing
songs in the street — comic ones," said he,
enumerating his accomplishments ; " and I
can throw hand-springs and flip-flaps."
" Can you read ? "
" Lord— no ! "
" Ah ! you're like me — with an eddication
that might have been better. But I wouldn't
thieve again, boy — no good'll come of that,
depend upon it."
" Must do something, Mrs. Tarby ; " and
the boy's face looked old, with its intensity
of purpose.
" Haven't you any relations in the coun-
try?"
OWEN. 55
" What's that ? "
"Any uncles, aunts, cousins ? "
" Never heard on 'em, if I had."
" Didn't you go to Markshire churchyard
before you went on the Downs ? "
" Mother did ; I sat outside on the rails,
and saw the horses go by."
" Wouldn't you like to be something,
boy ? " asked the woman ; " I think, if I
was a boy, I should like to be something,
and ashamed of always skulking about the
streets."
" Nobody'll have me — I am a bad cha-
racter, mum."
And the bad character pulled up some
handfuls of turf by the roots, and looked
puzzled at his own definition.
" I'd go to sea — I'd get made a drummer-
boy, or powder-monkey, or something."
Owen looked up ; those professions had
not struck him before — they were worth
consideration.
" My mother's a bad character, too," said
56 OWEN.
he, as if that assertion accounted for every-
thing; "and as we're both knowed so precious
well in Lambeth, and knowed no good on,
it's no use o' the likes of us trying to do
anythink — there's such lots of us about, and
we're all marked, mum ; and we don't find
many people inclined to be as kind as you
are.
Tarby's wife looked askance at Owen ; she
had her doubts of the boy's genuineness,
— but Owen's face was serious just then.
" If you had been my mother now, I
might " he began.
" Might what ?"
" Oh ! never mind now 1 — what's the
odds ? "
The boy was young in years to speak so
recklessly ; words akin to despair, even
though allied to burlesque, sound awfully
strange from lips such as his.
" Ah ! that's like my Tarby"— with a look
in his direction — " he talks about the odds,
as if the odds weren't always agin his foolish
OWEN. 57
notions. But you're a little boy, and should
know better, and should take the advice of
people older than yourself."
"I'll think about the sea," said Owen,
"and the drummer-boy. I'm feared the
drummer's a cut above me, though. '^
"And when you're thinking about some-
thing else that's wrong — ^you know right
from wrong, don't you ?"
" I don't know as I do," with a pull at
the peak of his cap ; "no one's ever showed
me the difference."
" When you'd like to know that difference,
though I'm no more a scholard than you
are, I'll try to show you, if you'll call on
me."
"At Hannah Street — the greengrocer's?"
" Yes — how did you know that ?"
"I know where Tar by lives — I've knowed
Tarby for years. . I took to Tarby ever since
he whopped policeman 92."
" Ah ! he had three months for it."
"I allers had a grudge against 92 — he's
58 OWEN.
been down on me too often — he's a mighty
bit too sharp to live long, and I wish I was
a trifle bigger for his sake, that's all."
"That'll do, my lad — we needn't talk
about 92 just now. I wish Tarby would
stir himself a little. It's getting very late."
"Tarby!" shrieked the impulsive Owen,
before the impetuous " hush " of Mrs. Tarby
could stay the lad's exclamation. Tarby
was sitting up the instant afterwards, with
all the good temper born of beer quenched
from his pock-marked countenance.
" What are you making that yell in my
ears for ?" he growled.
" It's getting late, Tarby," said Owen, in
reply.
" What the devil's business's that of
yourn."
" It'll be too dark to find the donkey
presently."
Tarby looked round the tree, and saw
the donkey quietly snuffling amongst the
furze bushes at a few paces distant. He
OWEN. 59
turned to Owen, and nodded his head
significantly at him; he did not exactly
see Owen's game, whether it was impu-
dence, or solemn chaff, or an incompre-
hensible something that was bred in him ;
but he nodded his head, as if he weren't to
be done, and Owen kept his distance for the
remainder of the journey.
A long, wearisome journey those last ten
miles, in the late night-hours and the small
hours of the morning, Tarby halting at
every public-house for his half-pint till
midnight, when the doors were barred
against his beer-bibing propensities. Tarby 's
humours came not uppermost again — unless
they were his bad ones, which set in thick
and fast about eleven. He had passed his
facetious point, and was speeding on to the
surly and disputatious — a gradation which
he generally reached when not settled down
to his greens in Hannah Street, or to his bar-
row at the corner of James Street, Lower
Marsh. There had occurred one little dis-
60 OWEN.
pute between him and his wife, concerning
some money which she carried in her bosom
— and which was the purchase-money of
their pony — and he had threatened to
knock her head off if she didn't give it up —
and she had said " do," and held fast to the
money; and compounded the matter by
some fugitive half-pence from a side-pocket,
which kept Tarby in beer, as we have seen,
till the public-houses closed.
When they were nearing London Mrs.
Tarby and Owen were walking in the
roadway, and Tarby, as superior animal,
was curled like a tailor in the centre of the
barrow, which the donkey limped along
with, probably wondering how much further
it had to go.
Mrs. Tarby caught Owen by the sleeve.
"We're going on to Co vent Garden —
your nearest way to Lambeth is over Vaux-
hall Bridge." ^
"Yes— I know."
" Go on, then."
OWEN. 61
" Oh ! it doesn't matter where I go."
" Ain't you anxious about your mother?"
"Not a bit."
" You can't go any further with us.
You'd better not, now."
"Very well."
" Take care of yourself, young one ; " and
the woman slipped a couple of pennies into
his hand — a large sum for her to disburse
in charity, after Tarby's encroachments.
" What's this for ? " asked Owen—" I've
done nothing."
" It may be of help to you — little it is,"
said she ; " and there's the bridge to pay
for."
" Thankee."
The boy hesitated still.
" What are you waiting for ? "
" Shall I bid good-bye to Tarby ?"
"He'U wake in a bad temper, and not
thank you much ! " said the woman, with a
little sigh.
62 OWEN.
" Good-bye, then, to you. I say "
he added, pausing again.
" Well ? "
" There's nothink I can do for you — you
think?"
" Nothing," answered the woman, wearily.
" ril do anything — I'm not particular,"
was the eager addition ; " isn't there any-
thing you'd like carried a long way now?"
But there was nothing required carrying
then, or next day, or next week ; and Owen,
seeing no other method of proving himself
grateful, went his way, and parted with Mr.
and Mrs. Tarby. When he had crossed the
road, he stood and looked after them by the
light of the gas-lamps. He had taken
kindly to Tarby and his wife; they had
been kind to him ; and it was a new sensa-
tion, that touched feelings which he did not
exactly understand. He would have liked,
in his way, to show his gratitude ; but his
invention was poor just then, and he was
only a waif!
OWEN. 63
" Some day, when I'm bigger, perhaps,"
he muttered, as he followed with his eyes
the slow-going donkey, the sleeping Tarby,
the woman in the middle of the road tramp-
ing steadily onwards to market, till the
bend of the road hid their figures from
view. Some day when he was bigger ! — he
sat and thought of that after they had gone,
on a cool door-step, with the raw morning
air blowing on him. When he was bigger
— wliat a funny idea ! Why, that would be
years and years hence — supposing such
creatures as he grew at all, which he was
rather uncertain of — when Tarby had gone
to the dogs, and Mrs. Tarby was in the
workhouse, or dead. Well, it had been a
pleasant day, and a great change; and he
wondered where his mother was, and if she
had obtained a lift on the road, or was still
drunk in Markshire — and whether the
country waggons that went lumbering by
would overtake Tarby, and what Tarby 's
wife meant about right and wrong. Owen
64 OWEN.
was in no hurry to move ; there was no one
waitmg for him, or anxious about him, and
the door-step was very comfortable, and
went back into a recess, and was screened
from the wind, and he was "just a trifle
tired."
And then, when he had composed him-
self, curled his legs beneath him, turned
up half of the collar that remained to
his jacket, and thrust his hands into his
pockets, came the evil genius of his life to
move him on, or lock him up for sleeping
in the streets, or take him to the workhouse,
according to the temper of the being. It
was to move him on this time, and shake
him, and don't-let-me-catch-you-here-again
him ; and Owen, a waif on the dark un-
settled sea of human life, drifted once more
on his purposeless way.
65
CHAPTER III.
RIGHT OR WRONG.
At the corner of Hannah Street, Lower
Marsh, was situated the shop, or shed, of
Tarby Chickney, greengrocer. A greengrocer
in the smallest line now, whose stock-in-trade
would have fetched something under ^ve
shillings at the hammer. A shop that
boasted a few cabbages and potatoes ; and,
in appropriate seasons, tempted the young
of those parts with early green gooseberries,
that were preternaturally soft, and a dish of
parched peas, which were unnecessarily
black. This shop, which had a back-par-
lour, and two up-stairs rooms, let to as
VOL. I. F
66 OWEN.
many respectable tenants, with large fami-
lies, was the province of Mrs. Chickney,
whom we have heard termed Mrs. Tarby in
a preceding chapter.
Tarby, in fact, was the Christian name of
the gentleman we have seen wending his
way to London ; but, whether a misnomer,
or really bestowed upon him by an eccentric
godfather, or a corruption of Darby, we have
no means of clearly arriving at. Tarby was
alone the name that gentleman bore in
Lower Marsh and parts adjacent, and only
the word " Chickney " over his door ap-
prised those whom it might concern, that
to sucli a second appellative he put in a legal
claim. It was "Tarby" to the police — to
the landlords and pot-men of the numerous
public-houses that he patronized — to his
customers in the Lower Marsh, where he
stood with his barrow — to the wife of his
bosom, who attended to the little shop when
he was absent, or there was anything really
to attend to, which had not been the case
OWEN. 67
till the pony was sold at Markshire Fair.
For fate had been hard of late years on
Tarby. Tarby had known trouble, and had
his temper soured in consequence. He had
been in prison for an assault or two in holi-
day times ; he had been unfortunate in his
speculations — for even little green-grocers
speculate for the rise and fall, and burn
their fingers with over-purchases, and come
to grief; he had gone back in his rent and
had an execution in, and pawned every-
thing to get the brokers out; he had de-
creased his stock, and increased his aptitude
for beer ; and he had, finally, sold the pony
for eleven pounds, fourteen shillings, and
bought a donkey that was likely to turn out
well when its appetite grew less.
And perhaps things would turn out well
when Tarby settled to work again, and
surmounted his loose fits ; he was out of
debt, and only a pony the less ; and the
lodgers were all in work, and sent down the
rent every Saturday night with a punctual-
f2
68 OWEN.
ity that was no less praiseworthy than it
was encouraging to the hopes of Tarby's
wife. And as Tarby, when once in the
mill-horse round of business, drank little
and worked hard, and was up early and
late, it was to be hoped that — holidays ex-
cepted — these honest people would thrive,
and keep their heads above those troubled
waters which swamped so many Lower
Marsh way.
For the neighbourhood of Lower Marsh,
and the wilderness of streets between it and
Tower Street on the one hand, between it
and York Road on the other, is a poor, strug-
gling, hand-to-mouth neighbourhood, that
has not its equal further east. Essentially
and wholly poor — shadowed here and there
by the haunts of crime, where the deadly
temptation to earn money easily ever pre-
sents itself — this neighbourhood was, and is,
and must remain, a city in itself, of hunger
and need. There is no chance of raising it.
There is an army of poverty -haunted souls
OWEN. 69
inhabiting the narrow streets and dingy-
courts, which make a net-work of the place —
a gaunt army, terrible in its power to do
mischief, and — ^mark it, philanthropists ! —
increasing ; an army that is unorganized and
of separate elements, and drifts — ^fortunately
for society — various ways ; stealing out to
beg, borrow, steal, feast on the forbidden
fruit — forbidden by the law that governs
neighbours' goods. Here plies incessantly
the double thread of which Tom Hood sang;
here live the shirt-makers, the shoe-binders,
the workina: tailors to the grand emporiums,
where goods are ticketed so cheap that
there's a fragment of a life in every article ;
the costermongers, the showmen and street
acrobats — the supernumeraries of the minor
theatres ; the crossing-sweepers, the beggars
that meet you in the broader thorough-
fares and clamour for your charity ; the
tribes of children who shame you with their
nakedness and squalor, and are older in
their knowledo-e of the world than half
70 OWEN.
the well-dressed whom they revile or lie to.
The three months that have passed since
Tarby went to Markshire Downs to sell his
pony have brought the winter upon Lower
Marsh, and filled its streets with snow. It
was close on Christmas time, and people
who could afford it were thinkino^ of their
coming festivities; and people who could
not were cowering from the cold in fireless
rooms, and fighting for the best place at the
Union gate, where the loaves were given
away to out-door starvelings who had come
to grief Night had settled over Lower
Marsh and Hannah Street ; dirty boys and
girls had retreated to their haunts ; the
feeble gas-jet flickered at the corners of the
streets; figures here and there of poverty
or crime — it was doubtful which — were
stealing in and out of squalid houses, and
flitting noiselessly through the darkness an'd
snow ; all was quiet at Tarby 's shed, where
the gas burned low, and where Tarby walked
about on tiptoe, enjoying his after-supper
OWEN. 71
pipe, and looking as sober as a judge.
Tarby had his hands in his pockets, and
his cap tilted over his forehead, and was
promenading thoughtfully to and fro, hold-
ing a committee of ways and means with
himself, and mapping out the proceeds of
last week, and calculating for the next, and
disturbed in the operation by thoughts of a
deeper cast that troubled him, and with
which we shall presently trouble the reader.
Tarby 's shed, or shop, gave signs that Tarby
was in less difficulties than usual, and that
his stock-in-trade, if not his business, had at
least increased. There was a pile of greens
in a basket at the back, a fair proportion of
potatoes — and the cold weather had run
them up to three pounds twopence — and a
basin of parched peas (with a " ha'porth"
already measured in a tin mug for the next
comer) of a size and magnitude that had
not been seen in Hannah Street since the
admirers of parched peas had rushed to
Tarby Chickney's shop.
72 OWEN.
Tarby, deep in committee and addressing
the chair at the present moment on the pro-
bability of a rise in turnips, was uncon-
scious of a watcher who stood in the opposite
doorway, and took stock of his proceedings.
A youthful watcher, whose clothes w^ere a
trifle more torn and dilapidated than when
the reader made the pleasure of his ac-
quaintance, and whose face, if he had
stepped underneath the gas-lamp yonder,
would have been found more thin, and
pinched, and haggard, than when atten-
tion was first drawn to it on the great
London road some three months since.
The eyes were very anxiously directed to-
wards the shop at the corner, and the heart
under the rags — this waif, cast hither and
thither, had a heart, reader, that could be
touched, as the hearts of all can if the
right chord be struck at the right time with
the gentleness and earnestness of a true
player on such instruments — beat with an
uncertainty and a sickening sense of fear
OWEN. 73
very new to it. For the watcher had been
at that post night after night for above a
week, and no sign of Mrs. Chickney had
presented itself; and he had wished to see
and speak to her. But Tarby had been
only there of an evening, and he had
nothing to say to Tarby just then in which
Tarby could take an interest or assist him ;
it was Tarby 's wife he wanted, and she
never appeared ; and he knew, by the drawn
blind before the back parlour glass door,
that she was ill inside there, and that it was
better — however time pressed — not to trou-
ble her.
When Tarby was absent of a morning,
the watcher had been in the habit of passing
and repassing. There was a strange woman
in the shop, and from the periodical visits
of a gentleman in black, Owen guessed that
Mrs. Chickney required no small amount of
attention. He would wait till she was better
before he troubled her, or asked about her ;
and so he kept a watch on the house, and
7"4 OWEN.
bided his time. It did not occur to him
that it was necessary to make any inquiries
concerning Mrs. Tarby's health ; he took it
as a matter of course that she would get
better, and perhaps it might set her against
him if he worried her too much.
It was six in the evening of that Decem-
ber night when Owen had taken his place
on the opposite side ; it was seven when
Tarby was in committee, and trying to ^x
his thoughts to business. His wife had
only said, half an hour ago, in a very weak
voice, ^'Do think of the business, Tarby,
and not of me — there's a dear, good fellow ;"
and he had promised to do so, and gone
into the shop to distract his ideas completely
from subjects foreign to cash transactions.
Owen was watching him with great in-
tentness, when the parlour door opened,
and the woman whom he had noticed serv-
ing occasionally in the shop came hastily
forth, and flung up both arms in rather a
stagy manner. Owen saw Tarby make
OWEN. 75*
two strides towards the street, then stop at
the woman's voice, hesitate, and, turning
back, go into the parlour. Owen left his
hiding-place, and ran to the opposite side of
the way, and up the two steps into the shop
in his excitement, then down again as the
parlour door opened and Tarby re-emerged.
He was in his old hiding-place when
Tarby went to the shop-board, and pro-
ceeded to lug forth a rickety shutter, that
had not seen paint or varnish, or known a
scrubbing-brush, since its first coat in ages
remote.
Owen looked perplexed, and turned a
shade more pale. He was uncertain, doubt-
ful. If he had been ever taught a prayer,
it might have escaped his lips then, hard
and inured to the world as he was. For
she had been his one friend, the only one
whom he had known ; she — but perhaps
Tarby was only going to shut up early ; to-
morrow was Saturday — market morning —
and he knew Tarby must rise at half-past
f^ OWEN.
four to reach Covent Garden in anything
like time. Only going to shut up — to be
sure. Why, here came another shutter.
And that was the last ! Owen saw him
turn back into the parlour, leaving his
advertisement of a death in Hannah Street
to the notice of his neighbours. Was it
only an impulse that took Owen up the
steps and once more into the shop, where he
stood against the potatoe-bin, and waited
some one's attendance. Presently the wo-
man put her head out, and said, " What do
you want ? " in no very civil tones.
" I want to see Tarby."
" Can't I serve you ? "
" No," was the quick response.
Tarby reappeared in the shop after this
abrupt reply, and Owen and he looked each
other in the face.
" What — is that you ? " said Tarby.
" Yes, it's m^," and then they stood look-
ing at each other till Owen broke silence.
"I see the shutters are up — I'm sorry."
OWEN. 77
Tarby did not answer, but surveyed him
with a little more surprise.
"I daresay you don't think it, now?"
with a strange half-laugh.
" Well— it's funny."
" She — she — " with a gulp — " gave me
the first good word, and that's more nor my
own mother ever did. She promised to tell
me what was wrong, if I ever thought I
didn't know it from the right — and now
she's dead, Tarby ! "
"Not the old woman — not Polly, boy.:
It arn't so bad as that."
"It's— it's— "
" The babby — the little one that was only
born a week ago, and, like all the rest, was
tooked."
" Oh ! I'm so glad it's dead ! "
"Oh! are you?"
" Instead of Mrs. Tarby, you know," said
the boy, with some perception of having
wounded Tarby's feelings. " It wouldn't
have done for us to have lost her."
78 OWEN.
" Well, it wouldn't have mattered to you
much, that I can see."
" I don't know that," said the boy, with
feverish impatience. " I can't say as much,
nor more can you. I came to ask about the
wrong, and she'll tell me when she's better."
" I can't make you out exactly," said
Tarby, dubiously. " Where's all your im-
perence gone to ? "
" I'm not well just now," said Owen, hur-
riedly, " and your shutters gived me a turn,
and I haven't eaten anythink for four-and-
twenty hours, and — and — when shall I call
again ? '^
" Next week, if you like — when Polly's
better. You needn't come a-bothering now,
you see."
" I see," was the reply.
" She's bothered, and I'm bothered enough
without you, young one. Here — hold your
cap."
Owen held his cap as directed, and Tarby
tilted into it the measure of parched peas,
OWEN. 79
and ate half-a dozen peas or so himself from
the basin, by way of an alleviation to his
grief.
" Now, cut !"
Owen " cut" as directed, and was half-way
down Hannah Street, when he heard some
one striding after him. Looking back he
found Tarby rapidly advancing.
" Here, she must have her way now. She
wants to see you."
" Does she, though? " and the boy's face
brightened, and was like a new face to
Tarby.
" Don't bother her too much, now,"
warned Tarby ; "or make her cry or any-
think, or I shall larrup you when you come
out."
" I'll take the most possiblest care,
Tarby."
"Don't talk of the babby," continued
Tarby.
. " Not a word."
" Cut it as short as you can, and don't
80, OWEN.
drop the parched peas over the floor, cos
they make a cussed row when you tread on
'em.
" ril mind, Tarby."
Tarby and Owen entered the shop, and
passed into the parlour. A low, black,
ceilinged room, of narrow dimensions,
and distorted shape — running to sharp
angles. A hot, close room, in which a
fire burned brightly, and before which,
on a sofa, lay Tarby's wife, pale and
delicate, and looking more the lady than
she did on Markshire Downs. The woman
at the back, wife of the up-stairs lodger,
and ofiiciating for the time as nurse, was
arranging something on two chairs at the
back, which Owen guessed was the dead
baby.
" Well, boy, here you are again ! " said
Mrs. Chickney.
" Yes, mum, here I are again.''
" You were talking of something wrong ;
and I thought I would not let you go away
t
OWEN. 81
— although there's something wrong here,
too — without hearing all about it. We ain't
no cause to forget other people's troubles in
our own, Mrs. Wortley."
" No, Mrs. Chickney, no. As you v/ere
a-saying on — no cause," mumbled the old
woman, without looking up from her task.
" Tarby, don't go in the shop," said his
wife, detecting in him a movement to with-
draw ; "I had rather you sit down a bit."
" Wery well ; " and Tarby, obedient and
lamb-like, relapsed into a half-bottomless
cane chair, and looked steadily at the fire.
" Now, what's wrong ? ''
" This is how it is, mum — mother has
never come back. I've been to every public
in the Cut and Marsh, and no one's seen or
heard on her."
" Oh, dear ! — and what have you been
doing all the while ? "
" Trying to live, mum. It's hard lines,
though."
VOL. I. G
82 OWEN.
" You're sorry for your mother, now, I
suppose."
" I think so," was the evasive answer ;
then he added, "but she spanked hard, and
I never seed a great deal of her sober — only
twice, I think."
^'Well?"
" Well ! I tried to get to sea ; and no
one would have me, because they were
afraid I should die half-way out, afore I
come of use ; and as for entering the harmy,
— as you thought on — I was laughed at,
mum !"
'' Short as you can," suggested Tarby,
from his chair.
"And so I went to the handkercher
man."
" Oh ! "
" Yes, mum ; and he said he thougiit he
could make me useful, or find me something
to do in a week or two, if I called; and
I've put it off, because I thought you'd like
to know it, p'raps, before I went."
OWEN. 83
"Do you like this man ? "
" Can't abide him, Mrs. Tarby.''
" But you must live, like the rest of us ,
and you'd do better if you could ? "
" Yes."
" You'd be honest, if you had a chance,
p'raps. You'd try to know the right from
wrong, and let others teach you ; and serve
them well and faithfully, p'raps — why, you'd
try not to be bad, wouldn't you ? "
" Yes."
" And it's as easy to go right as wrong,
when you're once put in the way — isn't it,
Tarby?"
" Easy as a glove," affirmed Tarby, who
had always found it one of the hardest tasks
of his life.
*' Then Tarby shall make you errand boy
here, if you don't mind sleeping in the shop,
and getting up early to market, and attend-
ing to the donkey."
" Eh ?" said the amazed Tarby.
"We shall want a boy — the business
g2
84 OWEN.
takes up all our time, Tarby, and he'll be a
great help till I am strong, and don't think
so much of" — here her voice faltered — " of
poor baby there !"
"But "
" But you'll let me have my way, Tarby,
in this? It's for the good of all of us,
p'raps ; and this boy mustn't go astray.
See how cheap it'll be, too — only to have a
boy for his keep."
" He'll get to the till," affirmed Tarby.
" Oh ! don't think so bad of me as that,"
pleaded the boy, whose chest was heaving
and eyes sparkling at the prospect of his rise
in life ; " may I drop down dead, if I ever
take a ha'penny of your money !"
" We will try him for a week, Tarby ?"
" Um !" responded her husband.
"Do you remember me saying at Mark-
shire that he reminded me of our first baby's
looks?"
Tarby nodded assent.
. "If we could only think that it was that
OWEN. 85
first baby, growed up ratlier fast, and taken
two years for one — or only fancy that, to
make up for having no babies of our own,
this boy was sent for us to make some good
out of. I don't know how it is that I should
take to the boy, and feel that I can trust
him. Perhaps because he's as motherless as
I'm — I'm childless, Tarby."
"Now you're going to cry, old woman,
and upset yourself," said Tarby.
" And the doctor said that we couldn't
keep you too quiet, just at present," added
the woman from the background.
"And here you are a-going it, like one
o'clock ! " clinched Tarby.
" I'm not a-going it — I'm not thinking of
crying," said his wife, hysterically. " Shall
we give this boy a home now ? Poor as it
is, it may be a grand place for him."
" We'll try him. Young shaver," turning
to Owen, " we're going to try you. Mind
your manners, and behave yourself ac-
cording."
86 OWEN*
Owen, who felt a choking in his throat,
and a spasmodic desire to clench and un-
clench his hands, and tear little pieces off
the ragged ends of his waistcoat and jacket,
nodded his head by way of acquiescence.
"I needn't say," added Tarby, " you'U
catch it, if you don't. Now, come into the
shop, and leave the missis to herself."
Owen hesitated. He wished to express
something like thanks, but his powers of
utterance were gone, and there was nothing
he could think of suitable to the occasion,
even had he possessed the full use of his
faculties. He was in a mist ; everything
was confused, and had no tangibility. To
wake up on some door-step, or amongst
the baskets of the Borough Market, or
under one of the dry arches in the Belvidere
Road, or amongst the logs which the timber
merchants left on open spaces of ground
before their premises, would have been the
most natural termination to so strange a
scene, and only by its contrast have ren-
OWEN. 87
dered reality a shade more bitter. He
could not believe yet that Tarby's bouse
was to be his home — Tarby, the hero of
Lower Marsh, whom it took six policemen
to carry to the station-house ! And Tarby's
wife, who was to be a new mother to him —
who was to let him understand, for the first
time, what a mother was like ! He thought
no more of the other mother ; he would
have been sorry to see her return and claim
him — she had never sought to win his
affections by a word.
It was a new life for Owen, from which
much was to evolve — the first step back-
ward from the easy downward path his
ignorance was leading him. Say that the
progress was not great, that Tarby and his
wife were people of common minds and low
ideas, and never went to church, or cared
for church or chapel — still Owen had stepped
back from the brink, and the step had
brought with it reflection for the past, and
a something like resolve for the future. We
B8 OWEN.
cannot all rise from the mire and put on
angels' wings, and float upwards higher,
higher from the sordid earth that claims us
— if in the common business-life of that earth
one falters somewhat, and meets with much to
retard an earnest progress, how much more
weak and trembling are the steps that lead
us from the snares lying in the valley of
unrighteousness !
END OF THE FIRST BOOK.
BOOK THE SECOND.
TRAGEDY IN HANNAH STREET.
91
CHAPTER I.
"92."
Two years since Tarby's child was buried,
and Tarby took a protege in the shape of
Owen into his establishment. Two years to
such people as Tarby and his wife, and in
such a neighbourhood, do not record great
changes. The shop remained still open at
the corner of Hannah Street ; the same
greens might be in the corner, the same
potatoes in the bin, the same mugful of
parched peas measured out for the next
customer, as on the night when Owen was
rescued from the streets.
Tarby's fortunes had neither risen nor
92 OWEN.
fallen since that time. Tarby had perio-
dical fits of saving and sobriety, for which
his wife could calculate as readily as for his
fits of relaxation and beer in Boxing-week,
and Whitsuntide, and Easter. Tarby was
no more known to be inebriated on the
weeks preceding those festive occasions, than
in the memory of the costermongers of
Lower Marsh he was known to have passed
a holiday- week without '' his fling," as they
termed it — which " fling" consisted in drink-
ing deeply, and becoming quarrelsome, and
fighting those who were as disputatious as
himself, and winding up the week in Tower
Street station-house. Tarby's idiosyncrasies
were so well known Lambeth way that, in
holiday times, the police oh duty in the
Marsh had a habit of shutting their eyes to
escapades not too glaringly outrageous, and
to there's-a-good-fellowing him when they
wanted him to go home, and to even turn-
ing down quiet streets if there were a fight
outside the public-house and Tarby's buUet
OWEN. 93
head was seen dodging up and down in the
midst of the million who saw sport ; but
the result was equally the same, and Tarby
was before a magistrate, and fined or com-
mitted three times a year as usual. And
yet Tarby made great efforts to amend, and
made Polly fifty promises when sobered
down, and turned to his work and his cos-
tering, like a moral Hercules when the fit
was over, and he had become a sadder,
wiser, poorer man, for his experience of
life.
Looking in upon Tarby's wife, now two
years have swept by, we find her busying
about the shop and bustling to and fro with
all her energy. She was not so strong as she
used to be, she informed her neighbours,
and her face was more pale and lined, as if
Tarby 's constant " goings on " were wearing
out her hopes, and scoring every one she
lost upon her face. And yet she laughed
as heartily as ever when there was anything
to laugh at in Hannah Street — and in the
94 OWEN.
midst of ^^ poverty, hunger and dirt/' poor
people will find food for merriment — and
had the same habit of turning the best
side uppermost, which would make a plea-
sant dwelling-place of the earth, if the
habit were catching and we could all have
the complaint.
To hear her defending Tarby in holiday
time, when her neighbours came in flocks to
compassionate her, and were rather disap-
pointed in their hearts if she had no black
eye to present to public gaze, would have
done the heart good of a Diogenes.
*' Lord bless you, it's a way of his I was
used to long ago. You see, what with
Christmas boxes, and people standing treat,
and no one working with the barrow, Tarby
takes too much, and his poor head isn't
strong. And then he's hasty like, and hits
before he thinks of what he's doing — sorry
enough after he'll be, if he's hurt anybody!"
And Mrs. Tarby would proceed with a
cheerful step into the back parlour, and trim
OWEN. 95
the candle, and bring forth a whole basket-
ful of needlework to amuse her, while sitting
up for the Tarby whose '^ poor head " was
at that time, perhaps, being rapped about
by policemen's staves, and found thick
enough to bear that operation without
cracking much.
They had been fortunate and unfortunate
in business during the past two years, but
of late Tarby had worked extra hard, and
" brought the place round again a bit," as
he termed it ; and the donkey remained in
the back shed, and they were not more be-
hind with the rent than usual. There was
a chance of Tarby 's wife presenting to the
world another feeble specimen of the Chick-
ney race by that time, and Tarby 's wife
had many thoughts to make her anxious,
keep her weak.
Owen had grown some inches in the two
years, and was looking better and more cre-
ditable. He had lost a good deal of his
pallor, and all that pinched expression which
96 OWEN.
famine had scored on his face, and his eyes
only retained something of that shrewdness
and rapid manner of passing from object to
object to which we have alluded in an early
portion of this history.
The reader may have anticipated that he
has kept honest and faithful to the Chick-
neys ; the boy had only required an incen-
tive to turn from the wrong, a goal to work
forward to, a hope to be held out, a seed to
be planted, to proceed a better, purer way
than that which circumstances had seemed
to indicate. They would be cruel statistics,
and full of mystery, and of a fearful inte-
rest, if we could have our tabular accounts
of those who might have turned like Owen
in their younger days, had the one friend
stepped forth, or the one loop-hole to escape
been left unguarded. AVho will answer for
those accounts when the day comes ? — shall
you and I, dear brother, have our shares
allotted, and have claims to pay for that
wilful blindness, lukewarmness, plea of
OWEN. 97
overwork and overstudy, that have kept us
from the poor and sinful, to whom our
guidance might have been salvation ? There
may come a dreadful reckoning, without
friends or loop-holes for ourselves ; and the
measure we have used will mete out God's
charity to us — we have been warned, and
yet we take no lesson.
It is true that Owen might have been in
better hands ; but it was an honest life he
was pursuing, and Mrs. Chickney was full
of homely sayings, that more often left a
moral than even Owen was aware. Owen
was of great use to Tarby now — could
wheel a barrow at eleven years of age, and
conduct business in the Marsh, even of a
Saturday night ; and had the quickest eye
for a bad halfpenny of all the youths in
Lambeth. Tarby, who was not a man of
fancies, and was difficult to please, had
taken to the boy after a while, and been
pleased with his unwearying exertions for
the Tarby cause in general. No distance
VOL. I. H
98 QWEN.
was too great, no load too heavy, no hour
too late or early for him in the Chickney
service ; and Tarby, though not a good
temper himself, could admire an exhibition
thereof in his errand boy.
" Can I do anything for you now?" Tarby
had said one day, in the warmth of his heart,
when Owen had been over-earnest in his
duties.
'"Yes — teach me to fight, Tarby!" was
the ready response ; and Tarby went down
on his knees in the shop, and gave Owen
his first lesson, as a reward of merit for ser-
vices of distinction.
If Owen's mother had made her appear-
ance at any time during the course of those
two years, she would have scarcely found
her son recognizable, he was shooting up so
fast, and there was not a rag to swear to his
identity. Tarby 's wife was a tidy woman,
and handy with her needle, and wished
Owen to be a credit to the establishment ;
and Owen was worth the trouble and the
OWEN. 99
expense, and tlie stray penny or two with
which he was remunerated at times. Owen
could take another basket, or barrow, and
sell on account in another part of the
Lower Marsh, and bring home the profits
correct to a fraction. It was possibly the
extra exertion of Owen that had kept the
little shop in Hannah Street in about the
same position, despite the wear and tear of
profit which Tarby's uncertain actions in-
curred. Two years, then, to the very day
of the month of Owen's adoption — a Satur-
day night, and Lambeth life busy and
feverish. The snow of two years since
might be the same white garment covering
the dirt and dust of the roadway, the scene in
Hannah Street had changed so little. There
was more action in the scene, however ; and
the tide of men, women and children, flow-
ing to the cheapest market, streamed on un-
ceasingly. The Lower Marsh was deafening
with a thousand voices, calling attention to
as many varied wares, and the roar thereof
h2
100 OWEN.
sounded like a distant angry sea in Hannah
Street. There was everything to sell and
buy in the busy thoroughfare ; and traders
in human weakness were even at their old
game of selling penny sovereigns, and sealed
packets that could only be presented with
halfpenny straws, a trick which has gone on
for thirty years and more, and is still found
profitable, even in streets where the shadow
of privation lurks eternally.
Mrs. Chickney was driving a good trade in
Hannah Street, despite prices being higher
than usual at that season of the year.
There had not been sufficient capital in
hand to stock Owen's barrow as well as
Tarby's that particular evening, and Owen
was at home with Tarby's wife, assisting
in the general business, and taking things
home when required by prudent folk who
were going farther, and perhaps had a Sun-
day's joint, and six loaves, and a baby to
carry back.
" That parcel of greens and potatoes has
OWEN. 101
been waiting a couple of hours, Owen,"
cried Mrs. Chickney in dismay, when a
lull in the trade afforded an opportunity of
discovering the omission. " Oh ! dear, and
new customers, too — what'll they say ? "
" I'll manage to make it all square, mo-
ther," replied Owen.
Owen had begun, of late years, to call
Mrs. Tarby "mother." It was a natural
word, and there was a pleasure in the sound
to the hard-working woman, who had never
been a mother for many days at a time.
And she had been a true mother to this
waif of ours, and he was grateful.
" It's No. 6, in Jenkin's Street, and the
name's Dell."
" I shant forget it."
" And don't leave anything without the
money — we can't trust people till we know
a little more about them."
"All right."
And Owen, passing his arm through his
basket-handle, proceeded on his way whist-
102 OWEN.
ling the last melody that the street songsters
had made popular in Lambeth. No. 6 in
Jenkin's Street was soon reached — a street
a little more wide and clean than that of
Hannah Street in dirty weather, and where
more of the neighbours had taken the
trouble to sweep the snow from their doors,
and polish their door-handles, and give an
additional brilliancy to their little dabs of
knockers.
Owen knocked and gave a peculiar yell,
which Tarby had taught him, as of a canine
animal in the direst agony, and which was
symbolical of " greens," and presently the
door opened, and a pretty-faced girl of ten
years old stood waiting to receive the
goods.
" Oh ! is it you at last ?" said she ; " how
late you are !"
" Mrs. Chickney's wery sorry, and forgot
all about 'em till this minute — hopes you
haven't been put out at all, or had to sit up
— one shilling and three halfpence, please."
OWEN. 103
" Tell that boy to come inside," shouted
a voice from the parlour, the door of which
was open, and through which the fumes of
tobacco-smoke were stealing forth into the
passage.
"You're to come inside, please."
"Well, don't catch hold of the basket,
then — I'll carry it," said Owen, who had
his suspicions of a credit account being
suggested by the head of the family, and
had an objection to urge to the contrary.
Owen entered the room without any re-
luctance, and, having forgotten to remove his
cap, gave from under the peak one of his
sharpest and most comprehensive glances.
He nearly dropped the basket in his con-
sternation at the first object of his attention
— a big, burly man, all whiskers, in a blue
uniform and white buttons, and having the
figures 92 neatly worked on his collar, and
an enormous iron-topped hat resting at his
feet, between two enormous boots to match
the hat. Government turns out things on a
104 OWEN.
large scale, and is more improvident than
sparing with material.
If there were any consolation to Owen,
it was in the knowledge presented by the
garterless left wrist that 92 was off duty,
and had his stock unfastened, which gave
him a less fierce and red aspect, and did
not keep all the blood in his head with
undue pressure. He had evidently retired
from public action for that particular
evening; and the pipe in his mouth, and
the glass of gin and water at his elbow,
gave a happy and novel turn to his general
appearance.
But 92 was only a guest at No. 6 in
Jenkin's Street, and for the first time in
Owen's experience was playing a subor-
dinate part, and shoving nobody, and
moving nobody on! Why, he looked quite
happy and peaceable, and Owen would have
liked Tarby to have seen him just for half a
minute — he would have scarcely believed
his eyes. To think of 92 smoking a long
OWEN. 105
clay-pipe — it was enough to make Owen
dream of it, and have the nightmare, under
the little counter where he slept.
Although occupied in particular with
No. 92, Owen had taken stock of the second
inmate, also smoking a long clay pipe, and
having a second glass of gin and water at
his elbow to match that of his official
friend's. He was a man of smaller propor-
tions, in a suit of clothes that had once been
white, but was now covered with iron-mould
and dabbed with soot, and marked with
extra shades of blackness at the knees and
elbows. A man above the middle heio-ht
but squarely built, and with a family like-
ness to 92 in the countenance, which was,
however, of a less lumpish description, and
boasted two great grey eyes, that looked
through Owen, and made him feel uncom-
fortable, and as if he had stolen something.
"Put that basket down, lad, and come
here," said the man in fustian.
"AU right, sir," said Owen, giving vent
106 OWEN.
to his usual remark, and retaining a firm
hold of his basket as he advanced ; " it*s
one and three-halfpence, if you please."
"Don't you think I'll pay you?" asked
the man.
"Ain't afeard of that, sir," was Owen's
doubtfully- moral reply.
" If T don't, lad, give me in charge " —
and he pointed with the stem of his pipe to
policeman 92.
" Off duty, John— off duty."
And John and 92 laughed heartily, and
nodded at each other in a pleasant here's-
your-good-health style, before they dipped
their noses simultaneously into their glasses
of grog.
"These things were ordered long ago,"
said the man addressed as John ; " and I
like punctuality — it's a good thing, and you
can't have too much of it. If I support
your mother's establishment, I must have
all promises kept to the letter. Tell her,
will you?"
OWEN. 107
" All right, sir."
" But it's all wrong, sir, if you come
creeping in three hours after time. Time's
money ; and I'm always true to the minute
myself If you had ever heard of John
Dell, boy, you'd have known that by this
time."
"Time's money — and I'm wasting it,"
said Owen.
" Eh ? — what ? — wastino; it in listenino; to
profitable advice?"
" You see I'm wanted," said Owen, apolo-
getically; " and it's — it's a long time to
wait for one and three-halfpence."
Dell could not forbear laughing at this,
and striking his hand smartly on his knee.
" An eye to business after all," said he ;
"this lad's not slow. Bob?"
" No, no," was the hesitative answer ; and
92 bit his pipe hard, and shut one eye and
looked attentively at Owen with the other.
Owen felt he was known, and coloured up
to the roots of his hair.
108 OWEN.
"So it comes to one and three-half-
pence," said the master of the house.
"Where's your bill, boy?"
" Haven't brought none."
" Brought none ! — who said you had
brought none ?" said Mr. Dell, taking up his
grammar. "Bob" (turning to 92), "your
pencil a moment."
Bob drew a lead pencil from his pocket
and presented it to Mr. Dell, who commenced
writing on a scrap of paper.
"Always methodical you see. Bob," (he
commented as he wrote). " I like things
square still, and keep things in order to
the best of my ability. ^ To greens^ etc.,
one and three-halfpence' — here, put paid to
that."
And paper and pencil were pushed to-
wards our hero, who reddened again and
stupidly regarded the document.
" We never give bills," said Owen, after a
pause.
But the gentleman addressed was picking
OWEN. 109
out one and three-half-pence from a handful
of coppers and small silver he had drawn
from his trousers-pocket, and heeded not the
remark. The exact sum having been laid
by the side of the paper, Dell said, in half
soliloquy :
" I haven't had time to sort all those four-
penny-pieces yet. I like my money, when I
have any, in proper compartments, Bob.
A pocket for small-change, another for half-
crowns and shillings ; a special pocket that
I have made thief-proof for the few half-
sovereigns and sovereigns that so seldom
turn up now, boy, look alive and put
'Paid.'"
" I can't write," Owen confessed, slowly,
and almost sullenly.
"Can't write!" exclaimed the other;
" that's hard — that's wrong."
He sat with one large veined hand pressed
on the table near the paper, and looked at
Owen steadily. There was something open
110 OWEN.
as the day in the man's face, and Owen took
to it, although its looks abashed him.
"How's that?"
"I haven't had a chance — no one's thought
of it. I'm busy all day."
"You should go to evening school like
me, little boy," said a voice close to his side.
Owen looked at the pretty-faced girl who
had first opened the door to him. Her soft
voice, after the sharp ringing tones of John
Dell, was a pleasant relief, and it was hard
to answer all John Dell's questions.
" I haven't the time, miss."
" Then you must make time, boy ! " cried
Dell in a passion. "It won't do to be a
dunce in these days. It will be worse when
you're a man, and have a living to earn.
You must push about, and learn by any
means, at any time, in any fashion. What's
your mother and father about all this time? "
"Father I never had, and mother run
away from me," said Owen.
" Ay, ay— that's it."
OWEN. Ill
"You're with Tarby?" said 92, address-
ing Owen for the first time.
" Yes:'
"Who's Tarby?" inquired Dell, catching
up the words, and following on in a charac-
teristic brusque manner.
" A costermonger — a "
" Know anything against him?"
" N'no," replied 92, puffing more vigor-
ously at his pipe.
"Ofi'duty, Bob?" said DeH.
" Ay, ay, John — off duty."
And both men laughed again.
Owen here suddenly broke in with —
" There's nothing much to be said agin
him, off duty or on. He's quick at times,
nothin' more. 92 can't say a word more
agin him than that."
" Quick and hot," said 92 — " not much
more."
"No ;" and Owen looked as if he thought
he might have said a little less.
" And they won't give you time, morning
112 OWEN.
or niglit, to go to school ? They had
better give you time to hang yourself than
run you quite so close," said Dell.
Owen relinquished his basket to Ruth,
and bent over his money, and went through
a calculation of his own to make sure that
it was quite correct. He had nothing to
say to Mr. Dell's last remark. It was un-
called for, if unanswerable. Mr. Dell was
taking up his time too, and it was Saturday
night.
" Make your mark or something, boy,
and that gentleman will witness it," said
Dell. " I like things ship- shape, and proofs
of payment evident."
Owen made a cross, and 92 affixed his
signature thereto, as witness to the legal
payment in full of all demands of one
shilling and three-halfpence to Mr. Chickney,
or Mr. Chickney's representative.
^' That'll do, boy," said Mr. Dell. " Here,
Ruth, put this on the file, and show the
dunce out."
OWEN. 113
" You're hard upon me," said Owen, with
a flash of spirit, and the black eyes regard-
ing Mr. Dell in a manner far from loving.
" You're hard upon yourself, and Tarby's
harder. Don't put the blame on me. Good
night."
" Good night," Owen felt called upon to
respond.
*' You don't look quite a fool, and you're
losing all your chances by growing up to
be one," he continued, with no small
warmth. " Your , what ? Going,
Bob?"
" Yes, I must be off, John, now," replied
92, rising. *' Glad am I to have found
you well and hearty, and as full of steam as
ever."
"You would not have me at a lower
pressure ? "
" No, no. It looks well."
" It wouldn't do to be even too slow in
your line, eh ? "
"Not exactly," said he, putting on his
VOL. I. I
114 OWEN.
hat. " Well, good night to you, John. I
hope you'll like your place."
" I make up my mind to like a thing I
turn to. It's more comfortable."
" Ay, that's true."
" It's philosophical, Bob."
" Ay, it's philossiiicol," said 92, after a
little struggle with the word, ending with
bringing it out wrong, as people who
struggle with a fine word generally do — a
phonic retribution for meddling with things
they are not well acquainted with.
Meanwhile Ruth Dell had shown Owen
into the passage.
" Do you mind waiting a minute more?"
she asked.
Owen, who was anxious to leave the
house wherein he had experienced no small
amount of torture, hesitated ; but, before he
could reply, Ruth had darted up a flight of
stairs in the dark, and was down again ere
he had done fumbling with the lock in his
eagerness to be gone.
OWEN. 115
" There's my first spelling-book — I went
through it years ago, and shall never want
it again. Will you take it home and look
at it, please ? — I want you so very much to
take it home."
Owen took it from her hands and thrust
it in the pocket of his jacket, and felt more
bewildered than ever beneath all this at-
tention. He was far too confused to thank
her before she shut him out in the street,
or to repeat the good night which accom-
panied the gift. He did not see his way
very clearly before him ; he had gone a
step out of his old track into a new world,
and the new world had dazed him. That
92 must have put him out and taken away
the use of his tongue ; who'd have thought
of seeing him ! — his evil genius ; the man
who never let anybody alone, or winked at
anything !
The man who never let anybody alone
put his hand on Owen's shoulder, as Owen
I 2
116 OWEN.
trudged on with his basket. Owen gave a
jump; it was so like the old times, and
being " collared," and walked off to Tower
Street station-house.
"You've been two years at this fun,
haven't you, Owen Owen ?" he asked.
It was the name they had written more
than once on the charge-sheet at Tower
Street, after finding Owen so completely in
the dark respecting his surname. And 92
had had his eye upon him all that period,
it seemed, too.
" Yes — two years."
" Well, it's a lift ; and you've been pretty
quiet, and gone round the corner when told,
and not been sarcy, and kept your hands
from picking and stealing. I'm glad to see
the improvement, Owen Owen."
Was this 92 who spoke so friendly, and
whose voice was so less harsh? What a
difference off duty appeared to make in a
man !
" You didn't — you didn't tell them that I
OWEN. 117
had been ever locked up?" asked Owen,
anxiously.
" My perfession tells me to keep my
tongue quiet. If I was always telling tales
off duty of what happened on, I should
never feel easy in my mind, and comfortable,
and unbuttoned."
" You'll never lock me up again," said
Owen, cheerfully, and with a toss of the
head that expressed his sure conviction.
" Do you mean it ?"
" Yes."
" Well, it's a nasty part of my occupation,
and I'm glad to hear it — it's so seldom
chaps like you turns over a new leaf."
" We haven't all people to take care of us,
or we might grow good, like Mr. Dell's little
girl."
" How do you know she's good ?" asked
92, in some amazement.
" She looks it — I can see it in her face —
it's like a face I once saw in a picter-book."
"Ah I it's a nice, comforble face," said
118 OWEN.
92, "God bless it; it's something like a
face — the picture of her mother, who went
off early."
" She's not like her father much," ob-
served Owen.
"Isn't she?"
" She hasn't got such popping-out eyes."
" I'm her father," observed 92.
" Oh, I didn't mean you."
" No, but the compare-ison will fit/' said
he ; " they're family eyes ; and mine's a
trifle worse than my brother's, owing to the
stock. It's been noticed before."
" She has lent me a spelling-book," said
Owen, anxious to change the subject, as
92 continued to favour him with his com-
pany.
" She's the best of girls — I'm vain enough
to think the very best, at times."
"What's she "
Owen paused. He felt his curiosity was
mastering his politeness.
" Go on, boy."
OWEN. 119
" What's she living with Mr. Dell for, I
was going to say ?"
"To keep his house for him, and look
after him, and have a proper home of her
own. John wished it, and I was a widower,
and moved about here and there and every-
where, and away all day, or all night, and
she without a friend ; and so she went to
John's."
" I see."
" It was not proper to bring her up in a
back-room, or in an empty house, which I
might live in scot-free till the next tenant
came ; and John, so capital a manager in
everything, and earning a good bit of
money, and wanting a little housekeeper so
much, being an old bachelor — it wasn't pro-
per, and I saw it."
Owen, overwhelmed by 92's communica-
tiveness, could merely nod his head in as-
sent, and wonder if the man were always
like this off duty, or whether Mr. Dell's gin
and water had rendered him loquacious.
120 OWEN.
It was agreeable gossip, though ; and Owen
was interested in the Dells.
" I shall see him very often, now he's
come to London ; he and Ruth dropped
into Lambeth, too, which has been my beat
for many years. Why, I can be always
looking in and seeing him and her."
*' It'll be more comfortable."
" Much more comfor'ble, as you say,
boy," said he ; " and it'll be growing young
again, and less stout, and if the superinten-
dent don't change my quarters, why, it'll be
pleasant for the three of us, and John wiU
make his fortune under my own eye."
" When is he going to begin to make
that ? "
" Oh I he's working up ; he gets a better
place each time ; everybody takes to John,
and sees John's sense. In the country he
went higher and higher ; and now, in Lon-
don, he begins where he left off, and begins
in Cherbury's factory, too, at fifty -five
shillings a-week — a pot of money ! "
OWEN. 121
" Fifty-five — eh ! " and Owen whistled
long and plaintively ; and as he trudged on
with his basket, thought what a sum of
money it was, and wondered if he should
ever earn half as much. Heigho ! to hear
of these great incomes makes us all a little
envious.
^'And he was a ragged chap like you
used to be, even."
" Like me ! " cried Owen.
"Well, he kept his hands to himself a
little more," said 92, with a reserve ; " but
he was like you — poor and ragged ; both
of us two poor and ragged little country
urchins."
" And he got on, didn't he ? — and every-
body wasn't agin him ? "
" To be sure not."
" I'll learn to read and write ; I'll go to
school ; I'll have a try at something ! " cried
Owen, with excitement; "why shouldn't
I?"
" Ah ! why shouldn't you ? "
122 OWEN.
92 paused. They were close on Hannah
Street.
"Young fellow," said 92, when Owen
had paused also ; " don't forget that this
little talk has occurred in leisure moments
— moments of unbuttonment, as I may
say — and don't take liberties, or grow fami-
liar, when I am on duty in the Marsh. I'm
92 then, and duty's duty."
And after this oratorical display, 92, with
his head very erect, marched down an op-
posite street. Owen looked after him, and
wished it were always a life of unbutton-
ment with the big policeman — it made him
so much more like a friend and brother,
and left it hard to reconcile his identity
with the official, who was so severe on
minor delinquencies, and would have every-
body moving on. As Owen watched him
" moving on " down the street, he could
fancy there was a tremulous sway about the
lower extremities that reminded him of
Tarby early on Boxing-day, before he had
OWEN. 123
drunk himself into a bad temper; and he
fancied John Dell of Jenkins Street, had
mixed the gin and water rather stiffish, or
kept the glass filled with a too liberal hand.
He fancied so ; but then he was in a reflec-
tive mood, and inclined to fancy many
things that night. He had been humiliated,
too, and laughed to scorn by John Dell,
and called a dunce. This John Dell, who
had no thought for his own past estate, but
swollen to greatness with his fifty -five
shillings, taunted poor lads like him with
their ignorance of letters. He'd learn — he
would learn ; there shouldn't be any more
crosses on the bills he might have to receipt
six months from that date. Nor six days,
for that matter, for he'd find out which
was a p and an a and an i and a d, and
practice at " them four jockeys," till he
knocked them off like copper-plate.
He was absent in mind the rest of that
night, and required calling to order more
than once by Mrs. Chickney, who "dratted"
124 OWEN.
tlie boy, and couldn't understand what ailed
him. When the shutters were closed, and
Tarby had returned with a pile of halfpence
on his barrow, Owen, over a humble supper,
suddenly burst forth with —
" T shall go to school."
" Bless the boy! " cried Tarby's wife, with
a jump in her chair, " what ails him ? "
" I'm not wanted in the evenings, except
Saturday ; and there's a free school in Char-
lotte Street, and I'll go."
"Who's been putting those silly notions
into your head ? " asked Tarby.
" There's no getting on if you can't read
and write, I see that, and I mean to try
at both, Tarby."
"Don't be rash, Owey. Haven't I got
on well enough without sich nonsense ? "
" If I learn to read and write when I'm
not wanted," said Owen, without heeding
Tarby's last remark, " why shouldn't I ?
Everybody ain't going to beat me,
Tarby."
OWEN. 125
*' I wonder I didn't think of it before,"
remarked Mrs. Chickney.
" You don't blame me, mother ? "
" Who— I ? Why should I, my lad, be
sorry to see you trying to do well ? Learn
all you can, and shame the devil, that nearly
got hold of you."
Owen found time to look at the spelling
book before he went to bed. It was an old
volume, with long s's, badly printed, and on
indifferent paper, but still in excellent pre-
servation. If Owen could have read, he
would have seen on the fly-leaf the auto-
graph of John Dell, and a date of thirty-
two years back ; and beneath that, in a
clearer and even in a beautiful handwritino^,
"Ruth Dell, her book."
But all was undecipherable to the neo-
phyte standing at the door of the temple,
and about to make his first step. He could
only turn over the leaves and gaze at the
rude woodcuts, and pass the book round
for inspection to Tarby's wife, and for cool
126 OWEN.
contemptuous disparagement on tlie part of
Tarby.
" And who do you think I saw at our
new customer's, Tarby ? " said Owen, when
the book Avas returned to him. " You'll
nevet guess."
" Your mother."
" No, no," cried Owen — " not she."
" It was some one as set you silly, any-
how," said Tarby.
" It was 92."
" Good Lord ! "
" Off duty, and unbuttoned, and smoking
a pipe, Tarby. He came nearly home with
me, talking about his brother and his little
girl."
" Nonsense ! "
" He did, I tell you. He isn't half such
a bad fellow as we thought."
" Isn't he ? Well, I daresay not. I wish
I hadn't hit him quite so hard last Easter,
then!"
And that was Tarby Chickney's tribute
OWEN. 127
to the merits of 92. He could acknow-
ledge virtues even in his bitterest enemy.
Owen turned into his bed, composed of
sacks and straw and shaving, with one blan-
ket that had seen better days for covering,
and lay awake half the night, bewildering
himself with dreamy speculation as to what
was to become of him when the world went
round a little more, and brought him greater
strength and a beard upon his chin. Should
he ever read and write, and earn his fifty-
five shillings a week — and repay Tarby's
wife for all past kindness ? Should he ever
be higher than he was ?
Through the glass darkly we can but
guess at the shadows flitting beyond it ; the
veil is never drawn, or the landscape open
to the view. It may be meadow-land,
or rocky steep, and we are blest by igno-
rance to know not either till the fitting
time. Say that some magic crystal of the
old magicians, concerning whom such won-
drous tales have been recorded, had been
128 OWEN.
held before him, with many future years
of life therein — all their trials and tempta-
tions — evincing to him then all the force of
that bitter disappointment which came long
afterwards and smote him down — and, with
a boy's judgment, knowing not what is best,
he might have cried, "It is better as it is.
Leave me in my poverty and wilful igno-
rance, and let others, destined to be hap-
pier than I, march on the road I turn away
from now ! "
129
CHAPTER 11.
A STEP FORWARDS.
Before eleven the next morning, when
Tarby was still asleep, and his wife was be-
ginning to toast a herring for his break-
fast, there came visitors to Hannah Street.
Owen had been up and inspecting his lesson-
book some hours, and was then practising
at a large capital A with the point of a
skewer on the counter, when the door was
shaken, not lightly, from without. Re-
sponding to the summons, Owen was very
much surprised to find on the door-step
John Dell and his niece.
VOL. I. K
130 OWEN.
John Dell and his niece strangely meta-
morphosed : the uncle in a blue dress-coat
and waistcoat, and trousers of a snowy
whiteness, with boots that shone in the sun
like varnished leather, and a bran new hat
on. John Dell, with his greyish whiskers
brushed and oiled, and his eyes a trifle more
protuberant, with all the excitement of this
^'getting up." His niece, too, had exchanged
her dark Saturday-frock for a bright claret-
coloured French merino, which looked more
seasonable that rapidly -thawing morning
than the white ducks of her uncle, and her
face looked prettier than ever under her
straw hat and dark green ribbons.
" Look here, young fellow," cried Dell, in
his old impetuous manner, directly the door
was opened, " I want that book you took
away last night."
"Took away!" — and Owen's face flushed
and his hands clenched. He had learned
the sin and shame of taking away his neigh-
bour's goods.
OWEN. 131
" That Rutli here lent you and you took
away. Where is it ? "
Owen went back to the counter and re-
turned with the book — the eyes of Mr. Dell
taking note thereof.
" Thankee," said Dell, putting it into the
tail-pocket of his dress-coat; "it was a
mistake of Ruth's, and she did not know 1
set some store by it — that some day it will
be on a. crimson cushion and under a gflass
shade. It taught me my letters, and then
Ruth's — and there's luck in it, and I prize
it. You understand now ?"
Owen nodded. His heart was a trifle too
full for any reply just then ; and the rough
words of John Dell, allied to a very rapid
utterance, grated a little even on him,
who had been used to rough words all his
life.
" Uncle will buy you another," said Ruth
— " one that you can read better ; but he
is very careful of this, and I had forgotten
it was not mine to give away. You are
k2
132 OWEN.
not angry with me?" she asked, as Owen
continued silent.
*'No."
" You shall have another, if you call to-
morrow,'' said Dell.
Owen nodded again.
"You mean to come?"
"Yes."
Dell and his niece descended the step. On
the pavement he said : —
" I'm not quite used to the neighbourhood
yet. The second turning will lead straight
to Waterloo Road, I suppose?"
"Yes."
" We shall be late for church, Ruth ?"
And uncle and niece walked off.
Owen stood watching them, saw the little
girl look behind her, pause, and then say
something to her uncle, whose face assumed
a laughing expression as he paused also.
A moment afterwards, and she came run-
ning back to Owen.
OWEN. 133
" I'm so sorry you're disappointed, little
boy 1"
Owen was a head and shoulders taller than
she ; but he did not consider it a fitting op-
portunity to call attention to that fact,
although he had before objected to the
appellative bestowed upon him.
, " Oh, don't mind me. Miss.'*
^' It's only because uncle thinks a great
deal of the book that he has taken it away.
You'll call to-morrow evening ? "
" I said I would."
After a pause she said, suddenly,
"Don't you ever go to church?"
"I go to see the funerals sometimes of an
afternoon."
" But inside a church ? "
"Oh, no!"
" Don't you want to go to church?"
" Can't say as I do."
" Oh, dear ! — you are a funny boy !"
And with a look of bewilderment at
Owen, she went backwards down the step,
134 OWEN.
and then ran after her uncle, whose swallow-
tailed coat and white ducks were a long
way down the street.
Owen leaned against the door-frame, and
watched them out of sight ; remained there
several minutes after they had turned the
corner, thinking of the incident that had
suddenly despoiled him of his prize, and of
the last verdict of Ruth Dell, that he was a
funny boy because he didn't go to church.
He did not see any great amount of fun in
it himself; he had not thought about it
before — Tarby had never gone, neither had
Mrs. Tarby. Once or twice he had seen
the people issue forth at one o'clock, and
noticed how finely they were dressed —
especially the beadle, who generally sunned
himself at the 2:reat orates durino-the exodus.
(Do G
He had even thought he should like to be a
beadle some day, and wear a coat with gold
lace, until 92 had spoken of fifty- five
shillings a week to be earned by honest
folk who were clever and industrious ; and
OWEN. 135
he doubted if the beadle got that, with all
his finery. He had a vague idea that there
was praying at church for something or
other, and that everybody was shut in a
little box, and told to be quiet by the
pew*opener, and that the beadle was there
to hit people who couldn't behave them-
selves. People who were christened or
buried went to church he believed, but
he had never gone through either cere-
mony ; and besides, his clothes weren't good
enough. He knew that beadle would hoist
him down the steps if he went up them ;
and serve him right, to think of such a
thing. Only one person in Hannah Street
went to church, and that was a hump-
backed woman at the other end of the
street ; and perhaps they let her in because
she was hump-backed, and it made all the
difference as to right of entry.
Owen went to St. James's Park in the
afternoon with Tarby — Tarby's wife was
not quite strong enough to take such long
136 OWEN.
walks just at present — and almost forgot
about the Dells in his admiration of the
ducks, which had taken advantage of a
warm winter's day to show themselves
again. But Tarby's company, in which
Owen had delighted so much, was some-
what wearisome that afternoon, till Tarby
met a friend, who kept him stationary three-
quarters of an hour, and talked of nothing
but pigeons and terrier pups all that time —
affording Owen an opportunity for reverie
meanwhile.
Owen was glad when Sunday was over,
and the shutters were down again in Han-
nah Street ; there were so many hours less
between him and his desire to learn. Owen
knew there was a free evening school opened
in the neighbourhood, thanks to the worthy
exertions of a few influential parishioners —
a pioneer to the Ragged Schools that, a few
years later, threw open their doors to the
poor and ignorant who required instruction
— and Owen proceeded thither in the even-
OWEN. 137
ing, after calling at John Dell's by the way,
and receiving a new spelling-book in ex-
change for the volume returned yesterday.
" I wish to learn," said Owen, entering
the school boldly, and marching up to a
desk at the end of the room, where a grey-
haired, middle-aged man was standing.
" You are welcome."
And thus was made the second step in
Owen's career upwards ; and Owen, who was
earnest, and not naturally dull, soon went
ahead of most of his contemporaries, and
made a progress satisfactory to his teacher.
In the early part of Owen's novitiate there
was not a large number of pupils, and the
teacher could pay more attention, take more
interest in the single scholar anxious to ad-
vance. The school was an experiment at
that time, launched amidst a hundred ob-
stacles and as many doleful prophecies ; and
the poor even turned from education gratis,
and had their suspicions of a trap set some-
where.
138 OWEN.
Owen was never without his lesson-book
— it was a new life to him, and each smile
of his tutor was a reward for his labour.
With his barrow in the streets, in his early
walks to market, over a slackness of trade in
the articles he hawked about, he studied his
lessons; and at his age a boy will learn
readily, or never. He did not think much
of fifty-five shillings a week then as the
goal to be arrived at some fair day, when
his hopes were brightening; he saw the
reward to follow his mastery of lesson-books,
and felt content with the new world that
opened for him gradually.
It was a proud day to call on John Dell,
who was so particular concerning money
matters, and sign his name, Owen Owen, in
full, and see little Ruth watch his pen, and
hear John Dell's hearty " That's well !" as
he completed his task, and even finished off
with a flourish.
"Why, you'll be a great man, Owen, if
you go on so fast as this," he added. .
OWEN. 139
" I shall thank you for it, Mr. Dell."
"No!— will vou?"
And John Dell brought his hand smartly
on his thigh again, after a habit of his when
particularly exhilarated.
A turn was given to Owen's thoughts and
a little check to Owen's learning by the
sudden news that Mrs. Chickney was taken
ill, and required the immediate attendance
of the doctor. The news was communicated
to Owen by Tarby, who had run all the
way to the free-school to impart the infor-
mation and render Owen useful.
" Run to the parish doctor, Owen, and
fetch some one as quick as you can. Tell
'em it's Mrs. Chickney — they've got her name
down in the books. Run like a devil, Owen
— there's a good boy ! "
Owen broke from school and tore off at
his utmost speed, his heart beating with the
fear that there was danger to the woman
who had been so good a mother to him.
The parish doctor of that day lived in the
140 OWEN.
Kennington Road, and many minutes had
not elapsed before Owen was tugging at the
bell with all the impetuosity of one in a
desperate fright.
The summons being responded to, a fair
young man with a fresh colour, a high fore-
head, and a mass of wavy hair, appeared
in the doorway.
"What are you kicking up this row for?
Whom do you want, boy ? "
" The doctor. Mrs. Chickney wants him
directly."
" Mr. Waggles is out. Who is it, do
you say ? "
" Mrs. Chickney, Hannah Street — Tarby's
wife."
"Can't you say ^sir?'"
"Yes, if Hike."
" Say it, then, if you want attending to."
Owen objected to this young gentleman's
imperious manner, and might in a case of
less emergency have exhibited some freedom
of opinion on the matter ; but Tarby's wife
OWEN. 141
was ill, and he would have gone down on
his knees to the gentleman with the light
hair, if he had required it at that mo-
ment. He was even polite — remembering
his schooling.
" I beg your pardon. Sir — it is, sir."
" Come in."
Leaving Owen to shut the door, the
young man walked into the surgery and
lumped down on a little counter a vo-
lume, which he proceeded to unclasp and
open.
"What name did you say — Chickweed?"
" Chickney, sir, of Hannah Street. She's
very ill, sir," he added, seeing that the
young man acted with great deliberation.
The announcement did not appear to
startle the assistant in the least degree ;
people very ill was a fact nothing new to
announce at a parish doctor's.
" Chackster— Chub— Chaffinch— Chuck-
sley — Chickney," said he, with a yawn, as
his finger halted half-way down the column
142 OWEN.
— " here we have it. I'll be with you in a
moment."
" Thank you, sir. She's very ill !"
The assistant dawdled out of the surgery,
and was absent about a quarter of an hour,
during which time Owen paced up and
down, and ground his teeth, and, I fear,
enunciated all the oaths he had nearly for-
gotten with his better teaching, and felt
what a relief to his mind it would be to
smash every bottle in the place. When the
assistant reappeared, carefully brushing a
black overcoat, Owen breathed a little freer,
till the man looked for something in a
drawer, then in another, and another, and
finally gave up the search and struggled
into his great-coat, and took a hat down
from behind the surgery door.
" You need not have waited for me," he
said, tartly. " I know the way."
" Oh, I wasn't sure, sir."
^' And you needn't hang about me now,
but run home and tell them I'm coming."
OWEN. 143
" Certainly, sir. You'll make haste now,
I hope, sir? She's really ill."
The assistant smiled contemptuously at
this, and proceeded to draw on a pair of
lavender kid gloves, the admirable fit of
which we will leave him admiring, and
follow Owen to Hannah Street.
Owen found the little shop where he had
left it — which in his bewilderment he had
hardly expected — and Tarby and the old
woman, who had officiated as nurse two
years ago, passing in and out of the parlour.
" Where's the doctor ? " cried Tarby,
catching sight of Owen.
" He'll be here in a minute — that is, his
assistant chap will — a fellow with such a
head of hair. How's mother ? "
" Pretty well, considerin'."
" I think I'll run a little way back, and
see if he's coming."
" Why, you're hardly in the shop yet."
" No ; but the fellow's such a time — ain'tl
he ? "
144 OWEN.
" I suppose it's young Glindon ; he always
did take things easy," said Tarby, who was
trying to appear cool and collected himself.
" There's no occasion to flurry yourself, and
— damme, if he don't make haste, I'll catch
him up and carry him ! "
Tarby had just obtained a glimpse of Mr.
Glindon coming round the corner, at the
easiest rate imaginable, and his temper was
a little soured at the prospect. But he did
not carry his threat into execution, and Mr.
Glindon, at his own pace, turned into the
little greengrocer's, and proceeded to busi-
ness forthwith, after shutting Tarby and
Owen in the shop.
Tarby was as nervous as Owen after the
doctor's assistant had left them. He
fidgeted with the potatoes — he knocked
over the parched peas — he scratched his
head with a vehemence that must have hurt
him — he took a run of a hundred yards
down Hannah Street, for no earthly purpose
that was conceivable.
OWEN. 145
" I wonder what would happen to the old
shed, and you and me, if she was tooked,
Owey?"
"Oh! don't talk like that!"
" She hasn't been herself lately — quite."
"Don't you think so?"
" P'raps it's only fancy, though. We
won't talk of anything so horrid."
It must have been an age before the
doctor came out of the parlour, and the
crying of a child was heard within, and
Owen and Tarby looked into his face for
their answer.
" As well as can be expected, perhaps," he
said. " I'll look in again in about an hour."
" Thankee," said Tarby. " And the babby
— is it a boy ? "
" No— a girl."
"I suppose it — it won't live now?"
"Live!" echoed the young man, "why
shouldn't it?"
" Well, they haven't tooked to living at
present here. It disagrees with 'em."
VOL. I. I»
146 OWEN.
"This is a fine hearty infant !" and the
assistant said it emphatically, as if he
wished it to be taken as evidence if Tarby
should poison the child in the night.
"Lord! Is it, though?"
Mr. Glindon was going down the steps
when Tarby called out —
"And the Missis?"
" Keep her quiet. She'll do — loith great
carey
147
CHAPTER III.
EEFORM AND RELAPSE.
For the first time in the history of the
present race of Chickneys, a baby was
born that crowed, and kicked, and waxed
fat — with which everything agreed, that
took everything that was presented to it, and
went never back in its appetite. A baby
that was the admiration of Hannah Street,
and which the female inhabitants thereof
called to see in little parties of four and
^YQj and which every one thought took
kindly to her nose or bonnet, and was
wofully deceived when she had it in her
arms.
l2
148 OWEN.
Baby, in its early stage, only took kindly
to Tarby, which was an awkward dilemma,
and confused that gentleman's arrange-
ments, as Boxing-day happened before
Mrs. Chickney was fairly up again, and
three-fourths of his friends and acquaint-
ances expected his company at the *' Com-
passes." But the baby had taken a fancy
to a particular and novel kind of rock on
the part of Tarby, and would not be put
out of his arms after he had once intro-
duced it to its notice, save and except for
nourishment purposes, or when utterly off
its guard.
And Tarby, rather proud of the patron-
age conferred upon him, rocked and went
through a husky kind of chant, and was
persuaded or flattered into staying at home
all Christmas week, and making himself
useful. And Mrs. Chickney, who had
struggled to her feet again with no small
difficulty, was pleased to see Tarby at home,
relieving her from the weight and worry of
OWEN. 149
a heavy baby with a loud voice ; and Tarby
wandering about the shop with the infant
was a novel sight to witness.
We say that Mrs. Chickney had struggled
to her feet ; but it had been a hard strugsjle,
as Mr. Glindon had foreseen, and when she
appeared in the shop before her strength
allowed — for poor people have no time to
nurse themselves and " play the lady," as
they term it — she was ever from that time
a faint shadow of the Polly, Owen had seen
first on Markshire Downs.
Tarby's wife and Tarby's baby could not
have strength together ; and the first baby
to live was to stand as witness to a greater
alteration in Mrs. Chickney. Still Tarby 's
wife would not have changed positions ; her
heart had always yearned for a child of her
own, to live and grow up, and be a comfort
to her when Tarby went away, and she
took her failing health as part of the bargain.
" And I'm not going to drag about like
this all my life, you know," she said to
150 OWEN. .
Tarby one day ; " why, every day rm
getting stronger ! "
Tarby could not see it, and asked Mr.
Glindon, who recommended the air of
Hastings and port- wine, and lighter diet —
say, a boiled chicken — and so on; and as he
might equally as well have ordered the air
of Madeira, and a slice off a Phoenix,
Tarby thanked him for his advice, and said
he'd think of it. But Mrs. Tarby did gain
a little strength, by slow degrees, without
leaving Hannah Street, and strength • of
mind, too, to insist upon having the baby
christened, and Owen, also, at the same
time, which interesting ceremony took place
in Waterloo Church, and went off with
great eclat.
For the baby, who was christened Mary,
after Mrs. Chickney, took so readily to
the clergyman, whom, it probably fancied,
was Tarby in disguise, that it nearly had its
first convulsion when returned to the arms
of its mother.
OWEN. 151
So time went on in Hannah Street ; and
the world was wondering, as usual, how
that time had slipped away, when it was
summer again, and Mary Chickney was six
months old. Easter and Whitsuntide had
passed by that time, and Tarby had resisted
all temptations, and remained sober through-
out, and kept to his baby and his business,
till the profits of the latter made ample
amends for the expensive luxury of the
former. Owen assisted with the baby, too,
and relieved guard with Tarby and Mrs.
Chickney, and learned half his school lessons
with the infant Mary in his arms. So pro-
gress, especially moral progress, was made in
Hannah Street ; and happiness was so near
to these poor folk, that carriage-people might
have envied them. But a flash of happi-
ness here and there, to keep our hearts from
sinking in our pilgrimage, and we should
rest content; happiness is a fugitive sensa-
tion, that is gone in a breath, and children
born of trouble cannot expect its duration.
152 OWEN.
Tarby had made a hundred promises to
reform entirely; he had tried sobriety for
six months, and found it profitable, he said.
Owen was gaining knowledge, and could
already read and write, and work his sums
out; Mrs. Chickney was looking better,
and the baby was as big as any two in
Lower Marsh.
At that time, some six or nine months
after baby's birth, Tarby was unfortunate
enough to meet a friend, who had returned
from America, rich enough to stand glasses
round to all his ancient pals and brother
costers. And Tarby took his glass with the
rest, and returned home with bloodshot
eyes and unsteady gait, and with his old
quarrelsome fits upon him.
Tarby Chickney, once unsettled, took
full a fortnight to compose, the days fol-
lowing the first relapse being an increase at
compound interest, of all his reigning faults
and weaknesses. It seemed likely to be a
blank week, after Tarby's first start in the old
OWEN". 153
direction ; and Mrs. Chickney always mut-
tered a " Thank God ! " though she was not
a prayerful woman, when her husband was
heard knocking at the street door, however
late the hour, and however drunk and ill-
tempered he might prove to be.
Owen, close on twelve years old, was a
tolerable substitute for Tarby at this time ;
young as he was, he could make a fair bar-
gain at market, and sell his goods at a
remunerative price afterwards; and, there-
fore, the loss of Tarby 's services was not
felt, in a pecuniary sense, so much as in the
olden times, when nothing came in as an
equivalent to everything running swiftly
and surely out. Still it was a miserable,
unpleasant time setting in ; Tarby was
satisfied with nothing, and Mrs. Chickney
and the baby being weak, Owen came in
for all the superfluous cuffs and shakings
that Tarby had to spare on his return.
"He'll have his run out, Owen," said
Tarby 's wife; " and then be just hisself
154 OWEN.
again. Poor fellow ! — lie hasn't had a
change lately — I daresay he was worrited
and hipped to death."
This consolatory assurance was delivered
on Thursday night — the fourth night of
Tarby's ^'run" — when Owen and Mrs.
Chickney and the baby were sitting up for
him, and the Dutch clock was ticking its
way to two.
^'He's rather later than usual," remarked
Owen.
"Ah! he won't be long now," affirmed
the wife, who little dreamed that Tarby
Chickney was never destined to cross the
threshold of that home again, and that the
shadows to fall upon it were of a deeper
hue, and were close upon her, to haunt that
house for every hour of her after-life.
Owen, be it said, ^^ar parenthesis^ was
pretty certain of Tarby's whereabouts; he
had stolen out before the shop was closed
and seen Tarby at the " Three Compasses,"
dancing a kind of mad jig to a barrel-organ
OWEN. 155
played by a grinning Italian, and surrounded
by a mob, who began to impede the traffic
and attract the notice of policemen; and he
had no doubt — now the "Compasses" had
closed — that Tarby had emigrated to the
night public-house, near the cab-stand in
the Westminster Bridge Road, where he
would possibly remain till he became too
uproarious, or was kicked into the street, or
was given in charge to the police, an idea
Owen did not think it worth his while to
impart to the poor woman nodding over
her baby by the empty fire-grate.
A single heavy dab on the outer door — a
dab solemn and steady enough to be from
Tarby in his soberest moods, and therefore
calculated to arouse suspicion at once.
" The door, Owen — something's wrong ! '*
was the quick exclamation of Mrs. Chickney,
and Owen ran to the door and threw it back
at once. He knew it would not be Tarby
before he opened the door — Tarby would
have accompanied his arrival that particular
156 OWEN.
evening by trying to shake the house down,
and bawling denunciations at Owen through
the key-hole for not responding to his sum-
mons. He was half prepared for a friend of
Tarby's or a policeman, but not for police-
man 92, with his hat crushed into half its
size, and his nose nearly doubled in magni-
tude.
" Where's Tarby ?" cried Owen.
" In the station-house — I've been sent for
a change of clothes by the Inspector."
This was so remarkable an errand, that
Mrs. Chickney ran to the door with her
baby.
" He's got hurt in fighting, and hurt some
one else — 107. It's a bad job, I'm sorry to
say."
" Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! — may I come round
to-night ?"
"No; you're not wanted," said 92 in
reply. "You can't come round — he'll be
sent up to Lambeth police-court in the
morning, and you can see him there. But
OWEN. 157
we must make him decent for the magis-
trate."
" It's — it's nothing more than usual, is it?"
she asked.
" Just a trifle."
"Oh, dear!" she sighed — "Owen, mind
the baby, w^hile I look up his other clothes,
and keep away from the door as much as
you can. Will you come inside ?"
"Thankee;" and 92 stepped into the shop
and closed the door, and remained with his
back against it, very stiff and upright —
nothing like the conversational being with
whom Owen had walked from Jenkin's
Street. But 92 was on her Majesty's ser-
vice, and, perhaps, the damage he had
received had rendered him extra rigid and
uncongenial.
He had nothing more to say concerning
Tarby, and, when pressed, only repeated
that it was a bad job, adding that it might
be worse; he couldn't say — nobody could
say at present. He departed Avith the bun-
158 OWEN.
die whicli Mrs. Chickney had prepared for
him, and the weary night seemed as if it
would never go away, and bring the morn-
ing round for Tarby's examination.
Tarby's wife did little more throughout
the night, than rock herself and baby in the
chair she had occupied before the old, old
news came home. The cloud was heavy
over her, and there was no one to sustain
by a false show of spirits then ; so she sat
till it was time to move about and prepare
for the visit to the police-court, where the
fiat of the magistrate would be life and
death to her in Hannah Street.
For however the punishment be merited
by him who perpetrates the crime, the sen-
tence must sweep down upon a crowd of
innocent to whom the criminal is dear.
Mrs. Chickney was prepared to leave
home at eight in the morning, although
the magistrate at Lambeth was not likely
to take his place till eleven. Owen opened
shop as usual, and attended to all comers ;
OWEN. 159
whilst Mrs. Chickney, with no heart for
work, remained, with the parlour door shut
between her and the world of Hannah
Street.
But the parlour door could not keep the
gossips out, and there were many in the
neighbourhood who knew all about Tarby's
last "sensation act," and were anxious to
impart the intelligence, more or less exag-
gerated, to his wife. The wife was eager
to hear the news, too ; and the gossips went
one by one into the parlour, where they
remained till the parlour became full, and
the cotton skirts of late comers began to
back amongst the greens.
It appeared to have been the custom-
ary street brawl, with everyone in a
worse temper than usual, and inclined to
hit more hard. The quarrel had risen be-
tween Tarby and a policeman in the man-
ner natural to Tarby *s quarrels. Tarby,
pig-headed and personal with drink, and the
policeman, who was new to the force, in-
160 OWEN.
clined to exhibit liis authority with a little
more flourish than was profitable to Lower
Marsh policemen in general. Tarby had
been shut out of the " Compasses " at
twelve, and, being inclined to resent the
proceeding as an insult, had kicked and
hammered at the doors until the new re-
presentative of order had requested him to
desist. An argument on the merits of the
case had been begun — broken off — begun
again, till threats of locking-up had aroused
all Tarby's virtuous indignation, who had
resisted being taken by the neckcloth, and
therefore knocked the policeman down. The
confusion natural to policemen beingknocked
down ensued at once in Lower Marsh. The
crowd, which had been collecting for the
last five minutes, gathered more closely
round the combatants, and swayed from
pavement to road and from road to pave-
ment, bawling in a hundred keys ; trades-
people pulled up their upstairs window-
blinds, and took reserved seats for themselves
OWEN. 161
and families ; the rattle cracked its warning
to the night, and all the boys and girls and
dogs of London appeared to swell the con-
fusion and enjoy it. More policemen from
the New Cut, James Street, and Frazier
Street ; more co-mates and brothers in drink
to the rescue of the noble Tarby ; women
by some means mixed up in the quarrel,
taking opposite sides and strong grips of
each others back hair, tearing at each
other's face, and shrieking in C sharp ;
Tarby on his feet — then on his back —
then on a policeman — then under half a
dozen.
There is but one sequel to these street
brawls : an increase of official force — a
slackening of zeal on the part of those just
sober enough to know that they are get-
ting into trouble. Tarby was a prisoner;
and one policeman, felled by the staff which
Tarby had wrested from his hand, was car-
ried away moaning to Tower Street, with
a stream of people hustling after him,
VOL. I. M
162 OWEN.
and commenting on the outbreak of the
night.
These were the particulars offered to
Mrs. Chickney in the back parlour of that
shop wherein we have prophesied that
Tarby will no more set foot; and Mrs.
Chickney, taking heart from the details —
for they seemed no more new and strange
than half-a-dozen such incidents that had
happened in times past, and of which Tarby
had been the hero — took heart, and thought
he would get his month, perhaps two, and
" things were not looking worser than they
had looked once or twice before, and she
must make the best of it — there ! "
Leaving to Owen the sole direction of the
business, Mrs. Chickney, toiling under the
weight of the baby, set forth for Upper
Kennington Lane, where is situated the
Lambeth police court, at the back of the
general line of houses, and having an
ignoble, cow-shed kind of entrance, finish-
ing off with an ugly -shaped and covered
OWEN. ] 63
yard, where friends of prisoners and wit-
nesses kick their heels till the Court is
opened, or their services are required.
Mrs. Tarby was accompanied by more of
her female friends than the little court
could decently accommodate, and there was
much pushing and crowding when the un-
civil young man in the office unfastened the
door and let this ragged fringe of the
general public enter. Mrs. Tarby and baby
went in with the rest, and Tarby and two
friends, in a bruised condition, took their
places before the magistrate, after a few
preliminary cases had been disposed of.
But Tarby 's case was not to be settled
that day or the next. The important fact
that the policeman struck down last night
was too ill to attend was delivered to the
magistrate, and a minute after the case had
been remanded, and before Tarby could be
removed from the box, another messenger
brought the startling tidings that the man
was dead!
m2
164 OWEN.
Tarby's bruised face took an unearthly
hue, and his handcuffed hands fell heavily
to his side. It was all up ! — he felt that
now — he knew that now, as surely as the
woman did who fainted in the body of the
court, and was carried out clinging to her
baby, the one frail hope to hold to in
the midst of a sea of trouble that was
rising.
The man dead! A verdict of man-
slaughter, perhaps murder, and a long
journey for Tarby, or an end to him, that
in his love of drink and heat of passion he
had never dreamed of. And an end, also,
to all the hopes of Tarby's wife — to the little
ambitious dream she had had but lately,
of taking a larger shop, perhaps in the Marsh
itself, and buying a pony, which difficulties
should not compel to sell again at Mark-
shire Cattle Fair. An end to the fallacy
that baby Mary would work such changes
in her husband, that temptation would be
resisted, and a new life begun, the happi-
OWEN. 165
ness of whicli would be greater and more
lasting than all the past experience, had
presented an idea. Life, with her husband
sober, her own old strength returning, Mary
and Owen growing up, both a comfort and
a blessing to her — both her children !
Well, it was all over ! The curtain falls
every day on scenes the brightest, and cuts
the pleasant comedy in half, and drops its
sombreness between it and the light. Why
should the greengrocer's wife be spared,
when queens and peeresses are weeping?
When Tarby was gone, she would have
her baby still, and her business, and many
well-meaning, humble friends in Hannah
Street, who, in a spirit of self-abnegation
that richer folk might imitate, would lose
half-a-day's work, a day's dinner, to keep
her company and comfort her, when com-
pany and comfort were necessary to pre-
serve her from wholly breaking down.
The honest poor are hearty sympathists
with each other — would we were as near
166 OWEN.
the kingdom of heaven as some of them.
It was settled at last, after inquest, and
remand, and trial; it was printed in the
papers, and known in Hannah Street, and
recorded in the books of the law, that Tarby
Chickney was guilty of the manslaughter of
policeman 107, and must suffer in conse-
quence, and be transported beyond the seas
— beyond that little baby, of which he
thought so much now ! — for the term of
fourteen years.
And Tarby went away, after a painful
interview with his wife and baby and Owen,
the full details of which we spare the reader.
Enough to say that, as they were passing
from the grating behind Avhich Tarby stood,
he called Owen back in a hoarse voice, and
said —
" Owey, lad, she^s been more than kind to
you ; she has only you now. You won't
grow too big to forget her ? "
" I ! " cried Owen, dashing the tears away
with the back of his hand ; " I ! "
OWEN. 167
" You'll be a man soon ; and I mayn't
live to come back, or she to see me come,
Owey, though she tries to cheer me up by
talking on 'em both — it's like her ; but she's
broke down awfully. Look after her and
the babby — you're old enough. Lord, see
how that babby is crowing at me now, and
trying with her fat fists to get be-behind
this i-iron work ! Take her away ; there's
a good little cha-ap ! "
And Owen hurried mother and child
away, and closed the interview.
" Mother," said Owen that night, when
they were together in the parlour, and baby
was asleep across Mrs. Chickney's lap ;
" Tar by asked me to take care of you and
baby. Am I big enough ? ''
" I hope so," said she, wearily.
" He thought I might grow too big to
forget you some day — is that likely? "
" No."
" As if my heart did not grow, too ! "
*' For both of us ? " pointing to the baby.
168 OWEN.
" To be sure."
" I am so glad of it!" she said ; and Owen
hardly understood her at that time.
169
CHAPTER IV.
TEMPTATION.
Consolers are hard to be comforted. Those
readiest with good counsel, and happiest in
their remarks on the fitness of things to our
moral condition, turn away from the well-
meant advice when their own time is come
to bear the shock of affliction. The old
story of preaching and practice, wherein the
practice is scanty, but wherever the preachers
are legion.
Tarby's wife could not take consolation
from others ; it was a harder task than
attempting to stem half the sorrows of
Hannah Street. She could not find a
170 OWEN.
bright side to life now. Tarby was gone ;
and, though he had not been the best of
husbands, though he had been ill-tempered
and unjust, and even cruel in his drinking
days, yet she took his absence to heart, and
looked an older woman by a half-score
years. She had talked so much of the
better days, that when the worse confounded
all her arrangements, she gave up the
struggle, and confessed herself vanquished.
Even little Mary helped to rouse
her but little — for Tarby's heart had been
open to that child ; and what was to become
of it in the future, stretching so dimly and
far away from her prescience? Still she
must strive to live on, for little Mary's sake ;
and Owen was a good lad, who worked
hard for her, and, in her trouble, was
already her reward for that past charity
which rescued a waif from the world.
Owen, at twelve years of age, too, attempted
the part of consoler ; talked of fourteen
years as fourteen days which were to vanish
OWEN. 171
away and bring Tarby home again, and
boasted of what he could do in the interim
to keep the business going, and the business
arrangements in fair order. Owen, thrown
early on the world, and possessed of no
small amount of native shrewdness, did the
marketing and the hawking, and kept the
wolf from that door at which 92 had ar-
rived with fatal news.
Looking at it as a business speculation,
the absence of Tarby did not very seriously
affect the funds of the Chickneys, the addi-
tional income arising from Tarby's exertions
having been generally dissipated in holiday
times by drink and fines for assault. The
change rendered Owen's visits to the free
school somewhat uncertain — for Mrs. Tarby
was not always strong or energetic enough
to attend to the shop of an evening then ;
but Owen worked with renewed vigour
when fortune favoured his attendance, and
begged for more lessons at home to make
up.
172 OWEN.
Mr. Graham, the tutor of the school,
could not help paying a little extra attention
to Owen in particular : there was something
singular in the lad's intense desire for know-
ledge — in the energy that mastered the
difficulties in his way, and craved for
further tasks that would absorb his time,
and occupy his leisure moments in Hannah
Street when business was slack, or he was
sleepless. Owen was not alone the scholar to
whom the opening of that school had done
good, and taught a moral to that pig-headed
section of society which sees harm in driving
ignorance from the heads of the hard-work-
ing; but he evinced alone at that time a
restless eagerness for improvement, which
each step further away from the past only
served to enhance. Give him learning,
heap task-books before him, set him ardu-
ous lessons for the next school-day, and
Owen drew his breath more free, and in his
eyes there was a greater light.
To such a lad, it may be imagined, two
OWEN. 173
years of even fugitive teaching worked
wonders ; and Owen, at fourteen, when the
new mother had somehow settled down to
her lot — if she were not resigned to the
inevitable — was scarcely recognizable. The
new mother was weak, and had the face of
an old woman, and Owen was a strapping
lad, with a bright, intelligent countenance,
that did one good to see in Hannah Street.
Mr. Graham had not forgotten the religious
instruction of his favourite pupil — Owen
was the show-boy now when visitors came —
but Owen, although ready to learn every-
thing, had not evinced any great partiality
for theological doctrines, or profited so
much thereby as his tutor desired.
Owen's was a practical, even a hard mind,
that saw no progress in life derived from a
bible study — which guessed that figures, and
good handwriting, and general knowledge,
would raise him in the scale without it.
He had not experienced real trouble,
and knew nothing of real comfort ; the
174 OWEN.
bible was a matter of history — and he
learned his task, and turned to another
with composure. The seeds of early train-
ing, or that lack of moral training which is
in itself an evil culture, must bear some
fruit, or have some tendency to spoil the
tree transplanted to new soil — some of the
original nature will cling to it, and permeate
amidst its better life ; and Owen was to
be no exception to the rule.
He learned right and wrong from his
school bible ; he could shudder at his early
life, and the road he might have followed ; it
taught him to be grateful, even to an extent
thankful — but it warned him not. It was
a study prosecuted with no ardour, and
there were other books he preferred to his
bible — books of travel, and biography, and
profane history, all of which he borrowed
from the school library, and took to heart,
and set himself many lessons therefrom of
perseverance and will.
So Owen grew taller, and stronger, and
OWEN. 175
more wise ; whilst Mrs. Chickney struggled
to keep home together. He began even to
see what a poor ignorant woman she was,
who had afforded him shelter when a shelter
was salvation ; but such knowledge only
strengthened his love for her, and he was a
considerate youth, who never wounded her
by a word. He had grown tired of his pre-
sent life, and the little business, and the
baskets of greens, and the eternal round of
hard work for scanty profit. He knew to
seek his own way in life now would be bet-
ter for his after-success ; but he evinced
not by a word that such thoughts ever
crossed him, and he turned from them
angrily at times, as though they were temp-
tations that wronged his love and gratitude.
He was Mrs. Chickney's support, and with-
out him there was the Union for the new
mother and Mary, who looked up to him.
He would live for them, toil for them all
his life, if need were — remembering what
Tarby's wife had done for him. He might
176 OWEN.
be something better now than a lad wheel-
ing fruit or vegetables about the street ; but
he might have been a thief or a felon, if
the helping hand had not been offered,
and the kind words spoken in good season.
In the fulness of his boy's heart, he had
vowed to serve a life-time ; and he did not
flinch from his word in the days of greater
confidence.
The temptation beset him in strange
shapes occasionally ; friends and enemies
seemed to conspire to make his position one
of trial — for his enemies taunted him and
mocked his position, and his friends encour-
aged him to break from it and act for him-
self. Well for him he had a will of his own
thus early in life — that even in this waif
there were noble qualities, from which he-
roes have sprung. May there not arise, even
from these shapeless materials with which
we work, as good a hero for a story-book as
a Mayfair novelist creates ? Surely all the
virtues, noble sacrifices, and honest manli-
OWEN. 177
ness of heart have not gone West yet, and
may find room to live even in such a place
as Hannah Street. We say may^ for the
discerning reader will take notice that to
this present page we have not termed him
who gives a name to these volumes — our
hero. For we are young and cautious in
authorship, and speak with a reserve.
Perhaps at this time John Dell was Owen's
greatest tempter ; for Owen met him more
often, and John Dell had taken an interest in
him from the date of the lesson -book. He
had watched Owen's progress more narrowly
than that lad himself was aware of. He was
a self-taught man, and saw his life once again
in him. He lent him books that he knew
the boy would study and improve from ;
and he followed his career step by step,
though he appeared to be minding his own
business and never interfering.
He interfered at last, however, and be-
came the tempter. Ruth Dell was fourteen
years old then — tall for her age, and pos-
VOL. I. n
178 OWEN.
sessing those long arms, and bony elbows
and fingers, whicli girls of fourteen, giving
promise of exceeding the average standard
of height, invariably exhibit. Owen had
called to return a book that had been lent
him, and found Dell, with his niece Ruth.
Two minutes before there would have been
company at No. 6, Jenkins Street ; for
Owen had found 92 in the act of closing
the door of his brother's house behind him,
and exchanged a good evening with him,
which was graciously responded to, 92
being oif duty, and having the buckle of
his stock loosened. There was a strange
freemasonry, be it observed, between 92
and Owen, which neither could have ex-
plained had he been called upon — a secret
kind of understanding, which embarrassed
Owen in particular. In old times — lying
so far distant, thank God, that the view
was misty and the perspective confused —
the knuckles of 92 had been driven into
Owen's neck, and 92 and he had been
OWEN. 179
followed by a street-mob to Tower Street —
an unpleasant reminiscence, that brought a
tinge to Owen's cheek when in 92's com-
pany. 92 appeared to be always remem-
bering this fact, Owen thought, although,
from the manner of the Dells towards him
the secret had possibly not escaped.
And if it never escaped, he should be
happy, feel himself a different being, — if
only the story of the past life could sink
further and further back with every day !
In 92's eyes there Avas the whole story,
however, combined with a quantity of sug-
gestive matter, that gave a dreamy appear-
ance to those optics. One might read at
times admiration of Owen's energy, the
doubt of its continuance, and then admira-
tion and confidence together ; but on all
occasions there was the past story being
pondered over when they met.
It was as evident on that particular night
of their meeting, as on the night when
Owen first became acquainted with the Dells.
n2
180 OWEN.
" Learning again ! Owen, Owen ! " with
a glance at the volume in Owen's hand, 92
had said.
" Yes, sir."
" You must have rattled on in the edifi-
cationary line/' he had added, with a dash
at a hard word as usual ; "to get through
John's books. Glad to see it, lad ! "
And on their next meeting, which oc-
curred one afternoon in Lower Marsh, with
Owen on the shafts of his barrow, reading
through a slack day, 92 gave to his eyelid
a tremulous motion, which might have been
a wink, as he pointed to the barrow, and
said — " Move on, my lad ; it's an obstruc-
tion, and my orders are strict. Move on
here!" Owen understood by that peculiar
ceillade^ that 92 wished him to see that no
offence was meant ; but duty was imperative
when a man was buttoned to the chin, and
had something on his wrist. And Owen
wheeled on his barrow submissively.
But we are stepping out too rapidly, and
OWEN. 181
forgetting Owen's temptation. It was
Michaelmas Day, and Mr. Dell was looking
at his quarters receipt for rent as Owen
entered, holding it at arm's length, and
frowning, as though it were a warrant for
his immediate execution.
" I improve the man's house, and build a
little workshop, with a furnace in it ; and
he takes advantage of my not having a
lease, and raises my rent ! " he was saying,
with his usual rapidity, as Owen entered.
" Such a man as that it would be a luxury
to kick, Ruth."
Ruth was at needle-work by the window,
and doing her best to ruin a pair of fine
hazel eyes, by working "between the lights."
" Well, it was not business on my part ;
but I was in a hurry to run up a workshop,
and had faith in human nature — Hallo,
young man ! why didn't you knock ? "
*' 92 was going out as I came in, sir,"
replied Owen; "but I knocked at the par-
lour door before I turned the handle."
182 OWEN.
" And very proper, too ; though I was
too busy to take notice of your summons,"
said he. ^' Ruth, my dear, put the receipt
on the file directly. Well, young man, good
evening to you."
Owen returned the tardy salutation, and
bade a good evening to Ruth Dell, who re-
plied, " Good evening, Owen," in her usual
kind manner. And Owen liked her man-
ner exceedingly, and thought it a great
improvement on her uncle's.
" So the book's done ! What have you
learned from it ? "
" Oh ! a great deal."
" It's the life of a man who worked his
own way. I like such men," and he looked
as fiercely at Owen, as though Owen had
expressed an opinion the very reverse of his
own.
"It makes one want to try — don't it,
sir?"
" It makes the right sort try at once — not
think of trying."
OWEN. 183
" All ! if they had the chance ! " said
Owen, with a half-sigh that did not escape
the quick observer before him.
" The right sort makes the chance — not
waits for it."
Dell gave the usual jerk of his head to
the customary jerk of his voice ; but Owen
felt there was something more implied than
a mere emphatic comment on passing
events. And Owen was right.
" Sit down, Owen. Let us talk this mat-
ter over — you and I. Are you pressed for
time?"
" No, sir."
*'Sit down, then, and don't make that
confounded shuffle with your feet."
Owen was always a little nervous in John
Dell's presence ; he had long since seen
much in him to respect and admire; but
to the present time he had never become
accustomed, or relished, his sharp manner
of address. A man so naturally kind, so
anxiouSj in his way, to do a little good,
184 OWEN.
iniglit have had a more agreeable way with
him to advantage, Owen fancied.
Owen sat down, and left off shuffling,
and Dell began —
^' Look at me. You know what a genius
means ? "
"Yes."
*^ Well, I'm not one — I never shall be."
Owen could not very well reply to this,
and Dell continued —
" YouVe been reading the life of a genius
— a genius for mechanics — ^who made his
fortune, and rose from the crowd. I'm not
a genius, and may never make my fortune ;
though I pushed my way for a beginning
in much the same way as he did. He went
further, and I, finding my level, came to a
stop, or nearly so. All right and proper,
and nothing to grumble at, is there ? "
" Not that I see, sir."
" You appear to see pretty clearly for a
lad of fourteen. Don't you see an opening
for yourself? "
OWEN. 185
"No, Mr. Dell; besides "
" There, don't begin a lot of ' besides,' "
he interrupted ; " if I hate anything besides
cats, it's 'besides,' and 'ifs,' and 'supposes.'
They hamper honest men to death ! "
Owen did not enlighten him further. He
was about to speak of Tarby's wife, when
John Dell had interrupted him ; and it was
a story that perhaps his listener would
hardly understand, and, therefore, better
left alone.
" I've been round to your school ! " was
Dell's sudden remark.
" Indeed ! "
" I've been bothering my head about
you, and getting to the rights of things.
Graham tells me you are head boy, and
know as much as he can teach you — that it
aU rests with yourself now, or with higher
masters than you or I can afford. You're
quick at figures, you know a little English,
you can speak for yourself, and — you trundle
a barrow all day !"
186 OWEN.
" Yes," and Owen bit his lip.
" I don't say you'll ever be like the man
you read of in that book — it's not probable ;
but nothing can hinder you getting on a
little, if you carry the same ' gumption' into
the world with you. You should advance,
boy."
Owen nodded, as if it were very good
advice ; but it was a listless recognition of
the interest felt in him, and irritated John
Dell in consequence.
" Any fool can wheel a barrow, and shout
out the price of what he has to sell upon it ;
an idiot can carry a basket of greens home.
You've shown energy in some things — why
do you lack it at a time when your whole
life may be influenced by one step ?"
" I don't lack it — I don't like my life —
I "
Owen stopped and coloured, and Ruth
Dell, who had found it too dark to con-
tinue her needlework, sat with her back to
the window, interested in the dialogue.
OWEN. 187
" Go on," said DeU.
" Oh, it doesn't matter ! "
" But it does ; for there's a reason — and
if it's a bad one, the sooner we scotch it the
better."
" I've been left in charge of Tarby's wife,
who's been a mother to me,'' said Owen,
with some of Mr. Dell's abruptness.
"Tarby's wife must go to the Workhouse
without me ; and she shan't. Tarby left
her and little Mary to me," cried Owen,
with excitement ; " and I'm proud of my
trust — there !"
John Dell, nursing one knee, and biting
one thumb nail, kept his great grey eyes
fixed on Owen. He made no reply for
several moments, as Owen paused, and
fought a little for his breath; but still
watched him, as a microscopist might
watch the labours of an ephemeron under
his lens. He was touched by the boy's
earnestness, but he would not show it — he
was vain of his self command, as are all
188 OWEN.
men, if they have any of that article to
boast of. For a reason of his own he
would go on tempting; and he checked a
speech of his more impulsive niece by a
frown, that sent her back to obscurity.
'^ I might obtain you the first step in the
foundry. I am likely to be foreman of a
shop soon, and then there's my own life to
follow step by step. There is no clever-
ness wanted, only fair steadiness and
strength."
Owen shook his head and thanked him.
His heart warmed to the offer, and he was
grateful ; but he swerved not for a moment
from his old promise to Tar by. Ruth Dell
letting him out that night whispered —
" You have acted for the best. My uncle
thinks so. Don't look so dull, Owen," and
Owen had pressed her hand in return for
the words that fell so gratefully.
" You are very kind, Miss, to say so. I
am glad you think so," he added with em-
phasis, as he turned away.
OWEN. 189
Ruth was only fourteen years of age, but
the earnestly uttered words made her
colour, although she was a girl who had
never even had a boy sweetheart, but had
been frightened of boys all her life, as
rough creatures in trousers, who were
always flinging stones, and reviling their
seniors.
And Owen was glad that Ruth Dell
considered he was right, for Ruth was a
superior being in his eyes, and held in
greater estimation than her father. Ruth
was a clever girl, who was always doing
good. She had become a Sunday-school
teacher lately, and the pupils were progress-
in sr under her care. John Dell had told
him so much of Ruth too ; how quickly she
learned everything, and how she took to
everything, and excelled in it, even to the
piano, at which she only practised in the
room of her finishing governess. For John
Dell had launched into the extravagance of
a finishinsT governess for his niece. When
190 OWEN.
he saw talent he was anxious to develop it
— and her talents would be her living, or
render her at least independent of adversity
some day. She had been a careful house-
keeper to his lonely bachelorhood, and the
very best of children, and he could but
evince his gratitude by giving her the best
of educations. People in Jenkins Street,
who knew all about it, thought John Dell
was very foolish to afford her an education
so much above her position and his own,
and that the result would be ingratitude
and unbecoming pride.
But John Dell knew better, for he under-
stood Ruth's character, and how a high
education would adorn it, as jewels and lace
and other vanities adorn certain phases of
beauty, let the poet say what he may. Ruth
would always be gentle and loving, let her
have that which is " most excellent," to
render her fit for any station in the future.
She would presently leave him and go out
as pupil-teacher and governess, and then
OWEN. 191
every " extra" for which lie paid would be
of service to her, God bless her !
And Owen said " God bless her," too,
that night, for his heart had been troubled,
though not shaken by the words of her
uncle. Dell was a man who did everything
for the best, and had a high opinion of
what was man's duty to himself as well as
to his neighbour ; a man who could argue
and put things in their most presentable
light, and say plain truths, from which
there was no escape.
No escape ! And though Owen, under
his counter, felt the weight of them, he was
a willing prisoner, whose gratitude was
greater than his pride. Self-abnegation is
an heroic quality, so from this time forth
then, reader, let us write him — our hero I
192
CHAPTER V.
THE NEW AND THE OLD.
Taking advantage of tlie absence of Owen,
John Dell, who was a man who let not
grass grow under his feet, made his appear-
ance in Hannah Street. It was a few
minutes after half-past four, the time be-
tween that and ^ve allowed for tea to the
workers at the foundry. But he was in-
clined to resign his tea for one night if need
were, although Ruth might wonder what
had become of him, and fidget herself about
some accident at the great place, the high
roofs and tall brick shafts of which sha-
dowed the street wherein she dwelt.
OWEN. 193
Mrs Cliickney was sitting in the shop,
hard at work at a little frock for Mary, who,
perched on the counter, had half a carrot,
a turnip, and the head of a penny doll for
toys, whilst her mother laboured diligently.
The woman who had given way, and
was mourning still for Tarby, was not a
woman to sit idle, when there was work to
do and some one to work for. For herself,
she was supine — it did not matter to her
what people said or thought ; and John
Dell, standing in the doorway, was puzzled
to assign a reason for so very clean and
bright a baby, and so very dusty and untidy
a mother.
" You know me by name as a customer,
Mrs. Chickney? — John Dell," he said, by
way of introduction, as he entered the
shop.
" Yes, sir," she answered languidly.
" I've come to have a little talk with you
— there'll be no oiFence meant?"
Mrs. Chickney looked at him with a mild
VOL. I. o
194 OWEN.
surprise. His smartness even seemed to
awaken in her some slumbering elements
of her own old character — for she answered
with a briskness very new to her in those
days —
"To be sure, sir — and no offence meant.
Where's the one to take it in its wrong
sense ?"
The one to take it now and then in that
sense was transported for fourteen years,
and she thought so the moment afterwards,
and fell to zero. Everything would remind
her so of Tarby !
"Perhaps the articles are not so good,
now Tarby 's gone," she said, wearily. "I
suppose it's that you've come about."
The articles were a great deal better ; but
Tarby's merits had magnified by distance,
and it was a happy time when he was free,
and had made things look better to her,
" No — I've come about Owen."
" Oh ! what's he done ?" — and she looked
up with a hasty expression of alarm.
OWEN. 195
" Nothing, woman — don t jump like that
and try to frighten me. He's done nothing,
and in more senses than one, too."
"And "
" And he ought to have done something
by this time. A brisk lad, with good sense,
good temper, and some knowledge of Eng-
lish. Do you understand me ?"
"Not yet, sir."
Tarby's wife put down her work, and
took her child into her lap, and was all
attention.
" For a lad half-brought up at evening-
school and half self-taught, he's got on well,"
said John ; " and would get on better, if
not hampered."
" Who hampers him ?" inquired Mrs.
Chickney, with a heightened colour — " is it
this place, or me^ or baby here ? Oh, sir ! he
hasn't been complaining ?"
"No; he's a good lad," was the sharp
answer.
" Ay, the best of lads as ever growed up
o2
196 OWEN.
— a son to me, who never complains or
gives me a hard word. Isn't that a deal
to say, sir?"
" It is," said Dell ; " and it's more to say-
that you cannot see how his slavery here
is keeping him down. I could find him
a berth now, where he would earn his
twelve to fifteen shillings a- week, if he were
quick and clever ; and he can't take it, be-
cause he's a green-grocer's boy, who must
run on errands and wheel a barrow. And
I can't persuade him to take it."
" Can you expect me ?" asked Tarby's
wife, with a flash of her old shrewdness —
"me he helps so much ?"
" No."
" Ah ! then you may ; I ain't been a friend
to him all my life, to stand in his way
now. I'd rather go to the workus than that."
"Does this business bring you in any
money ?"
" I've managed to save a little lately."
" Won't it pay you to have some one else
OWEN. 197
o manage it, and let Owen board with
you?"
" It may — it mayn't. I don't know where
the some one's to come from, and I ain't so
sweet on the place as I was. I thought once
I might struggle on till Tarby came back ;
but there's no waiting twelve years here,
and I growing weaker every day. Still, I
won't stand in Owen's light — I have made
up my mind, sir — you're right."
" You'll have to argue with him, for he's
a stubborn lad, and blind as a bat to his own
interest. There's no need for any hurry ;
but it's a pity he's here, and — and I take to
the lad— there !"
John Dell looked as if he had said a very
foolish thing, and mshed to brazen the mat-
ter out.
" You should have been a married man,
sir."
" Eh !" — and John Dell's eyes protruded
more and more, and his face for a moment
underwent a change.
198 OWEN.
" Your fond of lads and children ; you
brought up your own niece like your
daughter — like a lady born a'most. Owen's
told me everything."
" Owen should mind his own business,"
was the gruff response.
'^ And you have been very kind to Owen,
and you won't find him ungrateful. Poor
lad ! "—with a little sigh—" as if I hadn't
knowed before you told me, how I was
standing in his way — as if it hadn't worrited
me nights and nights. Heigho ! I wish I
had a friend to go to."
" Have you any relations ?"
"No, sir. I was an only child, and mother,
and father, and father's brother and sis-
ters all died early. We're an early dying lot!"
"AndonTarby's side?"
" There's one or two on Tarby's side ;
but then Tarby put 'em all out long ago, by
marrying me, when he might have done bet-
ter with Sail Sanders. They were very
much agin the match !"
OWEN. 199
So even costermongers have their mesal-
liances ; and there are differences and dis-
unions amongst us, even to the lowest rung
of the ladder. Amidst the grimly ridiculous
at which John Dell smiled, he could but
pity the woman, and in his interest for her
forget the tea simmering vainly at home
upon the hob.
" You'll think of all this then ?" he said ;
" and as the shop is a living, I should
advise you to stick to it, and find another
help."
*' I've no one to help me."
^^God!"
Dell spoke more sharply than even his
wont ; religious feelings were deep in his
heart, and actuated most of his motives,
though he seldom confessed it. He was
a man who kept his religion to himself,
who read his Bible and went to church, and
was rather proud of making no show, when
even making a show would have benefited
his fellow - creatures. He had a horror of
200 OWEN.
cant, and. even feared a good example miglit
be taken for an exhibition thereof. There
was not a man at the foundry who had an
idea of Dell's piety ; even 92 was in the
dark, and only 92's daughter but half read
him. Therefore, Dell spoke sharply, be-
cause he was vexed with the woman's apathy,
and did not care to let her indifference to
the present pass wholly unreproved. Nay,
he would have been glad to make a convert,
if his intentions had not stood a chance of
being wrongly interpreted.
" Ay, it's too late to think of Him !"
" What do you mean by too late ?" cried
Dell, taken off his guard — ^' have you only
half an hour to live ?"
" More than that, I hope " — hugging the
child tighter to her breast, as though the
suggestion had frightened her.
" Then there's time — think of it."
And Dell rushed from the shop and ran
down the street, for the factory bell was
beginning to ring the workmen back to la-
OWEN. 201
bour, and to be behind time was not only a
fine, but a slur to a man's reputation.
Tarby's wife did not put Mary back on
the counter and resume the work from
which Dell's appearance had distracted her.
She sat with the child in her lap, gazing
dreamily beyond the open shop front into
the street. Dell had aroused many and
strange thoughts ; to none more strange
than that to which his last few words had
given birth. She could think of that and
her duty to Owen too ; they seemed to go
together, and set her heart throbbing, and
br.ng wish after wish to her lips. She had
los", her old strength, was more liable to new
impessions, was pining for some real com-
fort in the midst of her desolation, and this
man had brought it her. He was of a class
not too far removed from her own ; he was
a hard worker, and could understand her,
thougl. he had little time to spare, and was
a man Tfiore of action than thought. She
felt that she could trust him — that he spoke
202 OWEN.
fair and intended well— that it would be
better for Mary, and even Owen, if she
could make up her mind to think a little of
her God. Was it so hard a task to learn
to pray, when she had so much to pray
for ?
Tarby's wife was very meditative for some
days; then she broached the first subject
that had helped to disturb her.
" Owen, I'm going to let the shop."
"Let the shop!" exclaimed our hero —
"what is that for?"
" I'm tired of it, boy; I'm pining for fresh
air, and the country, and the fields ; I'm ill,
and change will do me good, if anything
will."
She spoke as if she doubted it.
" Take a week or a fortnight's holxiay,
mother, and leave the place to me," said
Owen, quickly. " Then you and little Mary
will come back well and strong."
" No ; I shall live in the country — some
little cottage or other, where rents ace cheap
OWEN. 203
— some little shop or other that I can manage
by myself y
" What's to become of me, then ?"
"You'll do better, Owen — you're fit for
something better than this now."
"Ami?"
"You can write to Tarby and let him
know what change we've made ; and, per-
haps, you'll come down now and then to see
us."
" I know all about it !" cried Owen, jump-
ing up, and overturning his chair. " Dell's
at the bottom of this — don't tell me he
hasn't been here putting all this in your
head, for I know better! When was he
here ?"
" A week ago," she answered, with hesita-
tion.
" He has no feelino^ — he don't understand
me or you, or what you've done for me. I
will have no alteration — I will share your
troubles, and be that eldest son you've called
me many a time. Oh ! mother, I'm not
204 OWEN.
the first-born in your heart if you seek to
fling me off like this !"
" Oh, Owen !— Owen "
And Tarby's wife began to sob passion-
ately, as the boy's arms stole round her neck
and pressed her to him. She could under-
stand the love she had gained, and its depth,
for the first time in her life, perhaps. Owen
tried to look too big to cry like a baby now,
but he gave way at her emotion, and turned
away his head to conceal the tears that
silently welled over. But he was firm, and
would have no alteration that should part
them — he had promised to look after her
and little Mary, and God be his witness he
would keep his word I
Mrs. Chickney descended to the next
question of a new general manager, and
Owen in the foundry where John Dell
worked, and Owen promised to consider that
point when he had discovered the manager
suitable for so delicate a task. Till then he
put off the question sine die, Owen would
OWEN. 205
have no more of it, and lie began to arrange
his books, and light the bat's-wing burner
in the parlour, preparatory to a new course
of study.
" He would have no more of it," Owen
had said, as though he were a ruler of pup-
pets instead of a puppet himself — a little
knowledge had given him a little power, and
he felt inclined to use it tyrannously. But
there were changes to be made, despite his
wish ; and there was no power at his com-
mand to turn them by a single hair's-breadth.
The change must come, for the Hand that
never falters had recorded it.
Tarby's wife became more ill and weak :
Owen had to go to the doctor's instead of
the market, and, doctors doing no good,
eventually to a physician, whose fee
swooped away three -fourths of the week's
receipts.
Tarby's wife was in bed, and could not
always bear little Mary's noise now, and
Owen was nurse to the child, while the old
206 OWEN.
woman above-stairs — ever a good nurse
when help was needed — came a third time
in our experience into the back parlour to
attend to Mrs. Chickney.
The physician doing no good, and the
parish doctor and his new assistant making
matters, if anything, a trifle worse, Owen
bethought himself of the Mr. Glindon of
old times — no longer an assistant, but,
thanks to a lucky legacy, in business for
himself, Newington way. Mr. Glindon had
not pleased Owen in those times to which
we allude, but then he had proved himself
possessed of a certain amount of cleverness;
and, since his success, people had begun to
talk of him — as people do about you and
me, reader, when their good words are of
not half so much account as they might
have been years agone — and to say what a
rising M.R.C.S. he was likely to prove.
Owen went in search of Mr. Glindon,
and fortunately met that gentleman in the
fore-court of his house, making his way at a
OWEN 207
eisurely rate, that reminded our hero of
their first interview, towards a smart
private cab awaiting him. He had taken
off his hat a moment, as if to ventilate
it, and Owen could see that his hair was
more flourishing than ever at the ends,
and that his forehead looked more high
and white.
" Your name's Glindon ?"
"Yes."
" Will you come and see my mother at
once — the other doctors are doing her no
good, and I've faith in you."
"Thank you." And Mr. Glindon looked
a little gratified.
"You did her good once — three years
ago."
" Where does your mother live ?"
" Hannah Street, Lambeth."
" Oh, so far as that."
And there was a perceptible change in
Mr. Glindon's good-looking face.
"It can't make much difference with
208 OWEN.
your cab — and you'll be paid at once, sir."
The tone of Owen's voice possibly re-
minded him, despite the change of three
years, of the boy Avith whom he had had
some trifling altercation ; and the abrupt
mention of payment even a little nettled him.
" I have seen you before."
" Yes — I came for you once, sir."
"The green-grocer's in Hannah Street,
was it not ?" was the next question.
Mr. Glindon had evidently an excellent
memory.
"Yes, sir."
" It's rather far for me, and I've no doubt
your mother's in safe hands."
" Then you wont come ?"
" I am very sorry " (Mr. Glindon was
more polite in his new estate), "but I
really don't think I have the time."
" Perhaps you don't like poor patients ? "
said Owen, bluntly.
" Not particularly " — with a supercilious
glance at the querist
OWEN. 209
"Isn't their money as good as other
people's, or have you grown too much of
an upstart ?" said Owen, almost with a shout.
" Let me pass, my good fellow, and don't
bawl in that outrageous manner here — I
might have hesitated had you kept a civil
tongue, but to such impudence as yours, I
never give way."
And looking very hard about the mouth,
he passed Owen, stepped into his private
Hansom, and was whirled to more respect-
able thoroughfares than Hannah Street.
Owen felt sorry that he had lost his
temper with Mr. Glindon ; but there was
something in the man — his looks, his
manner, his implied superiority — that had
roused our hero's antipathy, even though
he had gone in search of him, as a clever
practitioner who might do his mother good.
Still, there were men more clever, and pos-
sessed of more experience — he would take
that day to find them out.
And they were found out, and did no
VOL. I. V
210 OWEN.
good to Tarby*s wife, who was breaking up,
and for whom there was no hope. She was
a woman who had seen much trouble, and
much trouble is the wear and tear which put
the inner machinery quickest out of order.
She had borne much with her husband, and
helped to support him by her own example ;
but when he went away, half her life went
too, and so there was only half the strength
to battle with disease.
She called Owen to her side one day.
'^ Owen, I should like to see that Mr.
Dell again."
"Why?"
"Not to ask a favour for you. Don't
look so darkly at me."
" I, mother ! " and Owen did his best to
smile.
"But I want to see him. He's one of
the few, I think."
"The few?"
" The few good, and willing to do good.
Will you ask him to come ? "
OWEN. 211
Owen went upon his mission, and saw
Ruth, and left his message with her ; and in
the dinner hour John Dell, in fustian, made
his appearance.
" Mr. Dell," said Tarby's wife, as he came
into the parlour, ''^ you re sure there s time to
think of it ? "
Weeks had elapsed since then. Tarby's
wife had worked for little Mary, and argued
with Owen, and then broken down. John
Dell had gone early and late to the foundry,
and been engaged at a hundred different
tasks, and had his mind employed night and
day, and yet each turned to the subject
where it had been abruptly broken off, as
though but a few minutes had elapsed since
they had spoken of it.
" Whilst there is life there is time, and —
hope."
" Will you sit down here, and try to help
me on a way that is very dark. Shall I be
robbing you of too much time ? "
'' No."
p2
212 OWEN.
And the man of robust health took his
seat by the dying woman's side, a picture
that an artist might have rendered touching
at that moment, for there was true religion
allied to true simplicity. Let us leave them
together. It is not our province to preach
at any length in the pages of a book of this
nature, and if the moral strike not home
without our preaching, not all the homilies
from the lips of our characters will affect
the most sensitive of our audience. And
novelists are players, not preachers, critics
tell us, and should keep their place. So be
it, we bow to a fair verdict.
And yet, upon second consideration, we
are inclined to have the last word too, for is
there not a doubt where the novelist's task
ends and the preacher's begins? In the
novels professedly -written for amusement,
and eschewing a moral like poison, is there
much amusement offered us of an original
description ? Do not fifty out of fifty-one
begin, and continue, and end in the same
OWEK. 213
manner, and is not the " damnable iteration"
tedious? Surely a little more morality, if
professed morality, would do no harm to
our three-volume creations, if we could
slide the ingredient carefully in, and not
plaster our pages with wise aphorisms.
And be it understood, that when the true
npvel be allied to the true moral ; when the
moral shall not be sacrificed for effect, and
the effect considered of importance, and not
buried under dreary dissertation, there will
be a revolution in letters, and a success un-
dreamed of even in these book -reading times.
John Dell and Tarby's wife remained half
an hour together, and Tarby's wife seemed
more at peace with herself and the world
after his departure.
"He is a good man,'' was her only com-
ment on the interview, which was not the
last between them ; for in his dinner hour,
and after work in the evening, his grave,
earnest face would light up that little back-
room, as the face of a dear valued friend
214 OWEN.
always lights up our homestead. Owen
remained in the shop during these long con-
versations, only the old woman nurse was a
witness and auditor. Dell's visits lasted a
week or more, with doctors calling every
day, and keeping Hannah Street lively;
and then John Dell brought his favourite
clergyman to talk to Tarby's wife "better
than he could himself," albeit the invalid
was of a different opinion.
And then came the last day, when physi-
cians and surgeons were of little use, and all
that they had prophesied looked nearer
truth, on entering that room. Then, as is
noticed in more cases than her own, Tarby's
wife became nervous, and irritable, and fear-
ful of the future — not so much her own
future as Owen's, and that child of three
years old, who went in and out of the par-
lour, wondering what it all meant, and why
mammy lay so still, and people's voices were
hushed, and she herself bidden eternally to
make less noise.
OWEN. 215
"Owen, isn^t it late enough to put the
shutters up ?" Mrs. Chickney asked, when it
was eight in the evening, and John Dell had
looked in and gone again. Owen was sitting
by the bedside, and the old nurse was in
the shop with Mary.
"Almost; shall we close early to-night,
and have a long evening together ?"
" It does not matter."
Owen looked anxiously at her,
" They have told me the worst as well as
you, dear — there's no occasion to keep it
quiet. I'm not afeard to talk of it."
" That's well," murmured our hero.
" I'm not afeard to die — I have not done
much harm in my life, and I've not forgot-
ten Him at the last ; and yet I'm not happy,
Owen."
" You don't mind telling me all that keeps
you anxious, mother?"
" No."
She paused a moment to fight with her
breath, which was very weak and low, and
216 OWEN.
then held her hand to Owen, which he took
and clasped between his own.
" You have been a kind lad — a good son/*
she murmured — "may God bless you, and
lead your steps aright. You wiU write to
Tarby, and tell him how I remembered and
prayed for him at the last ?"
"Yes."
" You will begin a new life like after Fm
gone — ^with the Dells and others. You may
grow too big to think of this day with any-
thing 'cept shame."
" Do you think so, mother ? "
" Well, I think not; but I'm— Fm afeard!"
She had changed colour so, that Owen
had started to his feet to run for the doctor,
when called back by her faint voice.
" Don't leave me, Owey, dear — I've some-
thing more to say."
Owen resumed his station by her side,
and her hand with a great effort made its way
between his own again.
" Tell me what is to become of Mary, my
OWEN. 217
little baby, tbat brought so mucli misfortun'
with the blessing of her coming?"
" Trust her to me."
" You will care for her, till she is old and
can care for herself? — you will do your best
to serve her ? "
" With all my heart and soul !"
" Sometimes " (with a sigh) " I'm wicked
enough to wish that she could die along
with me — both going away together seems
to me to be happier for both !"
'' Trust her to me," said Owen again.
" In your own struggles for a better life,
remember her ; in your own hopes let her
have a little share ; in that heart you told
me once was a-growing and a-growing with
you, keep a place for her ! "
"Mother, I will never forget her. She
shall be the sister I will love and work for —
she mother, do you feel much worse ? "
he cried, hastily.
"The— thechHd!"
Owen darted into the shop, motioned the
218 OWEN.
woman to hasten in search of the doctor,
caught the child in his arms, and bore her
back to the room.
" Mother, here is little Mary — will you
speak to her before you go, and say good-
bye ? Oh, mother ! pray God to bless this
guardianship of mine ! "
She smiled faintly, and her lips moved at
his request ; but the flame was dying out,
and the messenger was waiting. As the
child was held towards her mother, she
smiled still more faintly than before, and
died, with Owen sobbing at the bedside.
It had begun to snow an hour afterwards,
when the shutters were closed, and Owen was
standing at the door whilst the old woman
went through that ghastly work of "streak-
ing," which old women of her species seem
to delight in. She had nursed her tenderly,
and done more than her duty ; she would
have been glad to see her recover, but, the
worst having happened, she set to work at
OWEN. 219
her new task, and took snufF over the
deceased, and had one or two crones, who
scented the dead as vultures might, to look
in for a moment or two, and offer their
instructions.
Little Mary had not gone to bed yet,
but stood by Owen's side, and held his
hand, and watched with him the snow drift-
ing down the narrow street, in which there
were grief and mourning.
As they watched, there passed them
slowly and unsteadily the figure of a
woman, at which Owen recoiled and drew
back a step with Mary ; for the figure was
well known to him, and five years had not
changed it. It had been advancing towards
them down the street for several minutes,
creeping in the shadow of the houses, and
pausing once or twice to steady itself by
clutching at occasional window-sills and
shutters. When Owen had seen it first he
had been struck by something in its
220 OWEN.
manner, walk — even in the way the shawl
was worn, with the ragged fringe trailing
in the mud, to which the feet of passers-by
had trodden the snow that had fallen
hitherto. He had recoiled when, passing
under the street-lamp, the face was held up
for a moment, and had been seen in all its
drunken vacuity of expression. The face
had haunted his dreams and troubled his
waking thoughts too long not to scare him
then ; and his impulse was to retreat into
the shadow, while the woman passed and
turned the corner, breathing hard as
though she had been running.
Shadow of crime, as it were— reflex of
his past estate, from which he had emerged
— still it was the mother who had borne
him in shame and sorrow, and she might be
starving, or full of desperate thoughts.
Relinquishing little Mary's hand, his
second impulse carried him into the street
which she had recently entered. No signs
OWEN. 221
of her — her footsteps merged in a hun-
dred others — nothing in the wintry streets
but a lean cat, which was stealing across
the road, looking right and left, and suffer-
ing from nervous trepidation.
Owen ran bareheaded a little way, but
saw no sign of her, and felt perhaps it was
better for them that they had not met just
then.
It was a strange chance — or a stranger
working of that mysterious element which
is not chance, but is akin to Providence —
that had brought the mother into the same
street that night. As the new mother died,
who had saved Owen from temptation and
given him a home, so stepped into the light
the mother of old, who had deserted him,
and taught him but things evil. It seemed
as if the good were dying out, and all the
iUs from which he had escaped were
drifting back with that night's snow !
It was a time for morbid thoughts, and
222 OWEN.
he could not escape them ; in the bitter
moments of such a loss — and such a re-
covery — he could but let them master him,
and wonder what the end would be.
END OF THE SECOND BOOK.
BOOK THE THIRD.
BATTLE-GROUND.
225
CHAPTER I.
SEVEN YEARS.
We design this chapter as a record of the
seven years that have passed since Mrs.
Chickney departed this life, and left her
daughter Mary to the care of an adopted
son. The chances and changes natural to
seven years have passed over the heads of
those to whom prominence has been given
in this history — time has moved with them
and worked wonders, and set them on their
varied paths of life, the end of which lay
hidden in the impenetrable Beyond.
To speak of Owen in particular is to
allude to the majority of those good friends
VOL. I. Q
226 OWEN.
of ours who have already made their bow
to a critical audience. The life of our hero
has beconie so interwoven with theirs, and
owes its progress so much to their own, that
in keeping to our central figure we lose not
sight of those who have their parts to play
in future pages of a story somewhat strange.
Possibly the reader is prepared for pro-
gress in Owen — does not expect to find him
still in Hannah Street, from which the first
step was made, and from which dates so
much of regeneration. Seven years place
Owen on the threshold of man's estate, take
him out of his teens, and set him before us
to re-copy.
Life has begun in earnest with him, and it
is an earnest face that meets one's own. There
is vitality in it, and in these days of platter-
faces, of stupid-looking, simpering, young
exquisites, whose soul is in the set of their
shirt collars, such a face is pleasant to
come across. A dark countenance is that
of Owen's, inclined to be swarthy, and its
OWEN. 227
good looks a matter of doubt, and requiring
the opinion of a whole jury of ladies. It is
a peculiar face, the features sharply cut^ the
lips a little too thin, the eyes possessing that
searching quality which, in a person who
dislikes to meet people's eyes, produces a
sensation the reverse of pleasurable. And
yet it is a frank, intelligent face, and the a
la militaire crop of the black hair gives the
head a lightness and ease that carries it well
on his shoulders. Owen is above the middle
height, of a slight, well-proportioned figure,
that is a little at variance with his feet and
hands, the former of which are small, and
the latter large and bony. Characteristic
hands those of Owen's, not attempting
to escape observation by large cuffs, but
fairly displayed by having the coat sleeves
turned back above his wrists. Shrewd ob-
servers have pretended to judge character
by the hand, and taken it as an index to the
mind of its owner, and, no doubt, there are
some hands which are extremely suggestive.
q2
228 OWEN.
Owen's are, at any rate ; and bony as they
may appear, they are well shapen, and imply
a delicacy of touch when occasion requires
as well as a firm grip that a nervous man
would object to have at his neckcloth. They
tell of strength and firmness — a man asked
to judge by their appearance in inaction
would not have taken them for the hands of
a vacillating, easy-going man — they seem
hands that can make a way for their owner
through the briars and underwood of the
world's wilderness; that may be torn and
gashed in their progress, but, flinching not
from the danger, will press on to the end
— to the prize that may hang there, or
the bubble that may burst in their grasp.
Looking back on the path trodden by our
hero, let us mark his progress, and see how
he has fought his way. From such a start-
ing-point, in a world that is full of barriers,
and is sceptical and unbelieving, he has
worked hard to gain the vantage-ground
from which we take up his story.
OWEN. 229
Making the best of the stock-in-trade, fix-
tures, and eiFects of the little shop in Han-
nah Street, and investing the same in a
savings' bank for Mary Chickney, Owen,
acting on the advice of John Dell, friend
and counsellor at this juncture, had placed
Mary in charge of an old female friend of
Dell's mother, resident in a Surrey village,
a convenient distance by railway from Lon-
don. Of Mary's progress in her new home
more anon ; at present we have Owen before
us.
Having fortunately placed his ward in
good hands, it became the young guardian's
interest to look out for himself; and here
John Dell, to whom he had already been
indebted for so much advice, came with his
shrewd common sense to assist him.
" It is a rough, hard life at the foundry,
Owen," said he; "but you are not afraid
of work, and one can push his way there,
if he keep steady. I will speak to Mr.
Cherbury."
230 OWEN.
And old Mr. Cherbury, with whom Dell
was a favourite, and who had recently made
a foreman of Dell, and given a considerable
lift to his position in life, took Owen into a
service that necessitated a thousand to fifteen
hundred pairs of hands. And in this great
factory, where the noises were never still,
where night and day some furnace roared,
some hammers rung, some men toiled at over-
work, Owen began his new life, and might
have continued to plod on there, and have
become in time another John Dell, had not
Mr. Cherbury — an eccentric old gentleman,
whose soul was in the great factory his per-
severance had reared — observed the lad, when
he was seventeen, studying some book over
an employment that required but a mechani-
cal and regular application of the hammer.
So earnest a study, under circumstances so
disadvantageous, pleased Mr. Cherbury. He
could remember an incident in his own life
akin to it ; for he was a self-taught man,
who had worked his way upwards. He
OWEN. 231
questioned Owen as to the extent of his
abilities, held a conference of some length
with Dell, ascertained Owen's skill as an
arithmetician, and, much to the disgust of
two clerks in the counting-house, promoted
him to a desk, and made him junior assistant
on probation.
The probation was hard, for the clerks
were hard upon him, and the managing-man
I even — a just man enough — inclined to shrug
his shoulders at Mr. Cherbury's new eccen-
tricity.
Owen, after a week's desk -work, took
counsel with John Dell, in John Dell's new
house, in Kennington Road, where Owen
lodged and boarded.
" I'd rather go back to the foundry," said
Owen impetuously, after recounting one or
two little slights, which had aroused his in-
dignation.
"What for?" was the blunt rejoinder.
"I can work my way there — I can see
my way clearly — I'm not sneered at by a
232 OWEN.
couple of jackanapes, who think themselves
gentlemen."
" Are the accounts too difficult ?"
"No."
" Then keep where you are. What does
it matter what the jackanapes say and think?
A man will always have enemies when he
begins to rise in the world. This is a grand
step, Owen."
^' Ay, most people think so."
"Don't you?" Dell jerked forth, with
his eyes a few degrees more prominent in
his head.
" I don^t want to be a gentleman, and
wear fine clothes. Wasn't I happy enough
in my fustian, Mr. Dell ? — wasn't I more at
home?''
" It is a matter of doubt how long you
would have remained so," said Dell, in re-
ply. " You're becoming such a man of
cultivation."
"Ah I I can bear your hard thrusts."
And Owen laughed, and let his strong
OWEN. 233
liand fall on DelVs shoulder, which it shook
with a rough affection, that said a good deal
for Owen's heart. For Owen had been three
years with John Dell then, and learned to
understand him.
"You're always cramming your head
with something or other out of the books
you buy — one day you would have
learned that the men at the foundry were
too rough for you, or have wished that
something higher and less laborious had
lain open for you in the days when you
were younger. Think yourself lucky."
" I'm lucky enough — if not so happy."
" You're not afraid of these young fellows
— are you ?"
"Afraid!"
And Owen, in his pride, looked afraid of
no one just then.
"What is it, then?"
" Well," said Owen, after a little hesita-
tion, " I need not keep it back from you —
it's the past life I have sprung from that
234 OWEN.
stands in my way. I feel I have no right
where I am, and that a chance word may
degrade me. The work of the hands for
me seems more fitting than the work of the
brain."
"You're an ass."
"Thank you."
John Dell did not know, Owen thought,
of a past dark estate, lower than that to
which allusion had been made. And Owen
did not care to enlighten him, for many
reasons ; it was his one secret, jealously
guarded — watched over with a morbid
sensitiveness, that seemed ever on the
increase with every upward step which he
made.
" You're not talking like yourself.
Dashed!" (John Dell's most vehement excla-
mation in excited moments) "if I don't
think you've taken to novel-reading."
"Not I," said Owen, with sturdy con-
tempt.
" Nothing in penny numbers ?"
OWEN. 235
Owen shook his head.
"Well, it's not like you — that's all. I
thought you could push your way any-
where."
"I will push my way here," said Owen,
determinedly; "only I see the effort will
be unceasing, and I know the friends will
be few."
" They always are — good ones."
" And in the other case "
" Drop it, drop it, drop it," cried Dell,
with irritation. " You try a man's temper
— there's something more than I see to
account for it. Isn't there?"
And out came Dell's eyes again.
Owen coloured, but answered in the
negative, and Dell regarded him dubiously.
" You're an odd fish to grow timid all of
a sudden ; you haven't been a bashful boy
— rather free-spoken and brassy-faced^ on
the contrary — and if you wont tell me,
why — ^I must find it out."
Owen laughed again, but it was not the
236 OWEN.
free, hearty laugh that had characterized
the more early period of that dialogue. He
was certainly embarrassed, and there was
an awkwardness in his timidity which did
not escape his companion's observation.
However, Dell never cared to press a
subject, on the free discussion of which
there was a hidden reserve; and had he
been even disposed to do so, the entrance of
Ruth at this juncture would have frustrated
the attempt — for Ruth was not always at
home then, and her visits were made much
of by John Dell.
Ruth was acting as pupil-teacher for
two years, previous to entering a training-
school and becoming a governess by profes-
sion. She had evinced a disposition for
teaching at an early age, even before the
end of our last book, when she was one
in the ranks of Sunday-school teachers — a
noble little army of volunteers, to whom
society is not sufficiently grateful — and the
taste had grown with her, and the desire to
^ OWEN. 237
be independent of John Dell, and not
hamper his means, become too strong to
withstand.
"I can never repay you all your past
kindness, my dear uncle," she had said; "but
I am growing a young woman now, and
must work for myself"
" Perhaps there is no occasion now,"
returned Dell — "although I did fancy it
was best once."
" We are of the working-classes, and must
not sit idling because the sun shines a little
on the present — can we tell what may
happen, uncle; and have I a right to
neglect my share of labour ?"
" Oh ! my own words four years ago —
but don't you think I shall miss you?"
"But I shall see you very often, and I
must work and earn money, if it be only to
pay you back something of "
"Hold hard!" shouted Dell, "or I set
my interdict on everything. Pay me back !
Haven't you paid me back in love and
238 OWEN.
gentleness, and duty, years ago, my girl.
Aren't you a true daughter to me now?
Well, it's right to go, perhaps — it makes a
lady of you, Ruth — and, as you say, we
can't tell what may happen."
And Ruth went, and was working as
pupil-teacher when the conversation that
we have recorded occurred between Owen
and Dell. Was there any clue to the secret
of Owen's extra nervousness and timidity in
the colour which went and came upon his
cheeks as Ruth entered that day. Dell saw
it, though he made no sign — he treasured
it as a remembrance, though it was years
before he spoke of it, and then not till a
time of trouble for Owen, and of thought
for himself.
But we, who are in the secret, need not
wait so long to record our suspicions of
the case; nay, more, it is essential to our
story to mention that Owen, at seventeen
years of age, was in love with Ruth Dell.
It was an early age to begin love troubles,
OWEN. 239
but Owen's mind had always been older
than his years, and there was nothing un-
natural in his loving early, and in loving the
dauo^hter of his benefactor. All his reminis-
cences of her were pleasant, and encouraged
it; from the first day of their meeting, when
she gave him her uncle's spelling-book till
that time, he had thought of her ; she had
been allied with his progress — it was she
whose smiles had rewarded his exertions,
and whose silvery voice had ever cheered
him onwards. He believed he had loved
her at twelve years of age; and he did
not marvel at the passion growing with
him, though he kept it hidden deep,
and with his older years sunk it pru-
dently more and more from the garish
outer world. He built no hopes upon it —
that is, he would not have owned to hopes,
however slight. He believed Ruth was far
above him — that if she ever married she
would wed far above him ; and he kept his
secret, and was content to worship her, and
240 OWEN.
make from her the poetry of his life. When
she went away as pupil-teacher he felt she
was still further removed ; but he did not
love her less, and at one-and-twenty years
of age the same true thoughts were at the
bottom of his heart.
His was not a disposition to swerve;
he mixed not with the world, but kept to
one round of home and business, and was
more grave and steady than most men of
twice his years. It seemed as if his early
experience of life had aged him before his
time, and kept its shadow ever in the way
of such light thoughts as come to youth,
and are good for it. In other circum-
stances, under other influences, he would
have thrown off his passion, and gained the
mastery ; but he sought not society, and
he oscillated between the Kennington Road
and the great foundry day after day. He
kept to his desk-work for the four years that
succeeded the dialogue between John Dell and
him. He did his work well, and gained the
OWEN 241
good-will of his employer, and rose in office
year by year. Calculating on his chances
in the future, he might have aspired to
Ruth's hand, and looked forward to his
marriage with her, the reader may suppose;
but to Owen she was ever far distant.
His birth was a disgrace to him, and the in-
cidents of his early life were known to
Ruth's father. He had been a thief and in
prison, and it was an ugly retrospect, which
he could not shut out, or live down. 92
had not betrayed him Owen believed,
and he was grateful for that reticence,
though the secret lingered in the officer's
looks still, and he could read it in the
broad, whiskered face that met his own
occasionally.
During the last year in particular he met
92 more frequently — 92 having retired from
active service, and been rewarded with a
Government pension, and a chronic kind of
gout in both feet. 92 could afford to spend
more time with his brother John now ; and
VOL. I. R
242 OWEN.
as age had rendered him more loquacious,
and more fond of hard words, " that never
came right," the good gentleman became
somewhat of a bore to Owen, and possibly
troubled John Dell more frequently than
the younger brother cared to own.
It was about this time that Ruth,
having passed her examination satisfacto-
rily at a training school, was recom-
mended to the post of governess of an
institution erected amongst the Surrey Hills,
for the health and education of the daughters
of city tradesfolk, who had seen their better
days.
There had been a family council in John
Dell's house before Ruth's acceptance of the
appointment. John Dell could but see it
was a sure foundation to Ruth's future —
supposing she never married, and were left
alone in the world — and he was not selfish
enough to seek to influence her for the
worse, though he wavered respecting his old
projects concerning her. It was right for
OWEN. 243
her — nay, more, it was a very good thing
for her; and though, if it interfered with
John Dell's happiness, she would consent to
wait a while, yet her uncle could but press
her to accept the offer. The distance between
them was only a short railway journey,
accomplished in three-quarters of an hour,
and her uncle was to see her very often, and
make the best of the position.
" Some of these days, Ruth, I may ask
you to give it up and live with me again,"
said he, "when I can see my way clear to a
competence, or am growing old, and need
a daughter's love to keep the horrors from
me."
" Perhaps you'll be looking after a wife,
soon, John," said 92, who was present at this
interview.
His brother made a wry face, but said
nothing in reply.
"You're fifteen years my junibus — not
quite forty yet, is it ?"
r2
244 OWEN.
" What's that to do with it ?"
" And you'll be bringing down your
young wife and babby to see Ruth, and then
me at my cottage^ — vegetating in my unbut-
tonment, John — and so always glad to see
you!"
92 had resolved upon a country life, and
a cottao;e half a mile or so from his dauprhter's
school, where Ruth could visit him after
her work was done, in the leisure hours be-
fore bed-time. 92 had shifted for himself so
long in the world, that, with the assistance
of an old woman for an hour or two in the
morning, he looked forward to a pleasant
country life, and a bit of nice gardening,
and a daughter s face to smile on him very
often, ^' and nobody to move on," but the
little boys, who came over the hedge after
the unripe gooseberries,
God bless that daughter ! He had not
seen much of her in his life, and now
he was going to begin and have his fair
share of her. John could not grumble.
OWEN. 245
And John said "No" in his quick impa-
tient manner, and felt it was all fair, and
fido^eted a little behind the cloud of smoke
from his tobacco-pipe, when his brother re-
minded him, that if he had married at a
reasonable age, he would have had a gal,
perhaps, like her.
" But John never did take to the soft-
able sex," added 92, with a chuckle; and
Dell said, " Right you are," and changed the
conversation.
Ruth spent a long week with her uncle,
at her uncle's house, previous to going away
for good. During that week there occurred
two events, which in their results affected the
ultimate fortunes of our characters — the
death of Mr. Cherbury, and a letter of Tar-
by's from Tasmania.
Old Mr. Cherbury was succeeded by his
son Isaac, of whom more anon ; and Tarby's
letter, written by his own hand — for he had
been taught writing abroad — apprised Owen
of the information of a ticket-of-leave hav-
246 OWEN.
ing been granted, and of his resolve to settle
in the colony, even when his time was up,
and he was free to return.
"You have kept my secret, Owen, from
my little girl," he wrote ; *' God bless you
for it — it was the best that could have been
done for her and me. I have been think-
ing much of it since my ticket's come, and
I'm a trifle nearer freedom. I shall never
come back now — for her sake, I shall
always be dead and gone. To know me is
to know shame, you see, Owen — so I died,
like her mother, when she was young!
Always keep that before her, and you can't
be wrong. God bless her and you," he
concluded ; and Owen felt that the lines
were from the heart, and that the change
in Tarby was for the better.
So, altogether, it was a memorable week
for Owen and the Dells, although the death
of his employer added to John Dells grave
looks.
It was intended to have been a pleasant
OWEN. 247
week, but that naturally proved a failure —
the efforts of each and all were such
miserable attempts at conviviality. Owen's
attempts to give a light turn to events were
possibly the most successful, although Owen
felt the weight of the coming change as
much as all of them put together. He was
twenty-one years of age, and had a right to
feel love-lorn — he with his strong mind and
deep feelings. He would not have dropped
so much as a corner of the mask then for
all the world; for though Ruth was ever
kind and gentle, it was a sisterly kindness,
that never embarrassed her, and its very
frankness gave him pain.
On the last evening, a Sunday evening,
after their return from church with John
Dell — John had made a church-goer of
Owen, albeit Owen was still hard in his
religious habits, and not deeply impressed
by anything he had seen and heard hitherto
— Owen contented himself with regard-
ing Ruth over the top of the book he
248 OWEN.
feigned to be perusing, and thinking how
handsome a young woman she had grown,
and what a lady she looked, sitting there
in the firelight, with her uncle's hand in
hers.
A tall young woman of a graceful figure,
calm, and self-possessed, and, like Owen,
looking older than her years. A young
woman who was entering life with many
fixed intentions, and in all earnestness of
purpose — one who estimated her duties
not frivolously, and had not made herself
and the comforts of her new home the
first consideration. She felt a great task
was before her, and that she was young to
undertake it; but she felt, also, strength for
her work, and, the painful parting once over,
that she should succeed in her vocation,
and gain the love and esteem of all her
new little friends.
" Well, it's come at last, Ruth," said Dell
— " we've talked about it a long time now,
and here's the solid fact, that no hammering
OWEN. 249
will knock out of shape. It's tough work
thinking of it now."
" But I'm not going abroad, like many of
my old companions ; even fifty or sixty
miles will not divide us, uncle."
" No— that's true."
"You must come and see me very
often."
"Yes, Owen and I," said DeU.
"To be sure," answered Ruth, looking
towards the dark corner where Owen, en-
shrouded in window-curtains, was but half
visible — " Owen, you are not asleep there ?"
she asked.
"No, no — I was thinking how Mr. Dell
and I could manage it together — thank
you, Ruth," he answered, hoarsely. Then,
fearful that the change in his voice might
be remarked, he came forwards, and took
the lead in the conversation, till 92 arrived,
and relieved guard by talking enough for
the whole of them.
A dull evening, notwithstanding every-
250 OWEN.
body's efforts to make it the contrary — a
still duller morning, when the cab was
ready to take Ruth to the station, whither
John Dell was to accompany her.
We do not dwell upon any feelings or
emotions in this chapter — we attempt no
analysis. This is all retrospective, and
before the curtain rises on the scenes and
characters destined to appear and follow
with us till the finis is written which puts
an end to our chronicle.
Through the mist walk but dimly Owen
and those destined to influence the myste-
rious after-life — the shadows come and go,
and stealing up the mountain-side advance
the figures to cross him, rival him, become
his friends, advisers, helpers, enemies. He
was not thinking of them, when, with his
face a shade more pale, but with a grave
unmoved face that might have been of
stone, he watched the departure of John
Dell's niece from home.
2ol
CHAPTER II.
A LADY PATRONESS.
The institution for the daughters of decayed
tradesfolk of the city of London stood on
the brow of a hill, at the foot of which lay
the village of Ansted, Surrey. A steep hill
to climb in hot weather, and with the sun on
one's back — hard work at all times for the
little feet belonging to the tradesmen's
daughters, who were thus taught early and
practically that the ways of life are toilsome
and stony. Still, though the hill was high and
the roads steep, there was a bracing air on
its summit, and a fair view of the country.
From the little dressinor-room of John
252 OWEN.
Dell's niece there was a range of hill and
dale, and corn-field, dotted here and there
by the mansions of the lucky ones in this
world, and marked at rarer intervals by
little nests of houses, constituting the vil-
lages of Surrey people, many of whom were
as primitive and " countryfied " as though
they had been living two hundred miles
from London instead of two-and-twenty.
Ruth Dell was soon at home in this in-
stitution aforesaid, for she understood the
art of settling down. She was a young
woman who made the best of her position
in life, and was quickly resigned to the un-
alterable. She knew there was little to
regret in this instance ; that her position in
life had been bettered ; that a sure inde-
pendence was before her, and that her
uncle's long dream concerning her had
been realized. For the first few days in
her new home, with a world of new faces,
she felt strange and dull; but her duties
soon became something more than mere
OWEN. 253
routine, and her interest in all living and
breathing around her soon rendered her
regret at parting with old friends less acute.
For Ruth Dell was an energetic girl,
under whose feet the grass had little chance
of growing. In her manner of teaching and
governing there was no small copy of her
uncle's regime^ unsullied with that uncere-
monious sharpness, which rendered the
natural merit of his principles less palat-
able.
Ruth possessed John Dell's method,
energy, and practical good sense, and added
thereto a new gentleness, which worked
wonders in her teaching. And Ruth's
heart being in her task she succeeded well,
as was natural and just.
Still those good ladies of the shears and
distaif must have been against Ruth Dell's
peace of mind to set her down in this quiet
retreat, whence was to arise all those
troublous incidents which were to aifect
more futures than her own, and whence
254 OWEN.
was to evolve more than she could guess.
It is not in the busiest scene, or amidst
the noisiest crowd, that troubles the most
great, troubles to cling to us, always
arise. Apart from the world, in the silent
home of our choosing, may lie hidden the
rock whereon we strike and give up.
Her new life — almost the new story —
began in this wise. Ruth Dell had not
been three weeks at Ansted school when a
visitor, in a somewhat imceremonious
manner, came rustling into the school-room
— a lady visitor of imposing exterior and
proportions verging on colossal, clad in
furs, and crapes, and flounces, and carrying
her two or three- an d-sixty years in a stiff-
backed, military manner.
The offspring of the race that had seen
its better days rose en masse at the appear-
ance of this lady in the school-room, af-
fording sufficient evidence to Ruth that
the new comer was a person of importance.
" Pray, don't rise, Miss Dell," said the
OWEN. 255
lady, taking a half movement of Ruth's as
an intention of so doing. " I am very
charmed to have the pleasure of making
your acquaintance."
A pause succeeded this assertion, during
which both ladies took stock of each other,
after the invariable manner of ladies on
similar occasions. Ruth Dell, by a simple
glance from her table, comprehended the
ample proportions of her visitor, and fancied
there was something kind and friendly in the
broad smiling face that met her own ; and
the lady more deliberately surveyed Ruth,
and took her time over her critical inspec-
tion.
What she saw we will endeavour to de-
scribe — for Ruth Dell is one of our chief
players, and has not been introduced with
that proper amount of formality due to
leading characters in general. Sitting there,
with her small library-table drawn close to
the open window, through which a warm
spring air was entering the schoolroom,
256 OWEN.
Ruth offered a fair opportunity for the lady's
observation. Evidently a curious lady, for
a gold double eye-glass was settled firmly
on her nose, to make quite sure that nothing
escaped her; and Ruth felt a little uncom-
fortable under the inspection, though she
feigned to be unaware of so deliberate a
survey, and continued the hearing of the
class that at that moment chanced to be be-
fore her desk.
The lady-patroness was pleased with Ruth
Dell. She saw before her a young woman
of graceful carriage, tall for her age, looking
rather grave and earnest for her years, simply
and neatly dressed, and with a fair English
face, that was pleasant to stand and quietly
admire. A pale face, on which thought and
even firmness were expressed, shaded by
bands of dark chesnut hair, and lit up by
two large hazel eyes — worlds of beauty in
themselves. No wonder that poor hero of
ours had thought of that face too much, and
of those deep thoughtful eyes too often —
OWEN. 257
they had been before him since his awaken-
ing to a better self — they had encouraged
him to fight his way in the world — they
had been his incentive to exertion, and had
troubled him and been amidst his everyday
life a romance and a snare. If they had
seemed farther and farther from him every
day, he could not shut them from his
thoughts, though he might sink them deeper
from those who would have been alarmed at
his secret.
The lady visitor having concluded her
inspection, taken a vacant seat, and gently
lowered herself into it, as though doubtful of
its capabilities of support, waited patiently
for the class to finish its lessons, and swung
her eye-glass to and fro by its chain, as
though that monotonous occupation re-
lieved her mind a little.
The class dismissed, and the school duties
over for that afternoon, the portly dame
dashed into conversation with a vigour that
VOL. I. s
258 OWEN.
showed how trying an ordeal her previous
silence had been.
" My dear Miss Dell, you must never mind
my calling here at unseasonable hours, and
seeing how my school-pets progress — for I'm
afflicted with a great deal too much time on
my hands. I should have troubled you a
fortnight ago, had I been strong enough
to exert some of my old energy ; but I have
had a great loss, and this is my first effort
at anything like change. I don't bother
you?
" Oh, no ! " said Ruth, with a smile.
" I'm afraid I bother a great many people
though — even my son, who is glad to run away
to his business, and leave me in my great
grand house, all alone with the servants; a
good lad in his way, but not a mother's lad — all
for making money and dying rich, I suppose,
like his poor father before him. Oh ! dear,"
— with a heavy sigh, that went to Ruth's
heart — " you must not mind me coming
here and seeing the children very often — it's
OWEN. 259
so dull at home, Miss Dell, and I'm growing
such a nervous old woman now ! "
Ruth thought their acquaintance of too
short a duration to offer much sympathy,
and contented herself with a quiet expression
of her pleasure to see the lady whenever she
felt disposed to wend her way up the hill.
The stout lady brightened at this, and took
to Ruth on the instant.
^Tm very much obliged to you, Miss
Dell — for I'm fond of children, and it
occupies one's mind to come here. One's
breath, too," she added — " for it's a terrible
walk up that hill, and I don't always like to
bring the carriage — it's so very fussy, isn't
it? Once I tried the pony-chaise ; but I'm
afraid my weight was too much for the
pony, for it hasn't been well since — and
Isaac don't like me walking so much,
although it's good for me, and been recom-
mended by the Faculty. You're a very
nice young lady," she added, with a sudden-
ness that made Ruth blush and laugh,
s2
260 OWEN.
despite the serious countenance maintained
by her visitor. "Oh, but you are," said
the lady, "and I've met with such very
nasty young ladies in my time, that it's a
gratification to come across an antithe-
sis. Disagreeable pert young ladies, like
your predecessor, who told everybody I
came too often, and upset the children with
the messes I brought them — messes she
called them ! — and interfered with her
duties, and actually hinted to my face that
I was vexatious and troublesome. I believe
she reported me to the Board; but as I
subscribe fifty pounds a- year to the Institu-
tion, I wasn't suspended."
The lady talked very rapidly, and it was
only a shortness of breath, accompanied
with a bellows-like noise, that hindered
perpetual motion. For ladies are voluble
now and then, especially stout ladies — a
physiological fact that is worth inquiring
into.
" Well, she went away, and married, and
OWEN. 261
serve her right ; and now you reign in her
stead, and I think I shall like you."
" Thank you."
" I don't go into society much. Isaac —
that's my only son — takes me to a dinner-
party now and then — fussy work, my dear,
and bothers dreadfully. And I like quiet
people and young people, and grand doings
make my head ache — I wasn't brought up to
them. I should like to see my boy more at
home in his own house — and, oh ! if I only
had had a daughter to be a companion to
me, what a happy old woman I might have
been !"
A strange old woman, this stout lady,
thought Ruth — one who, despite her wealth,
felt lonely and unhappy, and made no
disguise of it — one whose frankness already
won a little upon Ruth, despite that volu-
bility which there was no chance of check-
ing.
" rve» often thought of adopting one of
these poor children, Miss Dell, for I've
262 OWEN.
money in my own right, and my boy is
well off enough without me ; but he don't
like the idea, and I'm a poor soul, who is
easily talked over. And perhaps it*s all for
the best, as poor Cherbury was so fond of
saying."
" Cherbury ?" repeated Ruth.
"Yes, my dear — Cherbury of Ansted,
Surrey, and the Iron Works, Lambeth. I
daresay you have heard the name ? "
"Very often, madam. My uncle at
present is foreman in your son's foundry."
Ruth thought it would be better to
inform Mrs. Cherbury of that fact, lest the
lady should become too friendly, and feel
the avowal at some future period too much
of a shock. But Mrs. Cherbury's face only
expressed a mild air of surprise, and her
fine feelings did not appear to be at all
affected by the revelation.
" Dear me, now — that's funny. And I've
heard poor Cherbury speak so often of Mr.
Dell, one of the best workmen he ever had.
OWEN. 263
And you're his daughter — well, Fm glad to
see you rising in life, Miss ; and it was
very creditable of your uncle to give you a
good education. Your father and mother
are not living, I suppose?"
" My father is, Mrs. Cherbury. He rents
a little cottage about a mile from here —
he has recently retired from the police force."
Ruth Dell would have no false ground
beneath her feet : lady as she was in all that
makes the lady — education, manners, de-
portment — she would have no mistake con-
cerning her antecedents with one who
treated her as an equal.
"And he can't bear to be too far away"
from his daughter — a worthy old gentleman,
I have not the slightest doubt — and proud
he must be of you, my dear. Are you very
busy just now?"
" Not very busy," replied Ruth, a little
doubtfully.
" Then, Miss Dell, I shall take you back
to Oaklands this evening — I want to talk
264 OWEN.
to you about the school, and my little
plans, which your predecessor so strongly
objected to. There's the carriage outside,
and we shall be there in ten minutes."
" Thank you, madam, but "
"But, my dear girl, you're not busy,
and it must be very dull in this school-
room, or in your own apartments after the
children have gone to bed. And I'm very
dull, too, in my great house since Mr.
Cherbury's death, and it would be such a
favour !"
Mrs. Cherbury looked so wistfully at
Ruth, that Ruth wavered. If she put it as
'a favour — if her company would relieve her
from any lowness of spirits, why, it was a
different matter. But it was all very pre-
cipitate — they were strangers half-an-hour
ago, and the lady was from the higher
sphere beyond her own.
"It is so very sudden," she ventured to
remark — "and if you could excuse me,
I "
OWEN. 265
" Ah ! but I can't excuse you, for I'm a
selfish old lady," she interrupted ; " and as
we're such near neighbours, we may as well
break the ice at once. Why, you and I are
both lonely women."
" But your position "
" Fiddlededee, my dear — fiddlededee I"
said Mrs. Cherbury, " don't talk of position
— poor Cherbury and I never cared for it,
and certainly never took credit for having
been lucky in business. AVhy, bless my
soul, that predecessor of yours treated me
with such haughtiness, that I was rather
nervous in coming to see you, lest you
should happen to be of the same pattern. A
very high-notioned young lady, who would
never come to Oaklands, because we were
people in trade, and her father was a gen-
tleman, and a half-pay officer, and had
spent his life in earning glory and two
wooden legs. Such a fussy young lady,
and" — (lowering her voice to a whisper)
*'fond of beating the poor little dears on the
266 OWEN.
sly. I declare to you, Miss Dell, I have
heard such torrents of slaps coming up the
hill, that I have fancied the zinc corner of
the schoolhouse were loose, and flapping
about in the wind. And you will come ?"
" If you be quite alone, then?" said Miss
Dell, timidly.
"Always alone, my dear! Isaac don't
come home for the week together — in fact,
he is never at home without something is the
matter with him. There, go and put your
bonnet on, and I'll wait here till your
return."
Ruth Dell did not keep Mrs. Cherbury wait-
ing a great while, and had she been a longer
time absent that good lady would have found
the wherewithal to amuse herself. For im-
mediately after the departure of the school-
mistress, Mrs. Cherbury had risen from her
chair, crossed the room, and opened one of
the windows that looked upon the play-
ground.
A well-known friend and a great fa-
OWEN. 267
vourite with the children was Mrs.
Cherbury evidently, for they were danc-
ing round her, and leaping up at the
sill immediately she made her appear-
ance. They were children who forgot
nothing, and remembered the pounds
of sweetmeats and acidulated drops that
had always accompanied her, and given a
sweet turn to her visits. And there were
their forest of hands stretching upwards,
and Mrs. Cherbury shaking from a large
blue paper endless comfits and almonds,
keeping a wary eye on the schoolroom door,
meanwhile, lest Ruth should make her
appearance too suddenly, and catch her in
the act.
" And I hope you like your new school-
mistress, my dears," she said.
And a spontaneous affirmative was
uttered with a more hearty good-will than
she had heard for a long: while.
"And I hope you'll be good girls, and
learn your lessons, and not worry her too
268 OWEN.
much, and never deceive her — and not say
anything about these drops, because I forgot
to ask her permission. I'm going to shut
the window now — mind your fingers, my
dears."
Mrs. Cherbury was in her old seat and
looking the picture of innocence when Miss
Dell, equipped for departure, entered the
room.
In a few minutes they were rattling
down the hill away from Ansted school-
house, towards a large white mansion
standing in its own grounds, and command-
ing one of the finest views in Surrey.
" You have dined, Miss Dell ?" inquired
Mrs. Cherbury.
" Some hours since, thank you."
" So have I — late dinners are so fussy.
Isaac dines late, but then he belongs to the
new school, and has been brought up differ-
ently to poor Cherbury and me. A dear
lad, though — and God bless every hair of
his head !" added this full-hearted mother.
269
CHAPTER III.
THE CHERBUKYS OF ANSTED.
It was striking six when the carriage drew
up before the great Oaklands portico, and
one footman let down the steps, and another
held wide the door, and the calves of two or
three more were observed shimmering in
the background of the hall — their owners
evidently trying to appear as busy as possible.
"No one has called, I suppose, George?"
inquired Mrs. Cherbury of the servant, as
she and Ruth passed into the hall.
" Only Mr. Cherbury, ma'am."
"Good gracious! — and has he gone
ascain r
270 OWEN.
*' He is in the drawing-room, ma'am."
Ruth Dell felt naturally a little nervous.
Her first entree into Oaklands was intended
to be a quiet, matter-of-fact proceeding —
almost a favour on her part, to relieve Mrs.
Cherbury's monotony ; and now Mr. Cher-
bury had arrived, and confounded both
ladies' arrangements.
Ruth hesitated.
" Don't look so alarmed, my dear. The
most quiet lad you ever met in your life,
and one who won't put you out in the least.
Not a bit like young men in general, who
do rattle on now and then. I'm sure he
will be very glad to see you."
Ruth was not sanguine on this point,
and inclined to depreciate herself and her
simple grey silk, and more inclined to
feel a little in awe of the representative of
the great firm wherein her uncle played
so subordinate a part. Mrs. Cherbury
might be a humble, hearty old lady enough,
but what would her son think of the
OWEN. 271
daughter of one of his servants sitting
as guest in his country mansion ? She
wished she had been firmer, and declined
the proffered hospitality of the lady at her
side.
But it was too late to withdraw with
any grace; and once aware of the worst,
she braced her nerves to meet it, after the
fashion of her uncle John.
Five minutes spent in Mrs. Cherbury's
dressing-room, and then Ruth, with her
hand on the old lady's arm, was entering
the drawing-room.
A room on the handsome furnishing of
which no money had been spared, and in
the ample space of which Mrs. Cherbury's
lad seemed lost.
"Why, Isaac, my dear, where are you?"
exclaimed the mother, looking round with
some little surprise, until Isaac, aroused
from a nap by her loud voice, struggled from
the depths of an easy chair in the corner,
and stood up, looking grim and sleepy.
272 OWEN.
Isaac dear was a lad of forty-one or two,
very tall, very wiry, very stiff in the joints,
and very much starched about the collar
and cuffs. A man with a certain amount
of good looks in him yet, but with a heavi-
ness of brow and a general hardness of
aspect that was not pleasant to meet — a
man who seemed to have traded in iron,
until some portion of that useful metal
had become incorporated in his system,
"Isaac, dear, this is Miss Dell, the new
schoolmistress of Ansted Institution — Miss
Dell, my lad."
The lad bowed with more courtesy than
Ruth had expected, and seemed to hesitate
for a moment as to whether he should
allude to the pleasure of making the school-
mistress's acquaintance ; but, being a man
of probity, and averse to unmeaning com-
pliments, thought better of it, and relapsed
into his easy-chair again, and crossed his
legs.
" You have not dined, Isaac ?"
OWEN. 273
"I dined in town, Mrs. Cherbury," he
answered, in a deep and somewhat grating
voice, *'and came up by the train imme-
diately afterwards. I'm not well."
^' Oh, dear ! — not your head again ?"
" I've only one complaint, and that is my
head," he replied. " Glindon says I work
and think too hard with it, and recom-
mends a few days' quiet."
"And very kind of him, too," said Mrs.
Cherbury ; " I'm sure I'm much obliged to
Mr. Ghndon. It will be nice to have you
at home, Isaac, with a mother to take care
of you."
" The quieter I am kept the better, Mrs.
Cherbury," said he, drily — " not too much
worried about the housekeeping, and the
servants, and so on."
" Oh ! dear, no — to be sure not."
" I thought I'd mention it."
And Isaac closed his eyes.
" Perhaps I had better " began Ruth,
VOL. I. • T
274 OWEN.
when the eyes opened again, and fixed them-
selves on the speaker.
" Miss Dell will excuse me, I am sure,"
he said, politely, and less harshly, " for my
seeming want of courtesy in not playing
the part of host on this occasion. I am
sure I leave her in good hands."
After which speech he re-composed him-
self; and Mr3 Cherbury, left to do the
honours of the house, acquitted herself to
perfection, and talked of the school-life at
Ansted, of herself, her lad, and poor Cher-
bury — of her amateur gardening in the
spacious grounds seen from the bay-window
at which they sat — and of a hundred other
subjects which rose readily to the surface,
and left no unpleasant hiatus in the
dialogue.
In the window recess Mrs. Cherbury and
Ruth had tea together, and the servants
glided stealthily in and out, for fear of dis-
turbing the repose of their lord and master
in the corner remote.
OWEN. 275
Ruth Dell found herself more than once
looking towards that corner, and feeling
an unaccountable curiosity as to what Mr.
Cherbury would do when he waked, and
wondering whether he objected to her pre-
sence there, and if his head were an excuse
for his taciturnity. More than once, too,
she fancied that he was not sleeping at all,
but watching her from between his half-
closed lids ; and once she was certain that
she saw them quiver and close together
more tightly w^en she glanced suddenly in
his direction.
" I wonder whether a cup of tea would do
his head good, or he would care to be roused
to answer that question?" said Mrs. Cher-
bury, looking in his direction also. " Perhaps
I had better let him be," she added, "as he
don't like to be disturbed when his head's
bad."
" Does Mr. Cherbury suffer much ?" in-
quired Ruth.
" He complains a great deal at times — you
t2
276 OWEN.
see, he has the chief management of a large
business now, and he hasn't the head of his
father. But he's always quiet and reflective
— -just as if he had something on his mind,
my dear."
The right leg of Mr. Cherbury slipped off
his left knee at this juncture, and the foot
came to the floor with a heav}^ stamp, that
startled both ladies.
" I beg pardon," Isaac said gravely ; " a
sudden leap, that's all. I wonder you don't
have lights — it's cold and dark here."
And Mr. Cherbury went through a per-
ceptible shudder.
" I have rung for them, dear," was the
mother s answer.
Mr. Cherbury rang again on his own
account, and continued to ring with a quiet
pertinacity, that must have been extremely
disao^reeable in the servants' hall.
" Lights !" he said to the scared domestic
who responded to the summons, and lights
made their appearance in haste — two wax
OWEN. 277
lights in silver candlesticks for a little side-
table, whereon was a desk, and a large
ormolu lamp for the centre table.
" Now youVe not going to write letters
to-night, Isaac!" said the mother, as her son
rose and unlocked the desk.
" One or two that are important — if Miss
Dell will excuse me."
Miss Dell inclined her head.
"But, my dear Isaac — if Mr. Glindon
said "
"If Mr. Glindon said a hundred times I
wasn't to write a letter, I should write," he
replied, with a dogged obstinacy that told
of the iron in his system again, and he
commenced writing at the same moment.
He was still eno-ao^ed at his desk when
the hall-bell rung and the hall-door knocker
roused the echoes of the establishment, and
woke up the stable-dog, who barked
defiance to the noise and essayed to break
his chain, Avith the amiable intention of
biting the new comer in two.
278 OWEN.
Mr. Cherbury put his pen back in its
tray, folded his arms, and closed his eyes
again.
"A terrible noise," he muttered — "a
hideous and most unnecessary uproar."
"Who can it be?" exclaimed the excited
mother.
" I think it*s very likely to be Mr. Glin-
don," observed Isaac Cherbury.
"Dear, dear me! — why didn't you tell
me he was coming?" said the mother, half
reproachfully.
"I thought it wasn't of much conse-
quence. It's very dull here without com-
pany, and I thought he'd relieve my head a
little. You'll do your best to make him
feel at home, if I forget anything, Mrs.
Cherbury."
Mr. Glindon was announced the instant
afterwards, and Ruth fancied the gentleman
was not quite a stranger to her. A handsome
man in every sense of the word, and with a
complexion of white and red seldom seen in
OWEN. 279
a man of a healthy habit of body, possessing
a clear-cut, keen-looking face, and a well-
shapen, almost massive forehead, from
which was brushed back a mass of light
wavy hair. A man that people might
notice in a crowd and set down for a clever
fellow, and be not far out in their judg-
ment.
Mr. Glindon gave a little start upon his
introduction to Ruth, and his expression of
the pleasure the introduction gave him was
muttered in a very hasty manner.
An instant afterwards he was shaking
hands with Mr. Cherbury, and inquiring if
he felt better that evening.
"A little, I think."
" It's all nervousness, I assure you," said
Glindon, " and so I have dropped in to give
you a quiet game at cards by way of dis-
traction."
" You're very kind."
'' In fact, I've made up my mind to settle
in Ansted — become consulting surgeon to
280 OWEN.
Ansted free-school, and work a little prac-
tice in the neighbourhood."
"That's a change."
*' I like change."
Meanwhile Ruth Dell, who had remained*
standing, gave a meaning, even an entreat-
ing glance towards Mrs. Cherbury. She
was new to society, and afraid of it.
"My dear Miss Dell, you are not
gomg {
" If you will allow me," returned Ruth,
in somewhat of a hurried manner ; "I am
anxious to reach the schoolhouse before
nine."
"1 fear. Miss Dell, we are frightening
you away," said Mr. Glindon, rising; "I
hope my presence here is not to deprive
Mrs. Cherbury of the pleasure of your
company."
" I would rather return, sir, thank you,"
answered Ruth.
And there was so much firmness in her
manner that Mr. Glindon gave up his per^
OWEN. 281
suasive attempts, and Mrs. Cherbury saw
there was no hope of a longer stay for that
evening.
" I will order the carriage, then, to take
you back, my dear," said Mrs. Cherbury;
"Isaac, will you touch the bell, please."
" I would prefer walking " began
Ruth, when, to her surprise, Isaac himself
interrupted her.
" Your pardon, Miss Dell, but it is really
much too late to venture alone to the
schoolhouse. The carriage," he added, to
the servant who had entered at this mo-
ment.
Ruth was secretly annoyed at this deter-
mination to send her home in state, though
she merely inclined her head and followed
Mrs. Cherbury from the room. She would
have preferred a walk home up the hill,
with the moon rising behind the school-
house, and the perfume of the wild flowers,
saluting her on the way, to the hot close
carriage and the parade attached thereto.
282 OWEN.
She could have thought better of all that
had happened that night as she quietly
wended her way homewards after her own
fashion ; but it was not to be, and there
was the carriage and the pair of greys
awaiting her when she and Mrs. Cherbury
were in the hall again.
" I wish you had stopped and spent the
evening with us, my dear," said Mrs. Cher-
bury, who was quite concerned at her early
departure, "and become better acquainted
with my lad and Mr. Glindon. I'm sorry
they are here to spoil our first evening
together; and rely upon it. Miss Dell, I
will manage better next time. And — and
I shall give you a call in the morning, my
dear, if Isaac don't want too much nursing."
Mrs. Cherbury folded Ruth in her arms
in quite a motherly manner, and ran
beneath the portico to make sure Ruth was
comfortable and the night air was fairly
excluded from the carriage, and then
parted reluctantly with her new companion.
OWEN. 283
Returning to the drawing-room she
found Isaac and Mr. Glindon with a pack
of cards between them.
"You'll not interdict a quiet game at
cards between Mr. Glindon and me, Mrs.
Cherbury," said her son; "it's seldom I
can induce him to visit Oaklands."
It was so seldom he could be induced to
visit Oaklands himself, his mother thought
— although she could but accord her per-
mission to the game, and sit herself down at
her work-table, and make preparations to
be very busy by producing her glasses, and
needlework, and gold thimble. She would
have understood her son's emphasis on the
adjective had it not been accompanied with
a peculiar look that was unfilial to meet
with, and which siojnified an earnest desire
to keep down her loquacity. Aware
of his mother's weakness, he might have
hinted his wishes with a little more grace ;
but then he was not a man of fine feel-
ings, and perhaps had forgotten how to
284 OWEN.
honour his mother years ago. It's an ac-
complishment easily lost.
Still Mr. Cherbury was the first to break
the silence, as Mr. Glindon shuffled the
cards and prepared to deal.
"Have you had the pleasure of Miss
Dell's acquaintance for any length of time ?"
he asked a little abruptly.
Mrs. Cherbury was nearly launching into
a full and particular account of their first
meeting, and the favourable impression that
young lady had made on her, when she
encountered her son's glance, and curtailed
matters.
"Only from this evening. She is our
new schoolmistress at Ansted."
" So you said before. Deal, Glindon."
And Cherbury, more interested in his
game than the schoolmistress of Ansted,
drew his chair closer to the table, and with
something of a gamester's eagerness pro-
ceeded to contest the game with his medical
friend.
OWEN. 285
There ensued a strange stillness in that
room, considering the number of its occu-
pants — the servant entering with the de-
canters a few moments afterwards was
quite startling by contrast. When he
had retired again, the ticking of the gilt
timepiece became the noisiest thing in the
room, save and except a heavy breathing,
which indicated that the arms of Morpheus
were encircling Mrs. Cherbury, whose head
had fallen on her ample chest, and whose
needlework was trailing on the carpet. The
card-players continued silently and cau-
tiously, and took no heed of anything
besides their game — and finished money
duellists they seemed, in the full blaze of the
oil lamp that lighted the field on which
they fought.
There was something gloomy and morbid
amidst it all — something that would have
struck an observer as even strange and sad
upon entering the room at that moment.
The disregarded mother asleep over her
286 OWEN.
needlework — the tall figure of her son at the
card-table fencing cautiously for his money,
and Glendon playing with an energetic dash
that seemed to last till the stakes were his,
when he brushed the shillings to his side, or
let them fall to the floor — he was not par-
ticular.
It was a room with three grave faces in
it, albeit the shadow of the sorrow that had
recently fallen on the house was not there
at that time.
Presently Mrs. Cherbury awoke with a
start, and might have dropped her head
over the back of the chair, had she not
exerted a counter movement and jerked it
suddenly forwards.
" Dear me, I was nearly off to sleep !"
said she, rubbing her eyes and yawning;
^'will you gentlemen have supper now?"
" Presently," said her son, with some
little irritation.
'' I don't feel much inclined for supper
myself, and think I will go to my room.
OWEN. 287
Good night, my dear lad — good night, Mr.
Glindon."
There was some muttering from the lad
that might have represented a response — a
more polite good-night from Mr. Glindon,
who rose and shook hands with her, and
then Mrs. Cherbury went upstairs to her
lonely room, and left the gentlemen to
themselves.
" Four games to you," said Cherbury, an
hour after his mother's departure — "there's
no scoring a point against you."
" I always make up my mind to win," he
answered ; "I came to Ansted to win," he
added, with a meaning at which he could
only smile himself — for only himself under-
stood it.
Cherbury fidgeted with the cards — he
did not care much about cards now he was
losing money over it ; but still it kept him
from thinking of his head, and was better
than idle talk at any time. But Mr. Glindon
seemed disposed to vary the entertainment
by a little conversation.
288 OWEN.
" May I ask how long you have known
Miss Dell, Cherbury?"
"About half-an-hour or so when you
arrived."
" Oh, this was her first visit here ?"
" Yes, I believe so."
Mr. Glindon sipped his wine — Mr. Cher-
bury assisted himself to another tumbler of
cold water, dashed with just enough sherry
to turn acid on the stomach.
" What do you think of her face, Cher-
bury?" said he; "does it not strike you as
a very pure and classic one ?"
" I didn't notice it."
"You're not so old either as to shut your
eyes to every pretty face that passes by."
" I've my business to attend to," was the
quiet rejoinder ; "I don't notice anything
or anybody out of that much."
Mr. Cherbury rendered this statement a
doubtful one a short time afterwards, when
Mr. Glindon sat still oLlivious to the fact
that his adversary faced him with the cards
in his hand, ready to deal.
OWEN. 289
"How long have you known Miss Dell?"
asked Cherbury.
"I?"
And Glindon was ingenuous enough to
colour a little at the question.
" I thought by your manner you had
seen her before," observed Cherbury.
The young surgeon laughed.
"Well, you're right," he said; "I have
seen her once or twice at a distance — -at a
training school, where one of the masters
was a patient of mine ; her face struck me
then as a bright intellectual one."
"H'm."
" I know even a fact concerning her that
may startle you."
" Nothing startles me."
"You're not a proud man, or I would
not tell you."
"Wouldn't you?"
Mr. Cherbury shuffled the cards again
and yawned.
" She's the niece of a foreman of yours."
VOL. T. U
290 OWEN.
^^ndeed!"
" John Dell's the man's name. Do you
know him?"
" One of my best hands," was the
answer.
" Glad to see you are not shocked at
your foreman's daughter taking her place
as a friend of your mother's. Cherbury,
you're one of the new school and the
best."
'' Oh, am I ?"
" I'm a proud man myself, but it's an
odd pride that don't look back to a man's
father or mother before I make a friend or
form an acquaintance. That weakness has
been the curse of my parents, and they're as
poor as Job, too, and living, for economy's
sake, on the Continent. I suppose," he
asked, a little anxiously, "Miss Dell will
become a frequent visitor at Oaklands?"
"I suppose so. And you also, Glin-
don?"
"Why?"
OWEN. 291
"You will be near us — if it's all true
about the Ansted appointment."
" Oh, yes — but how long shall I care for
the place? There was pleasure in trying for
it, because everyone prophesied that there
was no chance for me — but as for the place
itself, 1 would resign it to-morrow. Cer-
tainly there's Miss Dell," he added, after a
pause, "and I'm a ladies' man — I always
was."
He looked a trifle conceited as he ran his
fingers through his wavy hair, and Mr.
Cherbury might have had that idea also.
But Mr. Cherbury was anxious to get on
with the cards, and make one more effort
to regain the shillings lying so carelessly at
the elbow of his friend. What did he care
about Miss Dell, on whom his medical
friend seemed inclined to dilate? What
was Miss Dell to him ?
She was a matter of no consideration — it
was his mother's business, not his, and he
had no fine feelings to be wounded by any
u2
292 OWEN.
revelation concerning her origin. He could
remember his father no better off than her
uncle, but he did not care to prolong the
conversation by alluding to the fact. He
was no prouder man than his father had been
before him, and could see no harm in Miss
Dell's visits ; and Supposing there were, it
was not his business, and his mother would
alone be answerable. His soul was in the
conduct of his own particular pursuits —
was hovering over them then, whilst his
body was at Oaklands. Apart from the
work at which his father had toiled before
him, he was only half himself. It had been
different once when he was younger, but
the wild oats were all sown, and he was a
hard-working money-getting man, who
watched his chances, and prospered like his
sire. This sluggishness and apathy to
which we have been a witness was possibly
the reaction from the busy life at Lambeth
where he seldom slept, or was nervous, or
complained of his head.
OWEN. 293
"Well, let us have another game," he
said, '^ and drive Miss Dell out of the dis-
cussion. I never was a good hand at talk,
like my foolish mother upstairs. Deal."
Well for that mother — thinking of,
perhaps praying for, the son downstairs —
that her heart was not wrung by the hard
words which escaped the lips of the first-born.
For such words are of the sharpness of the
serpent's tooth, and sink deep within those
who have children and are striving for
them and their love. To some poor mothers
there falls the burden of some such ungrate-
ful offspring — there are prizes and there are
blanks amongst the children of men, and it
is not the one most endowed with the
world's goods who is to have the greatest
share of the world's happiness.
Glindon had soon forgotten Miss Dell,
and was shortly afterwards content with his
game and studying hard its intricacies.
Mr. Isaac Cherbury continued to lose with
great caution and secret annoyance; and
294 OWEN.
Glindon, after a hard struggle, to win with
exultation the stakes, which he afterwards
carelessly brushed to his side.
Far into the night the lights burned
at Oaklands, with the players at the table,
and the servants lingering about the down-
stairs regions, wondering if they should be
again required, and how long the young
master and his friend intended to sit up.
295
CHAPTER IV.
THE YOUNG GUARDIAN.
Passing over three weeks of our narrative
— although it may be shortly our duty to
allude to some incidents that happened
therein — we return to him who has given
us a title for our history.
It was striking four one summer's after-
noon in June when Owen emerged from
the Eltingham railway station, four miles
from Ansted, and walked sharply down the
green lane away from the little town on
the right. Owen always walked sharply,
after the fashion of energetic people who
know what money may be earned in an
296 OWEN.
hour. There was nothing to be gained in
this instance, save pleasure perhaps, but
pleasure that required to be made the most
of by a practical young man who understood
the value of time.
Owen marched onwards at a smart pace,
then, with his head thrown back and his
chest squared like a drill-sergeant's — it was
a fair evening's walk, and he enjoyed it and
the scenery that lay in his way, and the
breeze that met him on the hilly road, as a
man accustomed to toil in a London factory
can only enjoy God's air and sunshine. He
did not pause in his progress to admire this
bit of landscape or that brook by the way-
side where the ducks were floating and
shock-headed village boys angling for fish
that never had existence therein : he took it
all in at a glance, and passed on at the
same steady pace which carried him quickly
over a fair stretch of country.
At the foot of one of the Surrey hills
he paused for the first time — not to take
OWEN. 297
breath for his ascent, but to watch flying
down the hill with a velocity almost too rapid
to be safe, a little girl of ten years old. He
laughed and waved his Scotch cap to her as
she came towards him, and he caught her in
his arms when she was near enough, and
held her panting above his head.
" Why, my little Mary, couldn't you wait
till I arrived a little nearer home?" he
asked.
"Oh, no, Owen — because Mrs. Cutchfield
would have had all the talk before I could
say a word — and I haven't seen you for so
many, many weeks."
"And Where's Mrs. Cutchfield, Mary,"
said Owen, after kissing her and restoring
her to the ground.
" You'll see her come over the hill in a
minute, out of breath with running after
me," said the child, with a musically ringing
laugh of her own, "and then you'll hear
her begin to scold me, Owen — oh, that's so
funny!''
298 OWEN.
"Indeed!"
" Because she can't scold properly, Owen
dear," said the child — "she only makes
believe, and isn't angry like my governess
when I don't know my letters. Oh, I have
such a lot to tell you, gardy — where shall
I begin?"
"Wherever you like, Mary," answered
Owen, as she danced on at his side ; " but
do keep still whilst you tell me, or you'll
dance yourself to pieces."
" But I am so glad you've come to see
me."
" Oh, then dance away if you feel the
happier for it," he said, pressing the tiny
hand in his, as he looked down at Tarby
Chickney's daughter.
A pretty, graceful child, if small for her
age, was that daughter of Owen's old friend
— a girl all light and life, her cheeks glow-
ing with health, her dark eyes sparkling with
pleasure. A fairy-like child, so light and
gay was she, the musical voice raised to a
OWEN. 299
high pitch, and the musical laugh rippling
off from her red lips at every comment of
Owen's. Her excitement and delight were
something pleasant to witness, and rendered
Owen very proud of the child's affection.
Proud of his charge, too, by the way, was
our hero — to see her growing up a girl of
whom any mother might be proud, was a
happy time for Owen. Looking down upon
her, he thought of the mother who had
been so good to him and died so early, and
wished that she had lived to see her little
Mary then — to hold her to her breast. He
thought of Tarby, too, at that time, and
resolved to have a photograph taken of
Mary, to remit to Tarby by the next mail —
it would be a comfort to that father, who
had thought it best to be considered dead
to his child.
Little Mary was in the middle of her life
and adventures since Owen had last seen
her, when Mrs. Cutchfield, struggling with
the little breath a long chase had left her.
300 OWEN.
and striving hard to keep a white mob-cap
from making off in a retrograde direction,
came labouring towards them.
" Oh, you naughty girl, to r-r-run awa-ay
like that," she gasped; "Lord love her
soul, I thought she'd a-gone a-flopping into
the brook ! She hasn't got a mite of still
blood in her body, Mr. Owen — you'll have
to give her a good talking to."
Mary looked out of the corners of her
eyes at Owen, and her struggle to present
a demure appearance under difficulties was
too much for our hero's gravity.
"And she's a-laughing now, and I so
cross with her."
"But, mammy Cutchfield, Owen don't
come every day."
"Ah, that's true! — there's somethink in
that — what a child she is, sir ! "
Owen nodded assent, and the old woman
— she was sixty-eight or seventy at least,
and carried her years well, or she could
never have run down the steep hill after her
OWEN. 301
charge — turned and walked with the guar-
dian and ward.
" And how's the world been treating you,
Mrs. Cutchfield ?" asked Owen.
" Middling as times go, sir."
"I hope Mary has been the best of girls?"
"The bestest little girl, sir — a mite too
lively, perhaps, especially when she hears
you're coming to see her, and always in-
clined to make a racket when I want a little
peace and quietness with my Bible. But
you're a good girl, ain't you, Mary ? "
" Oh, yes, always ! " answered Mary, con-
fidently.
" She shuffles and kicks a mite of shoe
leather out — she'll ruin her gardy in shoe
leather if she don't keep still a little oftener,
and gardy '11 have to go to the workhouse,
and be fed on bread and water."
Mrs. Cutch field went through a series
of pantomimic winks and nods at Owen
over the child's head; till Mary, looking
straight at Owen, said.
302 OWENi
" Is that quite true, gardy,? "
" Perhaps rather too dreary a look out,"
said Owen in reply, "but shoe leather is
expensive."
"Then I'll sit still till I grow a big
woman."
" No, don't do that," said Owen quickly ;
"now I think of it again, it's not expen-
sive at all — besides, I'm earning a lot of
money, Mary. We mustn't check the life in
her, Mrs. Cutchfield," he added, turning to
the old lady — " it's a sign of health and
strength."
"So it be, sir, — in moderation," she
added, wdth a reserve.
" So don't keep her too quiet — I won't
have that," and Owen looked very firm and
decisive.
" Lord love her," said Mrs. Cutchfield,
prefacing her remarks with a benediction
customary to her, " it isn't the likes of an
old woman that can keep her quiet, Mr.
Owen — it's only now and then, by telling
OWEN. 303
her how cross you'll be, that I can manage
her at all. But she's the best of children,
for she has a feeling heart, and one can
reason with her."
And Mrs. Cutchfield smoothed the disor-
dered black curls of her charge, with an
affection touching to witness in so old a
woman.
They proceeded to the cottage, standing
in its own square of garden ground, and
lying a little way back from the road, and
sat down to the tea prepared for the young
guardian — a simple country tea enough,
with brown bread and fresh butter and
platefuls of red currants and water-cresses,
and other miscellaneous items. Owen was
not particularly partial to red currants
with his bread and butter, but it was a
country custom, and he had become too
polite in his manner to enter more than
one simple protest against the fruit Mrs.
Cutchfield heaped together in his butter-
plate.
304 OWEN.
" WeVe spent all the afternoon gathering
'em," was the old lady's remark ; *^ the
gooseberries are a little back'ard."
*' Thank you — currants will do very well.
Mary, won't you take any ? "
"I'm afraid there won't be enough for
you, gardy," replied his ward ; " and you've
come all the way from London, and must
be so hungry/'
Owen fancied half a gallon of red cur-
rants a trifle too much for him at one
sitting, and assured Mary of that fact, who
consequently began to participate in the
general festivity. After tea, Owen's present,
in the shape of a new picture-book, was pre-
sented to Mary ; and whilst she sat by the
lattice window absorbed in the coloured
plates, Owen and Mrs. Cutchfield settled
their cash transactions for the ensuinor
quarter.
Presently Owen and Mary were in the
garden, Mary showing her guardian her
own particular patch of garden ground,
OWEN. 305
where the flowers, bright and radiant as
herself, were reared, and Owen, becoming
thoughtful, and looking at his silver watch.
"It's not late, gardy," said the child,
with a scared look into Owen's face. The
thought of going away again had driven
the colour from her cheeks.
" Ay, but it is late for one who has a
long way to go, Mary," said Owen.
"But I haven't shown you my sprig
muslin for Sundays — and my new hat that
Mrs. Cutchfield trimmed — and you haven't
heard how well I can read now.''
" Some day when I have a little more
time, Mary dear."
" Oh ! I shan't care to learn any more, if
you won't hear how I get on. I'll grow
up such a big dunce," and the child pouted
her pretty lips, and the tears rose to her
eyes.
" Get the lesson-book, Mary, then,*' said
Owen, good-naturedly, "we mustn't stop
your learning."
VOL. I. X
306 OWEN.
The lesson-book was procured, and Mary,
installed on Owen's knee, went through
several exhibitions of her spelling and
reading powers, under the old honey-suckle
porch at the back of the house. But
Owen's thoughts were evidently inclined to
wander, and his gaze went beyond the
book, and across to the distant hills, until
Mary aroused him from his reverie by say-
ing,
" You're not listening to me."
*'Who says I am not?" asked Owen,
aggrieved at the charge.
"Well, I fancied so," said Mary, doubt-
fully; "but I suppose you know it all
without a book."
" Most of it."
" I wonder now, gardy," with a criti-
cal glance into Owen's face, "why you
want to run away from me so early to-
night? You seldom leave here before dark,
Owen."
" Ah ! but the evenings draw out, Mary."
OWEN. 307
" Have they drawn out any longer than
last summer's, gardy, when you always
stayed till Eltingham church struck nine."
" What a memory you have," said Owen,
with a little confusion that he tried to hide
by a laugh ; " and what a deal you want
to know for a fledgling. Shall I tell you,
I'm not going straight home, then?"
" Oh ! dear, where are you going ?"
" To see an old friend who lives in the
country, at Ansted ; the father of the
Ruth Dell of whom you have heard me
speak so often, Mary."
" Has he any little girls you love better
than me ?"
" There isn't a little girl I love half so
well in the world ! "
" Oh, Fm glad of that, Owey," said she,
flinging her arms around him ; " and I
shan't mind you going away so much;
although I hope Ruth Dell's father won't
always live about here, and be taking you
away so early. Where's Ruth Dell ? "
x2
308 OWEN.
" She lives at Ansted school now."
" You don't care about seeing her,
then?"
"She may be at her father's," said Owen,
" it wouldn't be proper for a young man
to call on a young lady, Mary."
"Why not?"
Owen had entangled himself somewhat in
his explanations, and could only reiterate
that it wasn't proper, and set Mary on the
ground, and rise to his feet.
"Be a good girl till I see you again,
Mary — it will not be many weeks, I dare
say."
" I should come a little earlier if I were
you, to make up for going away so soon."
" A good idea," returned Owen, " I'll
think of it. Now run and tell Mrs. Cutch-
field that I'm going."
Mary, after an odd little sigh, ran as di-
rected, and the old woman made her
appearance, and desired to be remembered
to Mr. Dell — to the John Dell, be it under-
OWEN. 309
stood, who had at first recommended her to
Owen.
" It's many a year smce I saw John
Dell," commented Mrs. Cutchfield, " and
I've only heard from him since my old
man's death. He was a boy then, with all
his troubles before him, though he thought
all his troubles had come and upset him.
He was a good young man though, and
knew where his real comfort lay. And it
isn't every young man who turns to a bible
in his distresses — is it, sir?"
" No," said Owen, wincing a little.
" I'm doing my best to larn Mary to
take to it, young as she be. It won't be
time thrown away, some day."
" No," answered Owen again ; " you're
right."
He raised Mary in his arms once more,
and kissed her, shook hands with Mrs.
Cutchfield, who wished him a pleasant
journey back, and then opened the rustic
gate separating the garden from the shady
310 OWEN.
lane, and strode away. At the bend of the
lane he paused to look back ; he found
Mary close to his heels, and Mrs. Cutchfield
in the rear, struggling with her breath and
her mob-cap again.
" I forgot to remind you, gardy, to come
earlier next time, to make up !"
" To be sure."
"And you won't go away so early, then
— fond as you are of Ruth Dell's father?"
" No — not next time."
'^ Good-bye, dear gardy, then — and don't
forget me."
She was in his arms again, and, as he
kissed her, she said —
" At the top of the hill you can see
my bed-room window — will you look back
there?"
" Certainly."
" Good-bye, then."
At the foot of the hill mentioned by little
Mary, Owen looked back to find his ward
engaged in an energetic struggle with Mrs.
OWEN. 311
Cutclifield, who objected to a renewed sally
in his direction. The old lady had obtained
a firm purchase this time ; and though her
mob-cap was in the road, and under Mary's
feet, she was not inclined to relax her hold
and allow Mary to fly ofi;
Owen laughed and waved his hand, and
strode rapidly up the hill, halting again on
its summit to keep his promise to his ward.
Far beneath him, on the left hand, embo-
somed amongst the trees that grew each
side of the lane he had quitted, a glimpse
could be obtained of the thatched roof of
the cottage, and the open window in its
side, where Mary sat, and waved something
white towards him — probably the cap of
her custodian, from its size and general
appearance. It required good eyes to de-
tect her at that distance; but the eyes of
both guardian and ward had a long range,
and Owen responded to the signal, and
flung his cap in the air.
"God bless her!" he muttered, as he
312 OWEN.
turned away ; " it is worth the living for,
to have that child's love — it is worth the
working for. With such a sister to love,
and keep from the danger, ought I ever
despair ?"
Of what was Owen despairing, as he
resumed his way that summer evening,
looking so grave and thoughtful ?
313
CHAPTER V.
OPPOSING ELEMENTS.
Three miles and a half, or four miles,
are nothing to a good pair of legs, such as
Owen was the fortunate possessor of. He
was a rapid walker, and milestone after
milestone seemed to fly by him in his pro-
gress. True, he exerted himself to the
utmost, in his anxiety to make up for lost
time — as if lost time were ever regained by
discomfort and self-sacrifice! — and paused
not for breath or reflection, till the cottage
of Robert Dell, familiarly known as 92,
appeared on the high-road.
Save for being on the high-road, instead
314 OWEN.
of a shady turning therefrom, it might
have been the cottage he had quitted. The
same thatched roof, witli the window in its
side, the same patch of garden ground sur-
rounding the house, and the identical rustic
gate hanging by its two defective hinges,
which had swung back to his entrance a
few hours ago. Owen had visited the cot-
tage before, with John Dell, and had found
no difficulty in recognizing it — and, con-
sidering that he had reached the end of his
journey, his face did not brighten a great
deal at the prospect.
Was it for the reason that the ci-devant
92 was hobbling about his garden, feebly
working a Dutch hoe in amongst his cab-
bages, and fancying he was raking up
weeds by the roots, instead of neatly
covering them with a surface of mould?
For the reason that 92 was alone that
summer evening, and he had been hoping
otherwise from the moment his mind was
made up to take a day's leave.
OWEN. 315
Well, it was his luck, and he must
make the best of it. Dell never showed
his disappointment, and was, to a certain
extent, his model to copy from. And if he
had walked four miles, and thrown himself
into a perspiration only to see a super-
annuated policeman with gout in both legs,
why there was no help for it, and he must
salute 92 gracefully.
" A good evening to you, Mr. Dell,"
cried Owen, from the roadway; and 92
left oif raking, and shaded his eyes with his
hand.
" Bless me ! is that you, Owen Owen ?"
cried Ruth Dell's father. " Well, I'm un-
common glad to see you, to be sure. Push
the gate to the left and give a hoist, my
lad, and step this way."
Owen entered the garden as requested,
and 92 looked keenly at him as he
advanced.
" Nothing wrong at Kennington ?"
^^Oh, no."
316 OWEN.
" Nor at Ansted ; you haven't been there,
Owen Owen?"
"No. All's well everywhere, I believe,"
responded our hero, with a short laugh,
that was far from natural.
" I don't suppose my nerves are quite so
first-rate as they used to be in old penny-
patetics times," said 92, after a moment's
reflection, " for you gave me quite a turn
like.''
" I have been to Eltingham, to see a little
friend of mine."
" Chickney's daughter?" immediately
inquired the old man, who had a good
memory still, if even his nerves had de-
teriorated.
Owen responded in the affirmative.
*' And how's she a-growing, Owen Owen?"
asked 92; "and who does she take after?
Not Tarby, I hope."
" No — not Tarby," replied our hero.
"That's a mortal good job, for Tarby
were a rough 'un at times. I shall never
OWEN. 317
forget him to the last day of my life — the
rows I had with him. The bad tempers
that took hold of him, and made him
savage. Is he alive yet ?"
" It's doubtful," said Owen, who had his
reasons for not being too communicative.
" Got his ticket, I suppose ?"
" Long ago."
" Gone into the bush and disappeared —
just like 'em all."
Owen hastened to turn the conversation.
" You haven't told me how Ruth is — or
whether she likes her change of life."
"She's looking very well, and tells me
she's nothing to regret. I saw the dear girl
in the beginning of the week."
" Nothing to regret !" Owen did not
know, or would not have owned, what
there was in the words that jarred upon
him. He expressed his happiness to hear
so good an account of her, although he
might have felt better pleased had he been
told that she could not shake off all the
318 OWEN.
memories connected with the old house,
and that they made her dull at times to
dwell upon them. To dwell upon them
himself, made him dull and set his heart
beating. Was he really of a nature more
sensible to outer impressions than she who
was so frequently in his thoughts ?
" Does she call here very often^ Mr.
Dell?"
"Whenever she can, the dear girl — it's
only a mile walk, up to the side of the hill
yonder, and down this side ; and she wafts
over the ground like a zebra."
92 intended to say zephyr, but the
flowery parts of his speech were a little
inclined to run wild that evening.
" Bless your soul, Owen, it's a' bran new
unbuttoned life, this here," said 92, re-
flectively ; " retired from active service, and
confined to a beat of my own making, and
no one to take up — and all pleasant and
comfor'ble. It's bemnnin^ life ao:ain, to
see that girl's face so often here, to hear
OWEN. 319
her voice so often — it isn't like any other
voice that I ever heard in my life."
"Or in mine — it's a nice quiet voice,
you see," added Owen, fancying that 92 had
looked at him with a mild air of surprise.
" It's like an Oligun harp," affirmed
92, with the air of a connoisseur in those
instruments ; " and so« was her mother's,
though she didn't live long to enjoy it.
And, as I was a-saying, she don't feel
herself too proud, or too much of a lady,
to keep away from her old father, although
I was the first to think that John was bring-
ing her up too grand. Very kind I thought
it, Owen Owen, but a trifle too grand for
policeman 92. And John was right, and
I was wrong, as was natural enough."
" She's not a vain girl," said Owen.
Next to the pleasure of seeing her, was the
pleasure of talking of her to a garrulous
old man, who was not likely to have any
suspicions ; and Owen drew 92 out ac-
cordingly.
320 OWEN.
" As humble as an old shoe, with all her
learning ; and the lift she's got, as school-
mistress to Ansted," continued the old man.
"Why, it was only last week, when she
met that young doctor fellow outside here,
that she said, ' My father,' with a grace
and elegance, that made me feel like a
general-is-ipsebo."
" A young doctor fellow — what, at An-
sted?" said Owen, in the coolest manner
possible.
" He's the new doctor to the school, and
attends to the little one's gripes, and so on
— a young chap with a high forehead,
decentish in his way — and oiF-handish just
a bit — you don't know him ? "
" Oh, no," said Owen, " I don't know
him. I suppose he don't come here very
often."
" Well, he's rather interested in my
marrow."
"Why, what's the matter with it?"
asked Owen, alarmed.
OWEN. 321
" My vegetable marrow, I should have
said — one I bought on spec, of a gardener
down town. It grows like mad, Owen
Owen — only look here, now."
Owen bitterly repented his last ques-
tion, it sent the old gentleman so far on
another tack, and brought the history and
genealogy of that vegetable-marrow plant
to the light, together with a full register of
its progress, from the day it became incor-
porated in 92's list of garden stock.
Owen would have liked to learn a little
more detail of that young doctor fellow,
who was troubling his mind, and pressing
on it and robbing him of his natural tone
of voice. He did not know why he should
care — it was the height of folly, considering
what Ruth was, and all that he had been.
Long ago he fancied there had not been a
single hope left at the bottom of his heart,
and it was natural enough young fellows
should be interested in her — more especially
VOL. I. Y
322 OWEN.
"young doctor fellows," who had the happy-
chance of often seeing her.
" And isn't this Ruth coming down the
hill ?" asked Owen, with a leaping heart, as
the well-known figure of his old friend's
niece appeared advancing. He had no doubt
upon the subject, although he would have
given all that he was worth in the world to
be told it was not she at that time. For
she was not alone, and sauntering by her
side was a young man whose face did not
appear quite strange to Owen.
" Yes, and the young doctor fellow too."
" Is his name Glindon ?" asked Owen,
as the remembrance of their last interview
flashed upon him.
"To be sure, Glindon's the name."
Owen watched them narrowly, as they
came down the hill together. Every ges-
ture of Mr, Glindon's, every movement
of Ruth's, was accurately marked by the
keen black eyes observing them. And
though there was little to observe,
OWEN. 323
though the conversation was evidently-
commonplace and far from animated,
Owen felt his hand tremble as it rested
on the fence. The man looked at her too
often, his jealous fancy whispered, and she
looked down too much, or away from him,
or anywhere save at him, with that old
frank look he knew so well; — so be it, was
it his right to cavil or demur ?
Slowly down the hill came Glindon and
Ruth, Owen's heart sinking at their near
approach. They were face to face with
him at last, and Ruth, with a bright smile,
held forth both her hands to him.
" What, Owen ! — oh, how glad I am to
see you!"
" I thought I might have a chance of
meeting you at your father's, before I went
back to town to-night," said Owen, letting
the little secret reason of his presence there
escape him.
" Thank you, Owen, for taking all this
Y 2
324 OWEN.
trouble. And my uncle, you haven't told
me how he is."
" Quite well ; and sends his love, of
course."
Owen took it for granted he might
deliver that message on John Dell's part,
notwithstanding John Dell at that present
moment imagined Owen to be with Mrs.
Cutchfield and his ward.
" Dear uncle — he never forgets me."
*' Is it likely?"
Owen delivered this compliment in his
usual straightforward manner, not intend-
ing it as a compliment, but uttering it, as a
matter of course, that all the world might
listen to if it liked. From any one else,
the remark might have brought the colour
to her cheek : but Ruth, who understood
Owen so well, only smiled, and betrayed
no embarrassment. It was "the young
doctor fellow" on whom the remark grated^
and whose eyebrows knit in consequence;
but Owen was not heeding him — had, even
OWEN. 325
in the first moments of meeting with Ruth,
quite forgotten him.
It was time to remember, when he who
had been surveying Owen for some minutes
said —
" Surely, Miss Dell, I have met this gen-
tleman before."
" Indeed !" was the reply. ^' He is an
old friend of my fathers and mine — Mr.
Owen — Mr. Glindon," added Ruth, by way
of introduction, as she passed along the
path towards her father.
"Am I not right in my surmise, Mr.
Owen?" inquired Mr. Glindon.
"Possibly;" and Owen looked at his
interlocutor and flinched not.
" Once or twice, I think, I had the
pleasure of meeting you — ^you were a boy
then."
" You are quite right," was Owen's short
answer.
Owen objected to the tone of the speaker ;
the look on his face was half supercilious, he
326 OWEN.
fancied — but then he was full of fancies !
" On both occasions, I think, we had
a trifling dispute — I forget the subject."
" You required more court paid to you
than I had time or inclination for —
that's it."
" Possibly," was the airy reply. *' It has
not dwelt upon my memory, or disturbed
me in the least."
" I wanted you to attend a dying mother
of mine, and you refused."
"Want of time," said Glindon. "Ah,
yes — I begin to remember."
" And want of inclination — my mother
was a poor woman, and you were afraid of
lavishing your services at a discount."
" I don't understand you, sir."
" I have no more lucid meaning ;" and
Owen was turning away, when Mr. Glindon
touched him on the arm.
" You are as abrupt as ever, and forget
yourself, sir. You bring yourself forcibly
OWEN. 327
to my remembrance now — you were rude
and ill-mannered."
Mr. Glindon spoke with some warmth,
for he had lost his temper, and was a man
of spirit. In his opinion Owen had treated
him rudely, and dashed at his own cavalier
manner with a savage ferocity. He had
wielded a light flashing rapier, and this
rude fellow had struck at it with a
bludgeon.
" Possibly, I was excited, and you were
coolly contemptuous," rephed Owen.
" I must beg to dissent from your
verdict."
" Well, there was an opposing element in
your nature, or in mine — or in both."
" Do you think it exists still ?" asked
Mr. Glindon, with a curling lip.
" Very likely," answered Owen ; " there
are some natures that are better apart, per-
haps — whose total dissimilarity must jar
when they meet. You will excuse me, but
I have a habit of speaking out."
328 OWEN.
" So I see."
Mr. Glindon, who objected to such plain
speaking, raised his head haughtily, and
passed on towards Ruth and her father,
stood and conversed a few minutes with
them, retraced his steps, passed Owen with-
out a glance in his direction, and went out
at the gate, and along the road he had
recently traversed with the schoolmistress.
Owen, before joining father and daughter,
watched him as he wended his way up the
hill. It was the dusk of evening now, with
the broad moon rising, and silvering the
landscape. A dark spot on the white
country road seemed the receding figure of
Mr. Glindon — as dark a spot on Owen's
life would be the man, if fate should bring
them more together. Thrice had they
met and exchanged words that grated
on the remembrance; thrice had Owen
felt that opposing element within him, of
which he had spoken in that brief collo-
quy, and which might belong to dream-land,
OWEN. 329
so untrue and unrealistic seemed it. And
yet the dark spot went on along the road,
and Owen watched, and felt his hands
clench.
"If he cross Ruth's path too often — God
help me — and her, perhaps," he added,
after a pause.
It was a gloomy soliloquy, but his heart
was in shadow then, and his spirits at zero.
END or THE FIRST VOLUME.
U. BOllN, rilLNTEli, GLOUCESTER STICEET, liEGE^'X'S 1 .UiK.
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