Robert Falconer

‘Not for me. I am not so tired, but that I would rather walk,’ I said.

‘Very well,’ he returned. ‘Where do you live?’

I told him.

‘I will take you the nearest way.’

‘You know London marvellously.’

‘Pretty well now,’ he answered.

We were somewhere near Leather Lane about one o’clock. Suddenly we came upon two tiny children standing on the pavement, one on each side of the door of a public-house. They could not have been more than two and three. They were sobbing a little—not much. The tiny creatures stood there awfully awake in sleeping London, while even their own playmates were far off in the fairyland of dreams.

‘This is the kind of thing,’ I said, ‘that makes me doubt whether there be a God in heaven.’

‘That is only because he is down here,’ answered Falconer, ‘taking such good care of us all that you can’t see him. There is not a gin-palace, or yet lower hell in London, in which a man or woman can be out of God. The whole being love, there is nothing for you to set it against and judge it by. So you are driven to fancies.’

The house was closed, but there was light above the door. We went up to the children, and spoke to them, but all we could make out was that mammie was in there. One of them could not speak at all. Falconer knocked at the door. A good-natured-looking Irishwoman opened it a little way and peeped out.

‘Here are two children crying at your door, ma’am,’ said Falconer.

‘Och, the darlin’s! they want their mother.’

‘Do you know her, then?’

‘True for you, and I do. She’s a mighty dacent woman in her way when the drink’s out uv her, and very kind to the childher; but oncet she smells the dhrop o’ gin, her head’s gone intirely. The purty craytures have waked up, an’ she not come home, and they’ve run out to look after her.’

Falconer stood a moment as if thinking what would be best. The shriek of a woman rang through the night.

‘There she is!’ said the Irishwoman. ‘For God’s sake don’t let her get a hould o’ the darlints. She’s ravin’ mad. I seen her try to kill them oncet.’

The shrieks came nearer and nearer, and after a few moments the woman appeared in the moonlight, tossing her arms over her head, and screaming with a despair for which she yet sought a defiant expression. Her head was uncovered, and her hair flying in tangles; her sleeves were torn, and her gaunt arms looked awful in the moonlight. She stood in the middle of the street, crying again and again, with shrill laughter between, ‘Nobody cares for me, and I care for nobody! Ha! ha! ha!’

‘Mammie! mammie!’ cried the elder of the children, and ran towards her.

The woman heard, and rushed like a fury towards the child. Falconer too ran, and caught up the child. The woman gave a howl and rushed towards the other. I caught up that one. With a last shriek, she dashed her head against the wall of the public-house, dropped on the pavement, and lay still.

Falconer set the child down, lifted the wasted form in his arms, and carried it into the house. The face was blue as that of a strangled corpse. She was dead.

‘Was she a married woman?’ Falconer asked.

‘It’s myself can’t tell you sir,’ the Irishwoman answered. ‘I never saw any boy with her.’

‘Do you know where she lived?’

‘No, sir. Somewhere not far off, though. The children will know.’

But they stood staring at their mother, and we could get nothing out of them. They would not move from the corpse.

‘I think we may appropriate this treasure-trove,’ said Falconer, turning at last to me; and as he spoke, he took the eldest in his arms. Then, turning to the woman, he gave her a card, saying, ‘If any inquiry is made about them, there is my address.—Will you take the other, Mr. Gordon?’

I obeyed. The children cried no more. After traversing a few streets, we found a cab, and drove to a house in Queen Square, Bloomsbury.

Falconer got out at the door of a large house, and rung the bell; then got the children out, and dismissed the cab. There we stood in the middle of the night, in a silent, empty square, each with a child in his arms. In a few minutes we heard the bolts being withdrawn. The door opened, and a tall graceful form wrapped in a dressing-gown, appeared.

‘I have brought you two babies, Miss St. John,’ said Falconer. ‘Can you take them?’

‘To be sure I can,’ she answered, and turned to lead the way. ‘Bring them in.’

We followed her into a little back room. She put down her candle, and went straight to the cupboard, whence she brought a sponge-cake, from which she cut a large piece for each of the children.

‘What a mercy they are, Robert,—those little gates in the face! Red Lane leads direct to the heart,’ she said, smiling, as if she rejoiced in the idea of taming the little wild angelets. ‘Don’t you stop. You are tired enough, I am sure. I will wake my maid, and we’ll get them washed and put to bed at once.’

She was closing the door, when Falconer turned.

‘Oh! Miss St. John,’ he said, ‘I was forgetting. Could you go down to No. 13 in Soap Lane—you know it, don’t you?’

‘Yes. Quite well.’

‘Ask for a girl called Nell—a plain, pock-marked young girl—and take her away with you.’

‘When shall I go?’

‘To-morrow morning. But I shall be in. Don’t go till you see me. Good-night.’

We took our leave without more ado.

‘What a lady-like woman to be the matron of an asylum!’ I said.

Falconer gave a little laugh.

‘That is no asylum. It is a private house.’

‘And the lady?’

‘Is a lady of private means,’ he answered, ‘who prefers Bloomsbury to Belgravia, because it is easier to do noble work in it. Her heaven is on the confines of hell.’

‘What will she do with those children?’

‘Kiss them and wash them and put them to bed.’

‘And after that?’

‘Give them bread and milk in the morning.’

‘And after that?’

‘Oh! there’s time enough. We’ll see. There’s only one thing she won’t do.’