His Sister. A Little Spangle of Real Life

Glanville Maidstone, 1907

London was a wintry horror. The streets were ankle-deep in snow broth; the sleet came down in slanting sheets; there was no sky, no distance, no atmosphere; nothing but a blur and scour of fog and snow and darkness, whirled by the gusty north-east wind.

“It’s wicked,” growled the strong man, driving his gloved hands deep into the pockets of his heavy overcoat, “it’s simply devilish. Hullo! What’s that?”

He had passed a shrinking, shivering figure—a woman: a girl. She was thinly clad, sopping wet.

“The devil!” said the strong man.

He overtook the woman by Whitehall Gardens, and spoke to her. But she could not answer, because of the chattering of her teeth. The man looked her over. She was small and thin; quite young. She was cold to the heart, and leaned against the railings shuddering and sobbing.

“Come,” said the strong man, and took her by the wrist.

They moved on in silence to the coffee stall at the corner by the bridge. There the girl was taken in by the fire and plied with hot coffee and soaked biscuits, until she could speak well enough to give her address. Then the stranger hailed a hansom.

“It is here,” said the girl, as the cab drew up, “but she will not let me in.”

“Hah! I think she will, though,” said the strong man.

After a few moments a shuffle of footsteps was heard, and a hoarse voice asked, “Who’s there?”

“Open the door, please,” said the stranger in his deep, firm voice.

There was silence for a little. Then the key turned in the lock, and the door opened cautiously, and revealed a blowsy woman holding a candle in her hand, and scowling darkly.

“By your leave, madam,” said the strong man, and he strode in, holding the girl by the arm, and closed the door.

“What’s this? Who are you?” the woman demanded, in a threatening way.

“This girl is your lodger, I think,” said the stranger.

“Not when she don’t pay, she ain’t,” said the woman, “not by no bloomin’ possibility.”

The strong man stood and looked the woman in the eyes. “All right,” he said with quiet decision, “I’ll attend to that. Kindly show us in.”

“And who the—who might you be?” the woman asked, “and what right have you to come ’ere givin’ orders.”

The stranger held her with his steady gaze. “In the first place,” he said, “she is my sister. In the second place, look at this.” He held up a sovereign.

“Oh, well; that’s another pair o’ shoes,” said the woman, “if you’re a gentleman and ’ll pay.”

“All right,” said the man, again. “Now go to work, like the sensible motherly woman you are. Put a fire in the best bedroom—”

“What! The best bedroom? I’ll see her—”

“Steady,” said the strong man. “I pay, and I pay well. And I see that I get what I pay for. Please don’t waste time.”

“You—you ain’t too modest, mister,” the woman began, but there was something so sane and resolute in the stranger’s face and manner that she was afraid. “Well,” she concluded, “the best room, begod, what else?”

“Please be quick,” said the stranger, “light a fire in the best room, take the sheets off the bed, put this child some dry things on, and tuck her up in the blankets. While you do that I’ll make some hot grog. You have whisky, I know. I’ll trouble you to get it for me. The kettle, I see, is on the hob.”

“And how do I know—” the woman began. But the stranger cut her short. “You do know, so don’t waste words,” said he.

The woman took another long look at him, then obeyed. The strong man was used to having his own way, and nobody ever doubted his word.

When the arrangements were all completed the elderly woman came back into the kitchen and reported to that effect. The man took up the candle and said, quietly, “Please to bring the toddy; I will go and see that the child is all snug.”

The woman made no objection. This was not a man to be bullied nor argued with. The two went to the side of the bed where the girl lay, still shaken by occasional convulsive shudders.

“Drink this,” said the strong man. The girl drank. “I will call tomorrow, early,” he said. “Good night.”

When he and the woman were back in the kitchen he gave her the sovereign. “Now,” he said, with quiet sternness, “If I find everything all right when I come to-morrow, I will give you another pound. Be good to the child, and see that she has a real fine breakfast. Good night.”

He walked out calmly into the storm, and the woman closed and locked the door. Then she stood and stared at the sovereign. “If anybody ’ad told me as a man could walk into my drum, and walk over me like that,” she said, “come it high-’anded over Betsy Hard-man like that”—she glanced sidelong at the stairs—“I’d put the cat out into the yard, money or no money, only”—here she sipped on a glass of hot toddy—“only I’m afraid,” said Betsy Hardman.