HE came running out of the darkness, and spoke at once: “Go an’ see my poor mother, gentleman; go and see my poor father an’ mother!”
It was a snowy midnight; by the light of the street lamp he who made this strange request looked ragged and distraught.
“They lives in Gold Street, 22; go an’ see ’em, gentleman. Mrs. James White—my poor mother starvin’.”
In England no one starves.
“Go an’ see ’em, gentleman; it’s the book o’ truth I’m tellin’ you. They’re old; they got no food, they got nothin’.”
“Very well, I will.”
He thrust out his face to see whether he might trust his ears, then without warning turned and ran on down the road. His shape vanished into darkness, whence it came....
Gold Street with its small grey houses whose doors are always open, and its garbage-littered gutters, where children are at play.
“Mr. and Mrs. James White?”
“First floor back. Mr. White—wanted!”
My dog sniffed at the passage wall, that smelled unlike the walls belonging to him, and presently an old man came. He looked at us distrustfully, and we looked back distrustfully at him.
“Mr. James White?”
“Yes.”
“Last night some one calling himself your son asked me to come up and see you.”
“Come up, sir.”
The room was unpapered, and not more than ten feet square; it contained a double bed, over whose dirty mattress was stretched a black-brown rag; a fireplace and no fire; a saucepan, but nothing in it; two cups, a tin or two, no carpet, a knife and spoon, a basin, some photographs, and rags of clothing; all blackish and discoloured.
On a wooden chair before the hearth was sitting an old woman whose brown-skinned face was crowsfooted all over. Her hair was white, and she had little bright grey eyes and a wart on one nostril. A dirty shawl was pinned across her chest; this, with an old skirt and vest, seemed all her clothing. The third finger of her left hand was encircled by a broad gold ring. There were two chairs, and the old man placed the other one for me, having rubbed it with his sleeve. My dog lay with his chin pressed to the ground, for the sights and scents of poverty displeased him.
“I’m afraid you’re down on your luck.”
“Yes, sir, we are down.”
Seated on the border of the bed, he was seen to be a man with features coloured greyish-dun by lack of food; his weak hair and fringe of beard were touched with grey; a dumb, long-suffering man from whom discouragement and want had planed away expression.
“How have you got into this state?”
“The winter an’ my not gettin’ work.”
A whisper came from the old lady by the hearth:
“Father can work, sir; oh! ’e can work!”
“Yes, I can work; I’m good for a day’s work at any time.”
“I’m afraid you don’t look it!”
His hand was shaking violently, and he tried to stop its movement.
“It’s a bit chilly; I feels well enough in meself.”
More confidential came the old lady’s whisper:
“Father’s very good ’ealth, sir; oh! ’e can work. It’s not ’avin’ any breakfast that makes ’im go like that this weather.”
“But how old are you?”
“Father’s seventy-one, sir, and I’m the same. Born within two months of each other—wasn’t we, Father?”
“Forgive my saying so, Mr. White, but, with all this competition, is there much chance of your getting work at that age? What are you?”
“Painter I am, sir; take any work—I’m not particular. Mr. Williams gives me a bit when times are good, but the winter——”
“Father can work, sir; oh! ’e can work!”
“Thirty-three years I worked for one firm—thirty-three years.”
“What firm was that?”
“Thirty-three years—till they gave up business——”
“But what firm——”
“Answer the gentleman’s question. Father’s very slow, sir.”
“Scotter’s, of John Street, that was—thirty-three years. Now they’ve given up.”
“How long since they gave up?”
“Three years.”
“And how have you managed since?”
“Just managed along—get some jobs in the summer—just managed along.”
“You mustn’t mind Father, sir. Why don’t you tell the gentleman? Just managed along, as you see, sir—everything’s gone now.”
She passed her hand over her mouth, and the sound of her whisper was more intimate than ever:
“Dreadful things we’ve suffered in this room, sir; dreadful! I don’t like to speak of ’em, if you’ll believe me.”
And, with that almost soundless whisper, that stealthy movement of her hand before her mouth, all those things she spoke of seemed to be happening in their deadly privacy to those two old people behind their close-shut door.
There was a silence; my dog spoke with his eyes: “Master, we have been here long enough; I smell no food; there is no fire!”
“You must feel the cold dreadfully this weather?”
“We stays in bed as long as we can, sir—to keep warm, you know—to keep warm.”
The old man nodded from the black ruin of a bed.
“But I see you have no blankets.”
“All gone, sir—all gone.”
“Had you no savings out of that thirty-three years?”
“Family, sir—family; four sons an’ two daughters; never more than thirty shillin’s a week. He always gave me his wages—Father always gave me his wages.”
“I never was one to drink.”
“Sober man, Father; an’ now he’s old. But ’e can work, sir; ’e can work.”
“But can’t your sons help you?”
“One’s dead, sir; died of fever. And one”—her withered finger touched her forehead—“not quite—you know, not quite——”
“The one I saw last night, I suppose?”
“Not quite—not since he was in the Army. A bit—” Again she touched her forehead.
“And the other two?”
“Good sons, sir; but large families, you know. Not able——”
“And the daughters?”
“One’s dead, sir; the other’s married—away.”
“Haven’t you any one to fall back on?”
The old man interrupted heavily:
“No, sir; we haven’t.”
“Father doesn’t put things right, sir—let me speak to the gentleman! Tell you the truth, never ’ad the habit, sir; not accustomed to ask for things; never done it—couldn’t!”
The old man spoke again:
“The Society looked into our case; ’ere’s their letter. Owin’ to my not ’avin’ any savin’s, we weren’t thought fit for bein’ ’elped, so they says ’ere. All my savin’s is gone this year or more; what could I save, with six children?”
“Father couldn’t save; ’e did ’is duty by them—’e couldn’t save. We’ve not been in the ’abit of askin’ people, sir; wouldn’t do such a thing—couldn’t!”
“Well! You see they’ve made a start with old-age pensions?”
The old man slowly answered:
“I ’eard something—I don’t trouble about politics.”
“Father never was one for the public-’ouse, sir; never.”
“But you used to have a vote, of course?”
A smile came on his lips, and faded; and in that smile, not even ironical, he passed judgment on the centuries that had left him where he was.
“I never bothered about them. I let that alone!”
And again he smiled. “I’ll be dead long before they reach me, I know that.”
“The winter’s only half over. What are you going to do?”
“Well, sir, I don’t know what we’re goin’ to do.”
“Don’t you think that, all things considered, you’d be better off in the—in the Infirmary?”
Silence.
“You know they—they’re quite comfortable, and——”
Silence.
“It’s not as if there were any—any disgrace, or——”
Silence.
“Well?”
He rose and crossed over to the hearth, and my dog, disturbed, sniffed at his trousers. “You are worn out,” he seemed to say; “go where you ought to go, then my master will not have to visit you, and waste the time he owes to me.” And he, too, rose and came and put his snout on my knee; “When I am old, master, you will still take care of me—that is understood between us. But this man has no one to take care of him. Let us go!”
The old man spoke at last:
“No, sir. I don’t want to go there; I can work. I don’t want to go there.”
Beyond him the whisper rose:
“Father can work, sir; ’e can work. So long as we get a crust of bread, we’d rather stay ’ere.”
“I’ve got this, but I can’t bring meself to use it. I can work; I’ve always worked.” He took out a piece of paper. It was an order admitting James White, aged 71, and Eliza White his wife, aged 71, into the local Workhouse; if used for purposes of begging to be destroyed.
“Father can work, sir; ’e can work. We seen dreadful times in this room, believe, me, sir, before we came to getting that. We don’t want to go. I tell Father I’d rather die out ’ere.”
“But you’d be so much more comfortable, Mrs. White; you must know that.”
“Yes, sir; but there it is—I don’t want to, and Father don’t want to.”
“I can work; I can go about with a barrer, or anything.”
“But can you live?”
“Well, sir, so long as we’re alive. After that, I can’t tell—they’ll get us then, I suppose.”
And the whisper came:
“We can’t ’elp it after that. As you see, sir—there’s nothin’ left, there’s nothin’ left.”
She raised her hand and pointed to the bed; and the sun, that had been hidden all the morning, broke through and glittered on her wedding ring.