A Rough Shaking

Chapter XXXVI. The policeman

But, alas! Clare had made another enemy—the lad whose attempt to change the bandboxes he had foiled. The fellow followed him, lurkingly, all the way home—on the watch for fit place to pounce upon him, and punish him for doing right when he wanted him to do wrong. He saw him turn into the opening that led to the well, and thought now he had him. But when he followed him in, he was not to be seen! He did not care to cross the well, not knowing what might meet him on the other side; but here was news to carry back! He did so; and his master saw in them the opportunity of indulging his dislike and revenge, and a means of invalidating whatever Clare might reveal to his discredit!

Clare and the baby and Tommy and Abdiel had taken their supper with satisfaction, and were all asleep. It was to them as the middle of the night, though it was but past ten o’clock, when Abdiel all at once jumped right up on his four legs, cocked his ears, listened, leaped off the bed, ran to the door, and began to bark furiously. He was suddenly blinded by the glare of a bull’s-eye-lantern, and received a kick that knocked all the bark out of him, and threw him to the other side of the room. A huge policeman strode quietly in, sending the glare of his bull’s-eye all about the room like a vital, inquiring glance. It discovered, one after the other, every member of the family. So tired was Clare, however, that he did not wake until seized by a rough hand, and at one pull dragged standing on the floor.

“Take care of the baby!” he cried, while yet not half awake.

“I’ll take care o’ the baby, never fear!—an’ o’ you too, you young rascal!” returned the policeman.

He roused Tommy, who was wide awake, but pretending to be asleep, with a gentle kick.

“Up ye get!” he said; and Tommy got up, rubbing his ferret eyes.

“Come along!” said the policeman.

“Where to?” asked Clare.

“You’ll see when you get there.”

“But I can’t leave baby!”

“Baby must come along too,” answered the policeman, more gently, for he had children of his own.

“But she has no clothes to go in!” objected Clare.

“She must go without, then.”

“But she’ll take cold!”

“She don’t run naked in the house, do she?”

“No; she can’t run yet. I keep her in a blanket. But the blanket ain’t mine; I can’t take it with me.”

“You’re mighty scrup’lous!” returned the policeman. “You don’t mind takin’ a ‘ole ‘ouse an’ garding, but you wouldn’ think o’ takin’ a blanket!—Oh, no! Honest boy you are!”

He turned sharp round, and caught Tommy taking a vigorous sight at him. Tommy, courageous as a lion behind anybody’s back, dropped on the rug sitting.

“We’ve done the house no harm,” said Clare, “and I will not take the blanket. It would be stealing!”

“Then I will take it, and be accountable for it,” rejoined the man. “I hope that will satisfy you!”

“Certainly,” answered Clare. “You are a policeman, and that makes it all right.”

“Rouse up then, and come along. I want to get home.”

“Please, sir, wouldn’t it do in the morning?” pleaded Clare. “I’ve no work now, and could easily go then. That way we should all have a sleep.”

“My eye ain’t green enough,” replied the policeman. “Look sharp!”

Clare said no more, but went to the baby. With sinking but courageous heart, he wrapped her closer in her blanket, and took her in his arms. He could not help her crying, but she did not scream. Indeed she never really screamed; she was not strong enough to scream.

“Get along,” said the policeman.

Clare led the way with his bundle, sorely incommoded by the size and weight of the wrapping blanket, the corners of which, one after the other, would keep working from his hold, and dropping and trailing on the ground. Behind him came Tommy, a scarecrow monkey, with mischievous face, and greedy beads for eyes—type not unknown to the policeman, who brought up the rear, big enough to have all their sizes cut out of him, and yet pass for a man. Down the stair they went, and out at the front door, which Clare for the first time saw open, and so by the iron gate into the street.

“Which way, please?” asked Clare, turning half round with the question.

“To the right, straight ahead. The likes o’ you, young un, might know the way to the lock-up without astin’!”

Clare made no answer, but walked obedient. It was a sad procession—comical indeed, but too sad when realized to continue ludicrous. The thin, long-bodied, big-headed, long-haired, long-tailed, short-legged animal that followed last, seemed to close it with a never-ending end.

There was no moon; nothing but the gas-lamps lighted Clare’s Via dolorosa. He hugged the baby and kept on, laying his cheek to hers to comfort her, and receiving the comfort he did not seek.

They came at last to the lock-up, a new building in the rear of the town-house. There this tangle of humanity, torn from its rock and afloat on the social sea, drifted trailing into a bare brilliant room, and at its head, cast down but not destroyed, went heavy-laden Clare, with so much in him, but only his misery patent to eyes too much used to misery to reap sorrow from the sight.

The head policeman—they called him the inspector—received the charge, that of house-breaking, and entered it. Then they were taken away to the lock-up—all but the faithful Abdiel, who, following, received another of the kicks which that day rained on every member of that epitome of the human family except the baby, who, small enough for a mother to drown, was too small for a policeman to kick. The door was shut upon them, and they had to rest in that grave till the resurrection of the morning should bring them before the magistrate.

Their quarters were worse than chilly—to all but the baby in her blanket manifoldly wrapped about her, and in Clare’s arms. Tommy would gladly have shared that blanket, more gladly yet would have taken it all for himself and left the baby to perish; but he had to lie on the broad wooden bench and make the best of it, which he did by snoring all the night. It passed drearily for Clare, who kept wide awake. He was not anxious about the morrow; he had nothing to be ashamed of, therefore nothing to fear; but he had baby to protect and cherish, and he dared not go to sleep.

Chapter XXXVII. The magistrate

The dawn came at last, and soon after the dawn footsteps, but they approached only to recede. When the door at length opened, it was but to let a pair of eyes glance round on them, and close again. The hours seemed to be always beginning, and never going on. But at the long last came the big policeman. To Clare’s loving eyes, how friendly he looked!

“Come, kids!” he said, and took them through a long passage to a room in the town-hall, where sat a formal-looking old gentleman behind a table.

“Good morning, sir!” said Clare, to the astonishment of the magistrate, who set his politeness down as impudence.

Nor was the mistake to be wondered at; for the baby in Clare’s arms hid, with the mountain-like folds of its blanket, the greater part of his face, and the old gentleman’s eyes fell first on Tommy; and if ever scamp was written clear on a countenance, it was written clear on Tommy’s.

“Hold your impudent tongue!” said a policeman, and gave Clare a cuff on the head.

“Hold, John,” interposed the magistrate; “it is my part to punish, not yours.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Clare.

“I will thank you, sir,” returned the magistrate, “not to speak till I put to you the questions I am about to put to you.—What is the charge against the prisoners?”

“Housebreaking, sir,” answered the big man.

“What! Housebreaking! Boys with a baby! House-breakers don’t generally go about with babies in their arms! Explain the thing.”

The policeman said he had received information that unlawful possession had been taken of a building commonly known as The Haunted House, which had been in Chancery for no one could tell how many years. He had gone to see, and had found the accused in possession of the best bedroom—fast asleep, surrounded by indications that they had made themselves at home there for some time. He had brought them along.

The magistrate turned his eyes on Clare.

“You hear what the policeman says?” he said.

“Yes, sir,” answered Clare.

“Well?”

“Sir?”

“What have you to say to it?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Then you allow it is true?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What right had you to be there?”

“None, sir. But we had nowhere else to go, and nobody seemed to want the place. We didn’t hurt anything. We swept away a multitude of dead moths, and killed a lot of live ones, and destroyed a whole granary of grubs; and the dog killed a great rat.”

“What is your name?”

“Clare—Porson,” answered Clare, with a little intervening hesitation.

“You are not quite sure?”

“Yes; that is my name; but I have another older one that I don’t know.”

“A bad answer! The name you go by is not your own! Hum! Is that boy your brother?”

“No, sir.”

“Your cousin?”

“No, sir; he’s not any relation of mine. He’s a tramp.”

“And what are you?”

“Something like one now, sir, but I wasn’t always.”

“What were you?”

“Not much, sir. I didn’t do anything till just lately.”

He could not bear at the moment to talk of his be-loved dead. He felt as if the old gentleman would be rude to them.

“Is the infant there your sister?”

“She’s my sister the big way: God made her. She’s not my sister any other way.”

“How does she come to be with you then?”

“I took her out of the water-butt. Some one threw her in, and I heard the splash, and went and got her out.”

“Why did you not take her to the police?”

“I never thought of that. It was all I could do to keep her alive. I couldn’t have done it if we hadn’t got into the house.”

“How long ago is that?”

“Nearly a month, sir.”

“And you’ve kept her there ever since?”

“Yes, sir—as well as I could. I had only sixpence a day.”

“And what’s that boy’s name?”

“Tommy, sir.—I don’t know any other.”

“Nice respectable company you keep for one who has evidently been well brought up!”

“Baby’s quite respectable, sir!”

“Hum!”

“And for Tommy, if I didn’t keep him, he would steal. I’m teaching him not to steal.”

“What woman have you got with you?”

“Baby’s the only woman we’ve got, sir.”

“But who attends to her?”

“I do, sir. She only wants washing and rolling round in the blanket; she’s got no clothes to speak of. When I’m away, Tommy and Abdiel take care of her.”

“Abdiel! Who on earth is that? Where is he?” said the magistrate, looking round for some fourth member of the incomprehensible family.

“He’s not on earth, sir; he’s in heaven—the good angel, you know, sir, that left Satan and came back again to God.”

“You must take him to the county-asylum, James!” said the magistrate, turning to the tall policeman.

“Oh, he’s all right, sir!” said James.

“Please, sir,” interrupted Clare eagerly, “I didn’t mean the dog was in heaven yet. I meant the angel I named him after!”

“They had a little dog with them, sir!”

“Yes—Abdiel. He wanted to be a prisoner too, but they wouldn’t let him in. He’s a good dog—better than Tommy.”

“So! like all the rest of you, you can keep a dog!”

“He followed me home because he hadn’t anybody to love,” said Clare. “He don’t have much to eat, but he’s content. He would eat three times as much if I could give it him; but he never complains.”

“Have you work of any sort?”

“I had till yesterday, sir.”

“Where?”

“At Mr. Maidstone’s shop.”

“What wages had you?”

“Sixpence a day.”

“And you lived, all three of you, on that?”

“Yes; all four of us, sir.”

“What do you do at the shop?”

“Please your worship,” interposed policeman James, “he was sent about his business yesterday.”

“Yes,” rejoined Clare, who did not understand the phrase, “I was sent with a lady to carry her bandbox to the station.”

“And when you came back, you was turned away, wasn’t you?” said James.

“Yes, sir.”

“What had you done?” asked the magistrate.

“I don’t quite know, sir.”

“A likely story!”

Clare made no reply.

“Answer me directly.”

“Please, sir, you told me not to speak unless you asked me a question.”

“I said, ‘A likely story!’ which meant, ‘Do you expect me to believe that?’”

“Of course I do, sir.”

“Why?”

“Because it is true.”

“How am I to believe that?”

“I don’t know, sir. I only know I’ve got to speak the truth. It’s the person who hears it that’s got to believe it, ain’t it, sir?”

“You’ve got to prove it.”

“I don’t think so, sir; I never was told so; I was only told I must speak the truth; I never was told I must prove what I said.—I’ve been several times disbelieved, I know.”

“I should think so indeed!”

“It was by people who did not know me.”

“Never by people who did know you?”

“I think not, sir. I never was by the people at home.”

“Ah! you could not read what they were thinking!”

“Were you not believed when you were at home, sir?”

The magistrate’s doubt of Clare had its source in the fact that, although now he was more careful to speak the truth than are most people, it was not his habit when a boy, and he had suffered severely in consequence. He was annoyed, therefore, at his question, set him down as a hypocritical, boastful prig, and was seized with a strong desire to shame him.

“I remand the prisoner for more evidence. Take the children to the workhouse,” he said.

Tommy gave a sudden full-sized howl. He had heard no good of the workhouse.

“The baby is mine!” pleaded Clare.

“Are you the father of it?” said the big policeman.

“Yes, I think so: I saved her life.—She would have been drowned if I hadn’t looked for her when I heard the splash!” reasoned Clare, his face drawn with grief and the struggle to keep from crying.

“She’s not yours,” said the magistrate. “She belongs to the parish. Take her away, James.”

The big policeman came up to take her. Clare would have held her tight, but was afraid of hurting her. He did draw back from the outstretched hands, however, while he put a question or two.

“Please, sir, will the parish be good to her?” he asked.

“Much better than you.”

“Will it let me go and see her?” he asked again, with an outbreaking sob.

“You can’t go anywhere till you’re out of this,” answered the big policeman, and, not ungently, took the baby from him.

“And when will that be, please?” asked Clare, with his empty arms still held out.

“That depends on his worship there.”

“Hold your tongue, James,” said the magistrate. “Take the boy away, John.”

“Please, sir, where am I going to?” asked Clare.

“To prison, till we find out about you.”

“Please, sir, I didn’t mean to steal her. I didn’t know the parish wanted her!”

“Take the boy away, I tell you!” cried the magistrate angrily. “His tongue goes like the hopper of a mill!”

James, carrying the baby on one arm, was already pushing Tommy before him by the neck. Tommy howled, and rubbed his red eyes with what was left him of cuffs, but did not attempt resistance.

“Please, don’t let anybody hold her upside down, policeman!” cried Clare. “She doesn’t like it!—Oh, baby! baby!”

John tightened his grasp on his arm, and hurried him away in another direction.

Where the big policeman issued with his charge, there was Abdiel hovering about as if his spring were wound up so tight that it wouldn’t go off. How he came to be at that door, I cannot imagine.

When he spied Tommy, he rushed at him. Tommy gave him a kick that rolled him over.

“Don’t want you, you mangy beast!” he said, and tried to kick him again.

Abdiel kept away from him after that, but followed the party to the workhouse, where also, to his disgust, plainly expressed, he was refused admittance. He returned to the entrance by which Clare had vanished from his eyes the night before, and lay down there. I suspect he had an approximate canine theory of the whole matter. He knew at least that Clare had gone in with the others at that door; that he had not come out with them at the other door; that, therefore, in all probability, he was within that door still.

The police made inquiry at Mr. Maidstone’s shop. Reasons for his dismissal were there given involving no accusation: there was little desire in that quarter to have the matter searched into. There was therefore nothing to the discredit of the boy, beyond his running to earth in the neglected house like a wild animal. After three days he was set at liberty.

As the big policeman led the way to the door to send him out, Clare addressed him thus:

“Please, Mr. James, may I go back to the house for a little while?”

“Well, you are an innocent!” said James; “—or,” he added, “the biggest little humbug ever I see!—No, it’s not likely!”

“I only wanted,” explained Clare, “to set things straight a bit. The house is cleaner than it was, I know, but it is not in such good order as when we went into it. I don’t like to leave it worse than we found it.”

“Never you heed,” said James, believing him perfectly before he knew what he was about. “The house don’t belong to nobody, so far as ever I heerd, an’ the things’ll rot all the same wherever they stand.”

“But I should like,” persisted Clare.

“I couldn’t do it off my own hook, an’ his worship would think you only wanted to steal something. The best thing you can do is to leave the place at once, an’ go where nobody knows nothing agin you.”

Thought Clare with himself, “If the house doesn’t belong to anybody, why wouldn’t they let me stay in it?”

But the policeman opened the door, and as he was turning to say good-bye to him, gave him a little shove, and closed it behind him.

Chapter XXXVIII. The workhouse

He went into the street with a white face and a dazed look—not from any hardship he had experienced during his confinement, for he had been in what to him was clover, but because he had lost the baby and Abdiel, and because his mind had been all the time in perplexity with regard to the proceedings of justice: he did not and could not see that he had done anything wrong. Throughout his life it never mattered much to Clare to be accused of anything wrong, but it did trouble him, this time at least, to be punished for doing what was right. He took it very quietly, however.

Indignation may be a sign of innocence, but it is no necessary consequence of innocence any more than it is a proof of righteousness. A man will be fiercely indignant at an accusation that happens to be false, who did the very thing last week, and is ready to do it again. Indignation against wrong to another even, is no proof of a genuine love of fair play. Clare hardly resented anything done to himself. His inward unconscious purity held him up, and made him look events in the face with an eye that was single and therefore at once forgiving and fearless. The man who has no mote in his own eye cannot be knocked down by the beam in his neighbour’s; while he who is busy with the mote in his neighbour’s may stumble to destruction over the beam in his own.

White and dazed as he came out, the moment he stepped across the threshold, Clare met the comfort of God waiting for him. His eyes blinded with the great light, for it was a glorious morning in the beginning of June, he found himself assailed in unknightly fashion below the knee: there, to his unspeakable delight, was Abdiel, clinging to him with his fore-legs, and wagging his tail as if, like the lizards for terror, he would shake it off for gladness! What a blessed little pendulum was Abdiel’s tail! It went by that weight of the clock of the universe called devotion. It was the escapement of that delight which is of the essence of existence, and which, when God has set right “our disordered clocks,” will be its very consciousness.

Clare stood for a moment and looked about him. The needle of his compass went round and round. It had no north. He could not go back to the shop; he could not go back to the house; baby was in the workhouse, but he could not stay there even if they would let him! Neither could he stop in the town; the policeman said he must go away! Where was he to go? There was not in the world one place for him better than another! But they would let him see baby before he went!—and off he set to find the workhouse.

Abdiel followed quietly at his heel, for his master walked lost in thought, and Abdiel was too hungry to make merry without his notice. Clare, fresh to the world, had been a great reader for one so young, and could encounter new experience with old knowledge. In his mind stood a pile of fir-cones, and dried sticks, and old olive wood, which the merest touch of experience would set in a blaze of practical conclusion. But the workhouse was so near that his reflections before he reached it amounted only to this—that there are worse places than a prison when you have done nothing to deserve being put in it. A palace may be one of them. You get enough to eat in a prison; in a palace you do not; you get too much!