CHAPTER I.

THE OLD MANSION.

IT was an old old house, situated somewhere near the central parts of London. The street was narrow and gloomy, branching off at right angles from a frequented thoroughfare, and the lofty uppermost stories, rising tier above tier, and closing in overhead, left but a narrow strip of heaven's blue visible to those below, even on the brightest and sunniest of days. It was neither bright nor sunny now, for twilight shrouded the giant city, and already its myriad lights twinkled through the gloom, in preparation for the coming hours of darkness. Dull indeed was this confined alley, with its old-fashioned buildings on either side, in the midst of which, on the right hand, at the farthest corner, stood the aged house already mentioned.

It had not always been so old. Once, in long past days, it had been a stately mansion of no small pretensions, forming the home of some wealthy city merchant, or, a little farther back, it may be, even of a nobleman himself. But that was over now. Noblemen and city merchants had alike been swept away in the hurrying tide westward, and the old mansion had sunk many grades in the scale of society.

A great change had taken place since those far-off days, one or two hundred years before! No delicately-nurtured ladies now, in silk and velvet, in paint and patches, went daintily up and down its broad oaken staircase. No gaily-attired young gallants, with tossing plumes and clinking swords, passed to and fro through its outer door. That massive portal was never closed now, for the old house was no longer a home, but only a mass of tightly-packed dwellings. No heavy coaches, drawn by fashionable Flemish mares, lumbered in stately grandeur through the narrow street. Far back in a distant horizon lay such dignities.

Ladies and gallants, velvets and plumes, Flemish mares and gorgeous splendour—who could dream of such terms in connection with this squalid neighbourhood? Who could look on those dirt-begrimed ceilings, and imagine brilliant candelabra suspended from their centres? Who could view the discoloured walls, and realize that they were once crowded with works of art? Who could glance at the bare unwashed rooms, and listen without an incredulous smile to the tale of velvet furniture and priceless decorations, which once graced those very apartments?

Gone for ever were those days of wealth and luxury. The old mansion had sunk into a mere tenement-house, crowded with carpenters, shoemakers, tailors, and porters, too often in the lowest depths of wretchedness.

It was a close summer's evening, and heavy oppression pervaded the atmosphere, though the sun had sunk below the horizon, and the last gleams of red light, finding their way through the dull mist overhead, had faded at length from the tallest chimney-tops. But no sweet breath of country freshness could penetrate so far through the city. No cooling breeze ever crept between the massive walls of the houses forming Ansty Court.

Work was over for the day—such work as was to be had, for too many in the old mansion and its neighbourhood were suffering the miseries of long-enforced idleness. Work was slack, and bread was hard—oh, hard to find!

Up and down the uneven staircase, with its shattered banisters and greasy walls, passed footsteps from time to time. No wonder! For over half a hundred human beings found shelter within the walls of this one house. Each room was a separate home. And such a home! The old familiar English tune, true of many a "sweet sweet home," could scarcely here have met with any response.

It was growing dark, and none of the passers-by, going slowly up or down with rounded shoulders and weary feet, noticed a small figure crouching in the most shady corner of the second landing. A mere bundle of ragged clothes it might be, but for a slight movement now and then, or a broken sob at intervals when no one was near. Looking more closely, it would have been seen that one bare arm was passed tightly over the other with a distressed pressure, while the little dusky fingers clutched firmly at the rags which scarcely sufficed to cover her. But there was no other sign of life, and an approaching footstep was the signal for a closer cowering against the wall, and a more absolute stillness, in evident dread of detection.

Footsteps were growing fewer now. Children had been called in from the dirty courtyard where they played all day, and had been consigned to the respective heaps of rags or straw which formed their beds. Many men yet lingered at the public-house, not far distant, striving to drown care and misery for a while, by a means which sunk themselves and their families day by day into yet deeper degradation. Others had already retired to such rest as might be obtained in crowded rooms, with half-famished children crying themselves to sleep for want of food.

For a while no one passed. Then again came another step, heavily mounting the old staircase. A woman's figure, dimly seen in the uncertain light, drew near, staggering a little, as if hardly able to maintain her footing. She was supporting herself against the wall, and the child in the corner cowered down more closely with renewed fear. In vain this time. Following the course of the wall, the woman came against the unexpected obstacle, nearly falling down, and then standing still with the question—

"What's this? Who are you?"

Reassured by the voice, which showed that the unsteady walk was not, at least, caused by a visit to the terrible gin-palace, the child rose and came a step forward, still clenching her arms across her chest; but there was no answer to the question.

"What are ye after here?" asked the woman again; and, though she spoke in hard tones, as of one whose sympathies had been well-nigh dried up by long trouble, yet she would not pass by the lonely child, as many a richer man or woman might have done, like the Priest and the Levite of old.

A quick sob, gasped out with heaving breath, answered her. The woman leant against the wall, and laid a hand upon the arm of the little wanderer.

"Tell me what's your name, child?"

"Ailie Carter," was the muttered reply, followed by the entreaty, "Oh, don't ye send me back!"

"Ailie Carter. Then your father's Jem Carter, as came a while ago to live in one of the cellars?"

"Yes, our house is down there. Oh, don't ye send me back!" came in renewed entreaty.

"Where's your mother, child?"

"She's took up," and Ailie sobbed, though with her arms pressed yet more tightly, as if fighting to conquer her tears. "And father's dyin'—and it's awful to be with him all alone. I daren't—oh, don't make me! I wants mother!" moaned Ailie.

"Jem Carter dyin'! Well, it's what we all come to," said the woman, with despairing composure. She had spoken to Jem Carter and his wife occasionally, and in daylight she would have known by sight the forlorn child now cowering in front of her. But her home was near the top of the house, and Ailie's at the bottom. And the Carters, like many in their position, had known better days, and lived much to themselves in their cellar.

"Jem Carter dyin'!" repeated the woman. "And where's your mother took, child?"

Ailie shuddered visibly. "The p'lice," she whispered. "Mother said she couldn't bear it no more—to see father dyin' and cravin' after food, and not a sup nor a morsel in the house to give him. She were just crazed with hearin' him moan and groan, all day an' night, an' she walked right into a baker's shop, an' seized a loaf with one hand,—and a lady's purse with lots o' beautiful gold was a-lyin' on the counter, an' mother clutched it. They said she meant to steal that too, but she didn't—she didn't," repeated Ailie, breaking into a wail, like an animal in pain. "She were just crazed, an' snatched at it like, but didn't never think what she were doing, and she only wanted the loaf for father. He did moan so for some'at, an' he's wastin' away for want."

"Same as the rest on us," said the woman shortly. "I've eaten nought to-day, and I'm like to drop. Well, if he's dyin', it'll soon be over wi' him."

"Don't ye send me back," entreated the child, with sobbing catches in her breath. "I'll only sit here, an' be ever so quiet. Oh, don't! Father's never spoke a word since I telled him mother was took, an' he clutches with his fingers, an' makes a groanin' noise down in his throat, an' looks—an' looks—oh, I can't go back," sobbed Ailie. "I'd sooner sleep in the street all night. If only mother was here!"

"It'll be long enough afore ye see anythin' of her again, I can promise ye," muttered the woman. "Here, come along with me, child. Mary Carter's done me a good turn afore now, mindin' the children when I couldn't be with them, and I'll spare ye a crust of bread, if it's the last we have left."

Slowly as before, she went up the broad staircase, the fringed edges of her cotton gown dragging from step to step, where in olden days rich trains of jewelled satin had been wont to sweep. Ailie kept alongside with her, clinging close to the shelter of the blackened wall, but asking no questions, and seemingly willing enough to follow wherever she might be led. She would not have gone so readily down the stairs as up them, perhaps.

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