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<h3>Chapter Twelve.</h3> <h4>In Which a Bosom Friend is Introduced, Rural Felicity is Enlarged on, and Deep Plans are Laid.</h4> A bosom friend is a pleasant possession. Miss Lillycrop had one. She was a strong-minded woman. We do not say this to her disparagement. A strong mind is as admirable in woman as in man. It is only when woman indicates the strength of her mind by unfeminine self-assertion that we shrink from her in alarm. Miss Lillycrop’s bosom friend was a warm-hearted, charitable, generous, hard-featured, square-shouldered, deep-chested, large-boned lady of middle age and quick temper. She was also in what is styled comfortable circumstances, and dwelt in a pretty suburban cottage. Her name was Maria Stivergill. “Come with me, child,” said Miss Stivergill to Miss Lillycrop one day, “and spend a week at The Rosebud.” It must not be supposed that the good lady had given this romantic name to her cottage. No, when Miss Stivergill bought it, she found the name on the two gate-posts; found that all the tradespeople in the vicinity had imbibed it, and therefore quietly accepted it, as she did all the ordinary affairs of life. “Impossible, dear Maria,” said her friend, with a perplexed look, “I have so many engagements, at least so many duties, that—” “Pooh!” interrupted Miss Stivergill. “Put ’em off. Fulfil ’em when you come back. At all events,” she continued, seeing that Miss Lillycrop still hesitated, “come for a night or two.” “But—” “Come now, Lilly”—thus she styled her friend—“but give me no buts. You know that you’ve no good reason for refusing.” “Indeed I have,” pleaded Miss Lillycrop; “my little servant—” “What, the infant who opened the door to me?” “Yes, Tottie Bones; she is obliged to stay at nights with me just now, owing to her mother, poor thing, being under the necessity of shutting up her house while she goes to look after a drunken husband, who has forsaken her.” “Hah!” exclaimed Miss Stivergill, giving a nervous pull at her left glove, which produced a wide rent between the wrist and the thumb. “I wonder why women marry!” “Don’t you think it’s a sort of—of—unavoidable necessity?” suggested Miss Lillycrop, with a faint smile. “Not at all, my dear, not at all. I have avoided it. So have you. If I had my way, I’d put a stop to marriage altogether, and bring this miserable world to an abrupt close.—But little Bones is no difficulty: we’ll take her along with us.” “But, dear Maria—” “Well, what further objections, Lilly?” “Tottie has charge of a baby, and—” “What! one baby in charge of another?” “Indeed it is too true; and, you know, you couldn’t stand a baby.” “Couldn’t I?” said Miss Stivergill sharply. “How d’you know that? Let me see it.” Tottie being summoned with the baby, entered the room staggering with the rotund mountain of good-natured self-will entirely concealing her person, with exception of her feet and the pretty little coal-dusted arms with which she clasped it to her heaving breast. “Ha! I suppose little Bones is behind it,” said Miss Stivergill.—“Set the baby down, child, and let me see you.” Tottie obeyed. The baby, true to his principles, refused to stand. He sat down and stared at those around him in jovial defiance. “What is your age, little Bones?” “Just turned six, m’m,” replied Tottie, with a courtesy, which Miss Lillycrop had taught her with great pains. “You’re sixty-six, at the least, compared with male creatures of the same age,” observed her interrogator. “Thank you, m’m,” replied Tottie, with another dip. “Have you a bonnet and shawl, little Bones?” Tottie, in a state of considerable surprise, replied that she had. “Go and put ’em on then, and get that thing also ready to go out.” Miss Stivergill pointed to the baby contemptuously, as it were, with her nose. “He’s a very good bybie”—so the child pronounced it—“on’y rather self-willed at times, m’m,” said Tottie, going through the athletic feat of lifting her charge. “Just so. True to your woman’s nature. Always ready to apologise for the male monster that tyrannises over you. I suppose, now, you’d say that your drunken father was a good man?” Miss Stivergill repented of the speech instantly on seeing the tears start into Tottie’s large eyes as she replied quickly—“Indeed I would, m’m. Oh! you’ve no notion ’ow kind father is w’en ’e’s not in liquor.” “There, there. Of course he is. I didn’t mean to say he wasn’t, little Bones. It’s a curious fact that many drun—, I mean people given to drink, are kind and amiable. It’s a disease. Go now, and get your things on, and do you likewise, Lilly. My cab is at the door. Be quick.” In a few minutes the whole party descended to the street. Miss Stivergill locked the door with her own hand, and put the key in her pocket. As she turned round, Tottie’s tawdry bonnet had fallen off in her efforts to raise the baby towards the outstretched hands of her mistress, while the cabman stood looking on with amiable interest. Catching up the bonnet, Miss Stivergill placed it on the child’s head, back to the front, twisted the strings round her head and face—anyhow—lifted her and her charge into the cab, and followed them. “Where to, ma’am?” said the amiable cabman. “Charing Cross,—you idiot.” “Yes, ma’am,” replied the man, with a broad grin, touching his hat and bestowing a wink on a passing policeman as he mounted the box. On their way to the station the good lady put out her head and shouted “Stop!” The maligned man obeyed. “Stay here, Lilly, with the baby.—Jump out, little Bones. Come with me.” She took the child’s bonnet off and flung it under the cab, then grasped Tottie’s hand and led her into a shop. “A hat,” demanded the lady of the shopwoman. “What kind of hat, ma’am?” “Any kind,” replied Miss Stivergill, “suitable for this child—only see that it’s not a doll’s hat. Let it fit her.” The shopwoman produced a head-dress, which Tottie afterwards described as a billycock ’at with a feather in it. The purchaser paid for it, thrust it firmly on the child’s head, and returned to the cab. A few minutes by rail conveyed them to a charmingly country-like suburb, with neat villas dotting the landscape, and a few picturesque old red brick cottages scattered about here and there. Such a drive to such a scene, reader, may seem very commonplace to you, but what tongue can tell, or pen describe, what it was to Tottie Bones? That pretty little human flower had been born in the heart of London—in one of the dirtiest and most unsavoury parts of that heart. Being the child of a dissolute man and a hard-working woman, who could not afford to go out excursioning, she had never seen a green field in her life. She had never seen the Thames, or the Parks. There are many such unfortunates in the vast city. Of flowers—with the exception of cauliflowers—she knew nothing, save from what little she saw of them in broken pots in the dirty windows of her poor neighbourhood, and on the barrows and baskets of the people who hawked them about the city. There was a legend among the neighbours of Archangel Court that once upon a time—in some remote period of antiquity—a sunbeam had been in the habit of overtopping the forest of chimneys and penetrating the court below in the middle of each summer, but a large brick warehouse had been erected somewhere to the southward, and had effectually cut off the supply, so that sunshine was known to the very juvenile population only through the reflecting power of roofs and chimney-cans and gable windows. In regard to scents, it need scarcely be said that Tottie had had considerable experience of that class which it is impossible to term sweet. Judge then, if you can, what must have been the feelings of this little town-sparrow when she suddenly rushed, at the rate of forty miles an hour, into the heavenly influences of fields and flowers, hedgerows, and trees, farm-yards and village spires, horse-ponds, country inns, sheep, cattle, hay-carts, piggeries, and poultry. Her eyes, always large and liquid, became great crystal globes of astonishment, as, forgetful of herself, and almost of baby, she sat with parted lips and heaving breast, gazing in rapt ecstasy from the carriage window. Miss Stivergill and Miss Lillycrop, being sympathetic souls, gazed with almost equal interest on the child’s animated face. “She only wants wings and washing to make her an angel,” whispered the former to the latter. But if the sights she saw on the journey inflated Tottie’s soul with joy, the glories of Rosebud Cottage almost exploded her. It was a marvellous cottage. Rosebushes surrounded it, ivy smothered it, leaving just enough of room for the windows to peep out, and a few of the old red bricks to show in harmony with the green. Creepers in great variety embraced it, and a picturesque clump of trees on a knoll behind sheltered it from the east wind. There was a farm-yard, which did not belong to itself, but was so close to it that a stranger could scarcely have told whether it formed part of the Rosebud domain or that of the neighbouring cottage. The day, too, was exceptionally fine. It was one of those still, calm, sunny, cloudless days, which induce healthy people sometimes to wish that earth might be their permanent home. “Oh, bybie!” exclaimed Tottie Bones, when, having clambered to the top of the knoll, she sat down on a tree-root and gazed on the cottage and the farm-yard, where hens were scratching in the interest of active chickens, and cows were standing in blank felicity, and pigs were revelling in dirt and sunshine—“Oh, bybie! it’s ’eaven upon earth, ain’t it, darling?” The darling evidently agreed with her for once, for, lying on his back in the long grass, he seized two handfuls of wild-flowers, kicked up his fat legs, and laughed aloud. “That’s right, darling. Ain’t it fun? And such flowers too—oh! all for nothing, only got to pull ’em. Yes, roll away, darling, you can’t dirty yourself ’ere. Come, I shall ’ave a roll too.” With which remark Tottie plunged into the grass, seized the baby and tumbled him and herself about to such an extent that the billycock hat was much deteriorated and the feather damaged beyond recovery. Inside The Rosebud the other two members of the party were also enjoying themselves, though not exactly in like manner. They revelled in tea and in the feast of reason. “Where, and when, and why did you find that child?” asked Miss Stivergill. Her friend related what she knew of Tottie’s history. “Strange!” remarked Miss Stivergill, but beyond that remark she gave no indication of the state of her mind. “It is indeed strange,” returned her friend, “but it is just another instance of the power of God’s Word to rescue and preserve souls, even in the most unfavourable circumstances. Tottie’s mother is Christian, and all the energies of her vigorous nature are concentrated on two points—the training of her child in the fear of God, and the saving of her husband from drink. She is a woman of strong faith, and is quite convinced that her prayers will be answered, because, she says, ‘He who has promised is faithful,’ but I fear much that she will not live to see it.” “Why so?” demanded the other sharply. “Because she has a bad affection of the lungs. If she were under more favourable circumstances she might recover.” “Pooh! nonsense. People constantly recover from what is called bad affection of the lungs. Can nothing be done for her?” “Nothing,” replied Miss Lillycrop; “she will not leave her husband or her home. If she dies—” “Well, what then?” “Little Tottie must be rescued, you know, and I have set my heart on doing it.” “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Miss Stivergill firmly. Miss Lillycrop looked surprised. “No, you shan’t rescue her,” continued the good lady, with still firmer emphasis; “you’ve got all London at your feet, and there’s plenty more where that one came from. Come, Lilly, you mustn’t be greedy. You may have the baby if you like, but you must leave little Bones to me.” Miss Lillycrop was making feeble resistance to this proposal when the subject of dispute suddenly appeared at the door with glaring eyes and a horrified expression of face. Baby was in her arms as usual, and both he and his nurse were drenched, besides being covered from head to foot with mud. It needed little explanation to tell that in crossing a ditch on a single plank Tottie had stumbled and gone headlong into the water with baby in her arms. Fortunately neither was hurt, though both had been terribly frightened. Miss Stivergill was equal to the occasion. Ordering two tubs half-full of warm water into the back kitchen, she stripped the unfortunates and put them therein, to the intense joy of baby, whose delight in a warm bath was only equalled by his pleasure in doing mischief. At first Miss Stivergill thought of burning the children’s garments, and fitting them out afresh, but on the suggestion of her friend that their appearing at home with new clothes might create suspicion, and cause unpleasant inquiries, she refrained. When thoroughly cleaned, Tottie and baby were wrapped up in shawls and set down to a hearty tea in the parlour. While this was being devoured, the two friends conversed of many things. Among others, Miss Stivergill touched on the subject of her progenitors, and made some confidential references to her mother, which her friend received with becoming sympathy. “Yes, my dear,” said Miss Stivergill, in a tone of unwonted tenderness. “I don’t mind telling you all about her, for you’re a good soul, with a feeling heart. Her loss was a terrible loss to me, though it was great gain to her. Before her death we were separated for a time—only a short time,—but it proved to be a blessed separation, for the letters she wrote me sparkled with love and wit and playfulness, as though they had been set with pearls and rubies and diamonds. I shall show you my treasures before going to bed. I keep them in that box on the sideboard, to be always handy. It is not large, but its contents are more precious to me than thousands of gold and silver.” She paused; and then, observing that Tottie was staring at her, she advised her to make the most of her opportunity, and eat as much as possible. “If you please, m’m, I can’t eat any more,” said Tottie. “Can’t eat more, child?—try,” urged the hospitable lady. Tottie heaved a deep sigh and said that she couldn’t eat another morsel if she were to try ever so much. As baby appeared to be in the same happy condition, and could with difficulty keep his eyes open, both children were sent to bed under the care of a maid, and Miss Stivergill, taking down her treasure-box, proceeded to read part of its contents to her bosom friend. Little did good Miss Stivergill imagine that she had dug a mine that night under Rosebud Cottage, and that the match which was destined to light it was none other than her innocent protégée, little Bones. Throwing herself into the receptive arms of her mother, two days after the events just described, Tottie poured the delight and amazement of her surcharged spirit into sympathetic ears. Unfortunately her glowing descriptions also reached unsympathetic ears. Mrs Bones had happily recovered her husband, and brought him home, where he lay in his familiar corner, resting from his labours of iniquity. The unsympathetic ears belonged to Mr Abel Bones. When Tottie, however, in her discursive wandering began to talk of pearls, and rubies, and diamonds, and treasures worth thousands of gold and silver, in a box on the sideboard, the ears became suddenly sympathetic, and Mr Bones raised himself on one elbow. “Hush! darling,” said Mrs Bones, glancing uneasily at the dark corner. Mr Bones knew well that if his wife should caution Tottie not to tell him anything about Rosebud Cottage, he would be unable to get a word out of her. He therefore rose suddenly, staggered towards the child, and seized her hand. “Come, Tot, you and I shall go out for a walk.” “Oh, Abel, don’t. Dear Abel—” But dear Abel was gone, and his wife, clasping her hands, looked helplessly and hopelessly round the room. Then a gleam of light seemed to come into her eyes. She looked up and went down on her knees. Meanwhile Abel went into a public-house, and, calling for a pint of beer, bade his child drink, but Tottie declined. He swore with an oath that he’d compel her to drink, but suddenly changed his mind and drank it himself. “Now, Tot, tell father all about your visit to Miss Stivergill. She’s very rich—eh?” “Oh! awfully,” replied Tottie, who felt an irresistible drawing to her father when he condescended to speak to her in kindly tones. “Keeps a carriage—eh?” “No, nor a ’oss—not even a pony,” returned the child. “An’ no man-servant about the house?” “No—not as I seed.” “Not even a gardener, now?” “No, only women—two of ’em, and very nice they was too. One fat and short, the other tall and thin. I liked the fat one best.” “Ha! blessin’s on ’em both,” said Mr Bones, with a bland smile. “Come now, Tot, tell me all about the cottage—inside first, the rooms and winders, an’ specially the box of treasure. Then we’ll come to the garden, an’ so we’ll get out by degrees to the fields and flowers. Go ahead, Tot.” It need scarcely be said that Abel Bones soon possessed himself of all the information he required, after which he sent Tottie home to her mother, and went his way. <hr></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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