The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists. Robert Tressell
at the mention of her dead son’s name old Mrs Linden was evidently distressed, she was still mindful of the Atheist’s presence, and hastened to rebuke her daughter-in-law.
‘You shouldn’t say we’ve got no one to look to, Mary,’ she said. ‘We’re not as them who are without God and without hope in the world. The Lord is our shepherd. He careth for the widow and the fatherless.’
Owen was very doubtful about this also. He had seen so many badly cared-for children about the streets lately, and what he remembered of his own sorrowful childhood was all evidence to the contrary.
An awkward silence succeeded. Owen did not wish to continue this conversation: he was afraid that he might say something that would hurt the old woman. Besides, he was anxious to get away; he began to feel cold in his wet clothes.
As he put his empty cup on the table he said:
‘Well, I must be going. They’ll be thinking I’m lost, at home.’
The kitten had finished all the bread and milk and was gravely washing its face with one of its forepaws, to the great admiration of the two children, who were sitting on the floor beside it. It was an artful-looking kitten, all black, with a very large head and a very small body. It reminded Owen of a tadpole.
‘Do you like cats?’ he asked, addressing the children.
‘Yes,’ said the boy. ‘Give it to us, will you, mister?’
‘Oh, do leave it ‘ere, mister,’ exclaimed the little girl. ‘I’ll look after it.’
‘So will I,’ said the boy.
‘But haven’t you one of your own?’ asked Owen.
‘Yes; we’ve got a big one.’
‘Well, if you have one already and I give you this, then you’d have two cats, and I’d have none. That wouldn’t be fair, would it?’
‘Well, you can ‘ave a lend of our cat for a little while if you give us this kitten,’ said the boy, after a moment’s thought.
‘Why would you rather have the kitten?’
‘Because it would play: our cat don’t want to play, it’s too old.’
‘Perhaps you’re too rough with it,’ returned Owen.
‘No, it ain’t that; it’s just because it’s old.’
‘You know cats is just the same as people,’ explained the little girl, wisely. ‘When they’re grown up I suppose they’ve got their troubles to think about.’
Owen wondered how long it would be before her troubles commenced. As he gazed at these two little orphans he thought of his own child, and of the rough and thorny way they would all three have to travel if they were so unfortunate as to outlive their childhood.
‘Can we ’ave it, mister?’ repeated the boy.
Owen would have liked to grant the children’s request, but he wanted the kitten himself. Therefore he was relieved when their grandmother exclaimed:
‘We don’t want no more cats ’ere: we’ve got one already; that’s quite enough.’
She was not yet quite satisfied in her mind that the creature was not an incarnation of the Devil, but whether it was or not she did not want it, or anything else of Owen’s, in this house. She wished he would go, and take his kitten or his familiar or whatever it was, with him. No good could come of his being there. Was it not written in the Word: ‘If any man love not the Lord Jesus Christ, let him be Anathema Maran-atha.’ She did not know exactly what Anathema Maran-atha meant, but there could be no doubt that it was something very unpleasant. It was a terrible thing that this blasphemer who – as she had heard – did not believe there was a Hell and said that the Bible was not the Word of God, should be here in the house sitting on one of their chairs, drinking from one of their cups, and talking to their children.
The children stood by wistfully when Owen put the kitten under his coat and rose to go away.
As Linden prepared to accompany him to the front door, Owen, happening to notice a timepiece standing on a small table in the recess at one side of the fireplace, exclaimed:
‘That’s a very nice clock.’
‘Yes, it’s all right, ain’t it?’ said old Jack, with a touch of pride. ‘Poor Tom made that: not the clock itself, but just the case.’
It was the case that had attracted Owen’s attention. It stood about two feet high and was made of fretwork in the form of an Indian mosque, with a pointed dome and pinnacles. It was a very beautiful thing and must have cost many hours of patient labour.
‘Yes,’ said the old woman, in a trembling, broken voice, and looking at Owen with a pathetic expression. ‘Months and months he worked at it. and no one ever guessed who it were for. And then, when my birthday came round, the very first thing I saw when I woke up in the morning were the clock standing on a chair by the bed with a card:
‘To dear mother, from her loving son, Tom. Wishing her many happy birthdays.’
‘But he never had another birthday himself, because just five months afterwards he were sent out to Africa, and he’d only been there five weeks when he died. Five years ago, come the fifteenth of next month.’
Owen, inwardly regretting that he had unintentionally broached so painful a subject, tried to think of some suitable reply, but had to content himself with murmuring some words of admiration of the work.
As he wished her good night, the old woman, looking at him, could not help observing that he appeared very frail and ill: his face was very thin and pale, and his eyes were unnaturally bright.
Possibly the Lord in His infinite loving kindness and mercy was chastening this unhappy castaway in order that He might bring him to Himself. After all, he was not altogether bad: it was certainly very thoughtful of him to come all this way to let John know about that job. She observed that he had no overcoat, and the storm was still raging fiercely outside, furious gusts of wind frequently striking the house and shaking it to its very foundations.
The natural kindliness of her character asserted itself; her better feelings were aroused, triumphing momentarily over the bigotry of her religious opinions.
‘Why, you ain’t got no overcoat!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’ll be soaked goin’ ’ome in this rain.’ Then, turning to her husband, she continued: “There’s that old one of yours; you might lend him that; it would be better than nothing.’
But Owen would not hear of this: he thought, as he became very conscious of the clammy feel of his saturated clothing, that he could not get much wetter than he already was. Linden accompanied him as far as the front door, and Owen once more set out on his way homeward through the storm that howled around like a wild beast hungry for its prey.
Owen and his family occupied the top floor of a house that had once been a large private dwelling but which had been transformed into a series of flats. It was situated in Lord Street, almost in the centre of the town.
At one time this had been a most aristocratic locality, but most of the former residents had migrated to the newer suburb at the west of the town. Notwithstanding this fact, Lord Street was still a most respectable neighbourhood, the inhabitants generally being of a very superior type: shop-walkers, shop assistants, barber’s clerks, boarding house keepers, a coal merchant, and even two retired jerry-builders.
There were four other flats in the house in which Owen lived. No. 1 (the basement) was occupied by an estate agent’s clerk. No. 2 – on a level with the street – was the habitat of the family of Mr Trafaim, a cadaverous-looking gentleman who wore a top hat, boasted of his French descent, and was a shop-walker at