Spring-Heel'd Jack, The Terror of London — page 40: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

rc ce cr ee —_~— -— - — e —ee——e —=_ <- 34 SPRING-HEEL D JAC: — —— = ballet, who had hurried away to their dressing- rooms to change the gauze aud spangles for the cotton and the stuff—to wash the paint and powder from their faces—those pale, wan cheeks, on which consumption, want. and wretchedness, were in far too many instances depicted. Young girls and matrons were among them— the mother and the courtezan, the innocent and pure, the lost and the fallen, but all were hurry- ing to leave the precincts of the building ; some to return to their homes and families, some to adjourn to the coffee and oyster-rooms, some to the wash-tub and the needle, and others to 3ut let us not be uncharitable to a class whose struggles for existence are indeed great and hard to bear, whose calling brings down upon them too often the unmerited contempt of more fortunate sisters, and whose every act, look, and word are misconstrued by those prudish dames who can see no goodness in a public life. But for the stage, how many a poor girl would starve at her needle, or faint at the ironing- board ; but for the few shillings obtained by joining the corps de ballet, how many a child would ask in vain for food of its mother—how many a poor wretch would find a home in the parish workhouse, or an existence in the public streets ! | But there are a few (and where is the calling that will not produce them?) whose natural in- clinations lead them into a life of debauchery and sin. Do not condemn the poor ballet girl as the lowest grade of womanhood, for in every calling and every stage there are frail sisters and unfor- tunate women. But with these we have nothing to do—we leave them to the serpent tongues of their own uncharitable sex, and will follow only one—a pure, innocent, beautiful girl—out of the room, where she has changed the gauze for the homely muslin-de-laine—the wreath for the little hat and feather—the scarf for the warm, though much-worn jacket. She was anxious to return home, where her mother awaited her presence—that mother she had taken to the stage to assist to keep from the common home of the aged poor—the workhouse ; and with a light step she hurried through the stage-cdloor into the street, and, as she perceived the figure of a man, respectably attired, waiting by the wall of the theatre, she averted her gaze, and hurried along at a quick, nervous pace, muttering inwardly— “There again! Oh! why does he seek to force his presence upon me? Heaven grant he may not see me! and that I may to-night escape his odious advances.” But there was no such good fortune in store for the poor ballet girl. The man saw her, and instantly stepped for- ward to oppose her passage. His appearance and costume betokened that he was at least well-to-do in the world, but the lines on his face, now brought out clearly by the street lamp, stamped him as one to whom de- bauchery was a portion of his life. Features that otherwise would have been handsome were defiled by the traces of late hours and over-indulgence—in fact, “libertine” Tl Oe vol Tie TERROR OF LONDON. —_ -—-——_— = — ———— was stamped there as plainly by nature’s hand as 1t was possible to be. | “Well, my dear,” he said, familiarly, ‘“‘ you have not kept me waating so long to-night. Oh! the delight with which I watched you in the ballet! Ihad not a single glance for another ; my whole thoughts were centred upon you!” ———_—_— — — —_—-——_—_—lt?rr—— = hr “Sir,” replied the girl, “pray allow me to pass ? my mother will be anxious till I return.” ‘“Why so coy? Come, now; you know I admire you, and” ‘“ Night after night yow will persist in forcing yourself upon me!” said the girl, as the tears rose to her eyes, and she stepped off the path into the roadway, in order to endeavour to pursue her course. “I cannot understand such conduct. It is unmanly to thus pursue a poor sirl who wishes to have nothing to say to you.” ‘““Tt is because you are poor I take so much interest in you,’ said the man. | ‘T thank you ; but must decline to hold any conversation with one who to me is a stranger,” said the girl. ‘That Iam so is not my fault,” said the young man. better acquainted with you.” ‘‘T have no desire that such should be the case,’ was the remark. ‘‘And now, sir, be good enough to understand that I cannot listen further to you, and I trust that you have not so far for- sotten the meaning of the word ‘ gentleman’ as to molest me further either on this night or any other when returning from my professional duties.” ‘“‘ Suffer me, then, to see you in the daytime,” he said, quickly. “Tt cannot be.” “Why not?” ‘We are strangers,” ‘¢ A few hours in each other’s society will re- move that barrier.” ‘But I have no wish for your society,” she said. ‘Give me a reason.” ‘Our positions in the world are evidently so different.” “ What of that?” | ‘“Much—very much. You are evidently rich ; I am poor—very poor.” “That makes no difference to me.” ‘** But to me it does.” ‘Nonsense! “Tis a foolish pride that would induce you to scorn the love of the man who could place wealth at your feet, change your poverty-stricken home to one of splendour, and | make your life of toil one round of pleasure and happiness.” | The girl sighed, and endeavoured to pass on her way. Ihe libertine, however, shifted his position, and put forth his hand to stay her. ‘Do not flee from me thus,” he said, ‘* Nay, sir ; I must go.” “Stay but one minute.” - . . “My mother waits anxiously for my return — i ¥, A ‘ Grant ‘ home,” she said. ‘No, Anxiously as I have waited to see you here,” he said. “Come, do not flee from me as though I were some terrible monster, me a minute’s speech.” | (elo) gale] eXelo) OE EE eR, a ‘“‘T have long endeavoured to become - * —— _- ~ oul — 2 a A ee a - : F <S.com