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  SMETHURSTSES.

  by

  Frances Hodgson Burnett

  SCRIBNER'S MONTHLY

  VOL. XIV.

  AUGUST, 1877.

  NO. 4.

  pp. 467-477

  SMETHURSTSES, mum--yes, mum, on accounts of me bein' Smethurst an' the wax-works mine. Fifteen year I've been in the business, an' if I live fifteen year more I shall have been in it thirty; for wax-works is the kind of a business as a man gets used to and friendly with, after a manner. Lor' bless you! there's no tellin' how much company them there wax-works is. I've picked a companion or so out of the collection. Why, there's Lady Jane Grey, as is readin' her Greek Testyment; when her works is in order an' she's set a-goin', liftin' her eyes gentle-like from her book, I could fancy as she knew every trouble I'd had an' was glad as they was over. And there's the Royal Fam'ly on the dais an a settin' together as free and home- like and smilin' as if they wasn't nothin' more than flesh an' blood like you an' me an' not a crown among 'em. Why, they've actually been a comfort to me. I've set an' took my tea on my knee on the step there many a time, because it seemed cheerfuller than in my own little place at the back. If I was a talkin' man I might object to the stillness an' a general fixedness in the gaze, as perhaps is an objection as wax-works is open to as a rule, though I can't say as it ever impressed me as a very affable gentleman once said it impressed him.

  "Smethurst," says he, "you must have a blamed clear conscience (though, bein' rather free-spoken, `blamed' was not the precise word employed)--you must have a blamed clear conscience or I'm blamed if you could stand so many blamed pair of staring eyes gimleting you year in an' year out. An' as to them with works," says he, "they're worse than the others, for even if they turn away a minute they always turn back again, as if they wouldn't trust you out of their sight."

  But somehow, I never thought of it in that way, an' as to not liking the quiet, why shouldn't I? In a general way I haven't got no more to say than they have, and so it suits me well enough. I will own though, as I've never felt particular comfortable in the Chamber of Horrors, an' never wouldn't have had one, but even in a small collection like mine the public demands it, an' wouldn't hear of bein' satisfied without one, "for" says they, "what's the use of a wax-works without Manning an' them, an' the prisoners in the dock an' the knife as the young woman was cut up in pieces with?" So I was obliged to have the little back room hung with black, like Madame Tussaud's in a small way, and fitted up with murders and a model of the guillotine and two or three heads of parties as come to a untimely end in the French Revolution. But it aint my taste for all that, and there's always a heaviness in the air as makes me low-like an' I'm glad to turn the key on 'em at night an' leave 'em to have a rest from the stares an' talk an' stirrin' up of their sin, an' the shame an' agony of their dreadful deaths. Good Lord! it turns me sick to think of them havin' been real livin' creatures with mothers an' wives an' friends, some of 'em perhaps livin' to-day all crushed an' blasted with the horror they've went through.

  But that aint the story as I've half-way promised to tell you. If you really want to hear it, mum, I don't mind tellin' it, though I don't know as it will be interestin'--I've often wondered if it would be as interestin' to outsiders as it was to me, bein' as it's the story of a friend of mine as was something like me an likewise had a wax-works. Would you mind settin' there, mum, next to the Japanese party? This lady's works was broke an' her bein' absent at the cleaner's leaves the chair vacant most convenient.

  His name it was Joe--this acquaintance of mine, an', as I said, he was somethin' of my build an' temper. He was a quiet chap an' a lonely chap, an' London was his native place-- leastways, I don't see as it could have been no nativer than it was, bein' as he was laid at the door of a London foundlin' when he wasn't no more than a few days old, and London fed him and clothed him until he was big enough to take care of hisself. He hadn't a easy life of it as you may be sure. He wasn't handsome nor yet sharp, he couldn't answer back nor yet give cheek; he could only take it, which he had to do frequent.

  There was plenty of folks as give him the character of a nat'ral born fool, an' they may have been right. They said as no chap as had his right senses could be as good-natured an' ready to forgive a injury an' above all as slow to suspect as one was bein' done him. I think they thought his bein' slow to suspect harm a-goin' on was the best proof of his bein' a fool,--an' he wasn't ready enough with his tongue to argy the point. He wasn't never good at a argyment--Joe wasn't.

  Well, he growed up, an' he did first one thing an' then another, until at last he was picked up by a travelin' wax-works showman as had just such a collection as this here of mine-- havin' in it just such a Lady Jane Grey, and likewise a sim'lar Royal Fam'ly.

  "Well," says the wax-works man, when Joe first goes to ask for work, "what can you do?"

  "Not much, perhaps," says Joe; "leastways, I've not been in the business before; but if you'll give me a job, Mister, I can do what I'm told."

  The showman gives him a look from head to foot.

  "Well," says he, "at all events, you're not one of them blarsted sharp uns as knows everything an' can't dust a figger without knockin' its head off. I've had enough of them sort"-- savage like--"a-ruinin' my Richard Cure the Lion, an' a-settin' Mary Queen o' Scottses insides all wrong" (which was what his last young man had been adoin').

  "No," answers Joe, slow an' serious, "I don't think as I'd do that."

  The showman gives him another look, an' seems sort of satisfied.

  "Go inside an' get your dinner," he says. "I'll try you just because you haven't got so much cheek."

  And he did try him, an' pretty well they got on together, after a while. Slowness is not a objection in a wax-works as much as in a business as is less delicater. I've thought myself as p'r'aps wax-works has their feelin's, an' knows who means respec'ful by 'em an' who doesn't, an' this Joe meant respec'ful, an' never took no liberties as he could help. He dusted 'em reg'lar, an' wound 'em up an' set 'em goin' accordin' to rules; but he never tried no larks on 'em, an' that was why he gets along so well with his master.

  "That other chap was too fond of his larks," says the showman, kind of gloomy whenever he mentions the first young man. He never forgave him to the day of his death for openin' the collection one day with Charles the Secondses helmet on Mrs. Hannah Mooreses head, an' Daniel in the Lions' Den in William Pennses spectacles, with some other party's umbrella under his arm.

  But Joe weren't of a witty turn, an' not given to jokes, which is not suited to wax-works as a rule, collections bein' mostly serious. An', as I say, him an' his master got along so well that one day, after they had been together a year or so, the showman, he says to him, "Joe," says he, "I'm blessed if I'd mind takin' you in as a partner." An' that very mornin' he has the reg'lar papers made out, an' the thing was done without no more said about it. An' partners they was til he died, which happened very unexpected--him a sayin' sudden one night when they was a- shuttin' up together, "Joe, old chap, I'm blessed if my works aint a runnin' down," an' gives one look round at the figgers, an' then drops--which the medical man said as it was dropsy of the heart. When his things was looked over, it was found he'd left everythin' to Joe except one partic'lar ugly figger, as turned his eyes with a squint an' couldn't be done nothin' with, an' him he'd left to a old maid relation as had a spite agin him; "for," says the will, "she'd ought to have him, for he's the only chap I ever see yet as could match her--let alone stand her, an' it's time she was takin' a partner, if she's goin' to." They did say as it was nearly the party's death, for, though they'd quarreled reg'lar for twenty-five years an' hated each other deadly, she'd always believed as she'd come into his belongin's if she outlived him, thinkin' as he wouldn't make no will.<
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  Well, havin' had company for so long, it was nat'ral as Joe should feel lonely-like after this, an' now an' then get a trifle down-hearted. He didn't find travelin' all alone as pleasant as it had been, so when he was makin' anything at all in a place, he'd stay in it as long as he could, an' kind of try to persuade hisself as it was kind of home to him, an' he had things to hold him to it. He had a good many feelin's in secret as might have been laughed at if people had knowed 'em. He knew well enough as he wasn't the kind of chap to have a home of his own--men as has homes has wives, an' who'd have wanted to marry him, bless you--he wasn't the build as young women take to. He weren't nothin' to look at, an' he couldn't chaff, nor yet lark, nor yet be ready with his tongue. In general, young women was apt to make game of him when their sweethearts brought em' into the collection, an' there was times when a pretty, light-hearted one would put him out so as he scarcely knew the Royal Fam'ly by name, an' mixed up the Empress of the French an' Lucreecher Borgiar in the description.

  So he lived on, lonesome enough, for two or three year, an' then somethin' happened. He went up to London to stay while the races was goin' on, an' one day, when the collection was pretty full, there comes in a swell party with a girl on his arm. The swell, as was a tall, fine-lookin' chap, was in high sperits, an' had just come in for the lark of the thing, Joe sees plain, for he were makin' his jokes free an' easy about everythin', an' laughin' fit to kill hisself every now an' then. But the girl were different; she were a little rosy thing, with round, shinin' eyes, an' a soft, little timid way with her. She laughed too, but only shy an' low, an' more because she was happy an' because the swell laughed. She wasn't the kind of young woman as the swell ought to have been a-goin' with. She was dressed in her best, an' was as pretty as a pictur'; but her clothes was all cheap, an' Joe could see as she belonged to the workin' class, an' was out for a holiday. She held close to the gentleman's arm, an' seemed half frightened, an' yet so glad an' excited that she would have minded you of a six-year-old child. It were the first time she'd ever been into a wax-works, an' things looked wonderful to her. When they come to Lady Jane Grey she was quite took with her, an' begun to ask questions in the innocentest way.

  "She's one of the nobility, sir, isn't she?" she says to her companion. "Did you ever see her? Isn't she beautiful, sir?"

  He laughs delighted, an' squeezes her hand a bit with his arm.

  "No, Polly," he says. "I never saw her until to-day. She didn't keep her head on her shoulders long enough. It was cut off some time ago, my dear." An' then he whispers: "An' it wasn't nearly as pretty a head as yours, Polly, either."

  The little girl blushes like a rose, an' tries to laugh too; but Joe knew as she'd took the words more to her innocent heart than was good for her.

  "Lor' me!"she says. "What a shame it was to cut her head off,--an' her so sweet an' quiet!"

  "Yes, Polly," says the young gentleman, a-laughin' more. "Very quiet. Wax-works are, as a rule. A nice time a proprietor would have, if they were not, with such a lot of queer customers,--Bloody Mary, for instance, and Henry the Eighth, and Nana Sahib, and John Knox, and Lucretia Borgia,--though you don't know much of their amiable characteristics, my dear."

  They went on in that way through the whole room,--him a- jokin' an', makin' light, an' her enjoyin' herself an' admirin' everythin' she set eyes on, an' Joe a-watchin' her. He couldn't help it. Somethin' queer seemed to have took hold of him the minute he first sees her. He kep' a-wishin' as the collection was ten times as big, so as it would take longer for her to go through. He couldn't bear the thought of seein' the last of her, an' when they comes to the Russian party, as stands near the door, dressed for the winter season,--his nose bein' protected with fur, after the fashion of the country,--his heart were in his mouth, an' when she passed out into the crowd, he seemed to swallow it with a gulp, as took it into the heels of his boots. "Lor'!" he says, all of a tremble in his insides. I shan't never see her again,--never!" He hadn't no spirit in him all that day, nor the next either. It was as if somethin' altogether out of common had happened, an' he couldn't never be the same man again. He were miserable, an' down an' nervous, an' there wasn't a figger in the collection as didn't seem to know it. He took to standin' at the door whenever he could, a-lookin' at the people a-passin' by. An' yet he scarcely knowed what for. If he'd seen the face he wanted to, he wouldn't 'a' dared to say a word, nor yet to move a step; an' still he was a-hungerin' day an' night for a glimpse of what couldn't be no good to him.

  Well, if you'll believe me, mum, instead of gettin' easier as time went on, he got uneasier. He was as lonesome again as he had been, an' he took his tea a-settin' with the Royal Fam'ly reg'lar,--he couldn't have swallowed it by hisself. After shuttin' up, he'd go out wanderin' in the streets melancholy and wistful like, an' one night he stops short all at once, a-feelin' hisself turn pale in consequence of it comin' to him sudden what ailed him.

  "I've fell in love," says he, fearful an' respec'ful,-- "that's it,--an' there's no help for me. I'm not the man as should have done it, for I can't look for nothin' to come out of it."

  He give hisself up to it, because he didn't see no way out of it. Nobody wasn't troubled but hisself, an' so it didn't matter. He got pale an' thin, an' didn't sleep well o' nights, but there wasn't no one to bother themselves about him,--there weren't even a soul as he could 'a' left the collection to, if he'd 'a' died.

  It went pretty hard with him to leave London, an' when he did leave it, he couldn't stay away; an' I'm blessed if he didn't come back in less than six months; for, says he to hisself:

  "Here's a place as is somethin' more than the others, at least, though it is in a sorrowful way, an' I'd rather as the collection would earn me a bare livin' in a side-street in London, than make money away from it. I might see her again; an', Lor' bless me! what do I want of money a-layin' back?"

  Well, the very first night after he came back, he did see her again. He'd set, out the collection in the room he'd hired, an' then he'd gone out in the old wanderin' way, an' he hadn't hardly stepped into the street before he comes on a crowd gathered around somethin' near a lamp-post; so he stops nat'ral, an, makes inquiries. "Anybody hurt?" says he.

  "No, not exactly," answers the man he'd spoke to. "It's a young woman as has fainted, I think."

  He makes his way a bit nearer, an' as soon as he claps his eyes on the deathly face under the lamp-light, he sees as it's the face he's been lookin' for an' thinkin' about so long.

  "It's her!" he says, so shook as he didn't know what he was doin'. "It's Polly!"

  "Polly!" says the woman as was holdin' her head. "Do you know her, young man? If you do, you'd better speak to her, for she's just comin' to, poor little thing!"

  He knew he couldn't explain, an' he thinks, besides, as the feelin' he had for her might make his face look friendlier than a stranger's, so he kneels down as the woman tells him, just as she opens her eyes.

  The crowd seemed to frighten her, an' she began to tremble an' cry; an' so Joe speaks to her, low, an' quiet, an' respec'ful:

  "Don't be afraid, miss," he says,--"don't. You'll be well directly."

  She catches hold of his hand like a frightened baby.

  "Send them away!" she says. "Please, don't let them stare at me. I can't bear it!"

  "Miss," says Joe, "would you mind bein' took into a collection, if this good lady would go with you?"

  "A collection!" she says, all bewildered. I haven't got any money. What is it for? Oh! please make them go away!"

  "Not a hat took 'round, miss," says Joe. "Oh, dear, no! I was alludin' to a wax-works which is quite convenient, an' belongs to me, an' a fire an' a cup of tea ready immediate, an' a good lady to stay with you until you feel better,--an' all quite private."

  "Take me anywhere, please," she says. "Thank you, sir. Oh! take me away."

  So between them, joe an' the good woman helps her up an' leads her to the door as was but a few steps off, an' Joe takes them in an' on to the back room, where th
e fire was a burnin' an' the kettle singin' an' there he has them both to sit down.

  The woman makes the girl lie down on the sofa by the fire, an' she bein' weak an' wanderin' yet did as she was told without askin' a question.

  "A cup of tea'll set her up," says the woman, "an' then she can tell us where she lives an' we can take her home."

  Joe went about like a man in a dream. His legs was unsteady under him an' he was obliged to ask the woman to pour the water on the tea, an' while she was doin' it he takes a candle and slips into the collection secret, to make sure the Royal Fam'ly was there an' he wasn't out of his head.

  The woman, havin' girls of her own, was very motherly an' handy an' did all she could, but she couldn't stay long, and after she'd given Polly her tea, she says she must go.

  "An' I dare say as the young man as is so kind-hearted'll come along with me an' we'll see you home together, my dear."

  They both looks at Polly then a-waitin' to see what she would say, but she only looked frightened an' the next minute hides her face in her little hands on the sofa-arm an' begins to sob.

  "I haven't got no home," she says, "nor nowhere to go. What shall I do--what shall I do?"

  Then the woman looks very serious an' a bit hard-like about the mouth--though not as hard as some might have done.

  "Where's your mother?" she says, just the least short.

  "I haven't none," says Polly. "I lost her a month ago." "You aint in mournin'," says the woman.

  "No, ma'am," says Polly, "I couldn't afford it." "An' your father?"

  But this made the poor little thing cry harder than ever. She wrung her hands an' sobbed pitiful.

  "Oh, father!" she says. "Good, kind, easy father, if you was alive I wouldn't be like this. You always loved me--always. You never was hard, father."

  "What have you been livin' on?" says the woman, lookin' as if she was a-relentin'.

  "I was in a shop----" But Joe couldn't stand no more.

  "Ma'am," he says in a undertone, "if a pound or so, which not bein' a fam'ly man an' a good business at times, I have it to spare, would make matters straight, here it is." An' he pulls a handful of silver out of his pocket and holds it out quite eager an' yet fearful of givin' offense.