Chapter I

I RUN AWAY

I WAS born in 1887 in Camden Town. My parents had three children, all girls, and I was the eldest. I cannot remember my mother well, for she died when I was quite a child; but I have been told that she was a good woman, and greatly devoted to her children. I do not wish to speak or think harshly of my father. He may be still alive; but I have not seen him since I began my career in the circus and on the stage. He kept a public-house at the time when I was born. The business failed, and he lost money and left us in great poverty soon after the death of my mother. In a short time my father married again, and I saw nothing of him for several months.

I suppose I was about four years old when I was sent to my mother’s stepmother. I can remember her faintly, and my recollections of her are that she treated me kindly. For three or four years I was sent from one relative to another.

One of them I can recall more clearly—a hard, scolding woman who beat me severely for the slightest fault. I have a remembrance of my unhappiness throughout all those childhood days; and, with the exception of my mother’s stepmother, I cannot recall to mind any woman who ever “mothered” me, or showed any tenderness or love. I do not think that I was a very naughty, difficult child, though no doubt I caused my different guardians some worry and trouble. Whippings and cuffings were more common in those days than loving words and caresses. Nobody wanted me, and most of my relations found trouble in making both ends meet.

I am very fond of children, and when I think that there are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of little boys and girls living the sort of life that I passed through up to the age of twelve, it makes me sad. God help the unprotected, motherless child in this hard world!

I have never understood why my father appeared suddenly, after a long absence, and took me away from my aunt, who was looking after me. Had he repented for the neglect of his children?

I recall his coming late one night, and stealing me from bed, and carrying me off to the woman whom he had married. My life with my stepmother was not very unhappy; she was not unkind at first. But when she had children of her own, I think she regarded me as an interloper and a nuisance, and no doubt she was poor, and unable to provide for me as well as her own children.

It was at this time that I was sent to school. My parents were Roman Catholics, and I attended a convent school in London as a day scholar. My education was meagre; I just learned to spell, read and write, and that is all the schooling I ever had. All that I know I have learned from the many men and women I have met in my travels in this country and abroad, and from the books that I have read. But very few books came into my hands when I was young.

One day my father again disappeared mysteriously. I cannot say whether he afterwards returned to his second wife. This was the beginning of a new series of changes for me, and I went to live with my grandfather, who was married for the third time. This home was no better than the others, for I was often cruelly beaten and ill-treated.

I suppose I was a spirited child; at any rate, life became so unbearable that I made up my mind to run away. Quite distinctly, I remember slipping out of the house in the fog of a winter afternoon, and wandering through long, dreary streets in the North of London. I had no plans, and no idea where I was going to spend the night. I had escaped from my grandfather and his wife, and that was all that I cared about. But after wandering for hours, I began to feel hungry. How well I have known that feeling of hunger at different times of my life! The hunger grew worse and worse, and I was getting very tired.

Presently I sat down on a doorstep in a quiet street. I cannot remember the name of the street, but it was a long way from where I lived. People passed me and took no notice. I was only a little, ill-dressed girl. It was quite dark now, and I began to feel lonely. Perhaps I sobbed; I think it is most likely that my loneliness and hunger made me cry. At last, a passing policeman stopped and turned the light of his bull’s-eye on me as I crouched on the cold stones.

“What’s the matter?” he asked in a gruff though kindly voice.

“Please, I am so hungry!” was my reply.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Marion,” I answered.

He tried to find out where I lived, but I would not tell him, for I did not mean to return to my grandfather’s tenement.

“You had better come with me,” the constable said.

Taking my chilled little hand in his, he led me to the nearest police-station, where I was received by the inspector and other officers, and perched on a chair by the fire. After some discussion, to which I listened intently, I heard the words:

“Better take her to the workhouse.”

This frightened me very much, for I had a fancy that when once you enter a workhouse there is no coming out.

“Oh, please don’t take me there!” I begged, with tears.

But I was led through several streets, sobbing, till we reached a great building with hundreds of gaslit windows. And presently I was in charge of the matron, who tried to comfort me, and gave me into the care of a woman, who undressed me and put me to bed in a ward full of other little friendless children.

My stay in the workhouse was short. About noon the next day my grandmother who had been making inquiries at the police-station, came to take me home. She described me to the wardress as a naughty, unmanageable child, and as soon as we were in the street she began to threaten me with fearful punishment for running away.

“I’ll give you something when I get you home!” was her repeated threat.

She took me, trembling and white, into the house.

“Look at her!” she cried to my grandfather. “There’s a child for you! Run away, will you?” And as she spoke she struck me in the face, knocking me on to the floor.

All that night I lay sobbing in bed. The harshness with which my grandmother treated me was perhaps the cause of my going on the stage. If I had been brought up by my mother, who was a loving, kind-hearted woman, my life would, no doubt, have been a very different one; and it is possible that I should have been put to a trade, such as millinery or dressmaking. I cannot remember that I had any strong hankering as a child for a stage career. But at the age of twelve, after a most unhappy childhood, I realized that nobody really wanted me. I was considered an encumbrance and a nuisance. My relations were all poor, and I was just another mouth that had to be filled. It is a common story; but there are people who do not know how the poor orphaned children, born of poor parents, suffer in body and mind.

I well remember the day when I slipped out of my grandmother’s house, filled with a determination to escape for ever. There seemed to me no occupation so easy and attractive as the music-hall stage. Once or twice I had been taken by friends to a music-hall, where I had seen some of the leading comic singers, wonderful acrobats, and nimble dancers. But it was that day for the first time that I thought of the stage as a profession. I had to earn a living somehow. How could a child expect to get work? I knew no trade, and I was really too young to obtain a situation of any sort.

“There is nothing but the stage,” I said to myself, as I walked quickly through the streets of North London. I cannot remember how I came into the possession of twopence, but I know that this was the amount of my fortune on that day. With this twopence I bought a copy of the Stage.

Entering a quiet churchyard, where there were seats under the trees, I sat down and turned over the pages of the paper until I found the advertisement columns. How often I have searched those columns since that day twelve years ago! And how much I have learned, seen, and done since that morning.

There were plenty of advertisements for actresses, singers, and chorus girls; but I knew that I was too young to act, and, of course, I had no knowledge of music. My only chance seemed to lie in the circus profession or on the variety stage.

After bending for a long time over the paper, I found this notice: “Wanted immediately, girl of ten or twelve as apprentice to acrobatics. Apply Mademoiselle Elvierra.” The address was somewhere in Balham. I have quite forgotten the name of the street. I jumped up in a great state of excitement. I was only just twelve years of age, and I looked even younger. I imagine myself as a thin, ill-fed child, and I am sure that I was badly dressed.

“Where is Balham? How can I get there?” was my thought as I hurried from the churchyard.

I inquired the way from the first kind-looking woman whom I met. She looked a little surprised.

“It’s a long way,” she said. “You’d better take a bus.”

“I’ve no money,” I said.

She directed me as well as she was able, and I started off, walking over Blackfriars Bridge. By repeatedly inquiring the way, I reached Balham in the afternoon, and found the road in which Mademoiselle Elvierra lodged. It was a dingy street, and the lodgings were third-rate and frowsy. The woman who admitted me said: “Are you an acrobat?”

“I want to be one,” I answered.

“Go in there,” she said, pointing to a door.

I went into the room, and saw a woman with very yellow hair, untidily dressed, who was talking to a girl of about my own age.

“No, it’s no use,” said mademoiselle firmly; “I can’t take you without your parents’ consent. You’d better go home.”

The child’s eyes filled with tears as she turned from the room. Without speaking, she went out. A great fear came over me, for how was I to obtain my parents’ consent? My mother was dead, and I knew nothing of the whereabouts of my father. I felt that I was shaking with nervousness as Mademoiselle Elvierra’s eyes looked into mine. What could I say? I had not thought of this hindrance to my entering the artiste’s life.

“Well, who are you?” asked the acrobat, eyeing me very closely.

I told her my name, and that I wanted to go on the stage.

Possibly she was struck with my build, or she may have thought that I was intelligent and likely to become a good pupil.

“What about your mother?” she inquired.

“Oh, she doesn’t mind,” I gasped out.

“You’d have to come for five years at least.”

“I wouldn’t mind that.”

“Well, get your mother to come and see me. I think you and I would get on well together, my dear.”

A sudden flash of hope had come into my mind. I remembered that I had a married cousin at Chelsea, who had two children. She was a very kind woman. I resolved upon a desperate plan. I would see this cousin, and get her to impersonate my mother, and to consent to my becoming Mademoiselle Elvierra’s apprentice.

“When will you bring your mother?” she asked. “I’m starting for Liverpool on Sunday for a week’s work, and I want this thing fixed up at once. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said eagerly. “I’ll bring my mother along quickly—as soon as I can.”

The woman patted my cheek, and called me a good girl. She was rather a good-looking woman, and the fact that she was a performer almost overawed me. I smiled up at her shyly, and then hurried away to the back street in Chelsea where my cousin lived. How my heart thumped as I walked along the streets. My face was flushed, and I was in a state of intense excitement.

My cousin came to the door when I knocked.

“Bless me, Marion,” she said. “What brings you here, child?” And she bent down and kissed me.

Seated on a footstool, with my head against her knee, I told her of my troubles and how I longed to get away from my grandmother and to earn a living.

“You poor kiddie,” she said when I had finished, and began to sob quietly.

“It’s a queer job pretending to be your mother, but I don’t mind risking it to help you. . . . You’ve had a cruel time of it, poor child. But it’s a queer life that you’re going into. It’s hard work, and it’s dangerous. You’ll have to risk your life and limbs every time you perform, and the pay isn’t very good. Have you thought of all this?”

“I’ll do anything rather than go home,” I said, pressing her hand eagerly.

“Very well, I’ll come along with you,” returned my cousin. “Just help yourself to some bread and jam while I get my things on.”

I was glad to have something to eat, for I was very hungry; indeed, as I have said before, I knew the feeling of hunger only too well in those days.

Presently my cousin and I set out for Balham. We rode on an omnibus, and were soon at Mademoiselle Elvierra’s lodgings.

The acrobat seemed pleased at seeing me back again so quickly. Turning to my cousin, she said: “She’s a dear little child. She’ll get on well with me.”

“I hope so,” my cousin said, pretending that she felt the parting from me very deeply. “I do hope she’ll be a good girl. You’ll look after her, won’t you, and see that she always gets enough to eat?”

“Of course, she’ll be well treated. Don’t you fear about that.”

“Is it very dangerous?” asked my cousin.

“Oh, dear no; nothing like what people think,” said the artiste, smiling.

“We teach all the tricks with a lunge, and our pupils never hurt themselves. Even the trapeze and rings are not as dangerous as they look.”

“Well, Marion, you’ve quite made up your mind?” asked my cousin.

“Oh, yes,” I answered earnestly.

Mademoiselle Elvierra then produced a written contract, and began to fill in my name. She handed my cousin the pen. A glance of hesitation crossed her face for an instant, but she wrote her name hurriedly, and then, catching me in her arms, pressed me to her breast and kissed me long and lovingly. I do not think that the tears in her eyes were a pretence; they were real tears, for she felt deeply for me.

“It’s always a sad business parting,” said Mademoiselle Elvierra. “By the way,” she added suddenly, “hasn’t she any better clothes than those?”

“This is my only frock,” I explained.

“Well, she must have another. You’ll agree that this is very shabby.”

My kindly cousin offered at once to buy me another frock and a hat.

I knew that this dear soul could not well afford to buy me clothes. But she was full of love and sympathy.

After tea we went shopping, and I returned to my cousin’s house, carrying a pretty dress and blouse and a hat with poppies on it. I felt very happy indeed; I had only one regret. There was a girl friend—the only one I had—living in Camden Town, and I longed to say good-bye to her.

The longing was so strong that I could not resist it, and my cousin, touched by my affection for my friend, encouraged me to go and say good-bye to her.

Little did I think what would happen. My cousin gave me my bus fare, and I started off, eager to tell my friend of the good luck that had come to me. I was beginning a new life; in fact, I felt that I was just beginning to live for the first time. I had a beautiful new dress and a lovely hat, and I was going to Liverpool with mademoiselle to be an acrobat. It was like a fairy story.

I felt my heart beating with joy. Now I was free, and I was going to see the world.

These were my thoughts as I sat on top of a bus in Hampstead Road. I had never felt more happy and excited in my whole life. Judge of my dismay when I suddenly saw my grandmother standing on the pavement looking up at me. I realized at once that she had seen me. There was no escaping her. I sat stiff with fright; I didn’t even attempt to get off the vehicle when it stopped. My heart stood still as my grandmother came up the steps to the bus roof. She just seized my arm and led me along. I was paralysed with fright; I couldn’t speak a word.

Gripping my hand hard, she strode along to our home, and all she said was: “My word, you’ll get it for this. You’ll not run away again!”

When we reached home my grandmother’s anger blazed up like a flame. She had restrained her temper in the street, but safely within the house, she lost all control, and began to rave.

“Look at her,” she cried to my grandfather. “There’s a disreputable child for you. She’s too wicked for words. I’ll teach you to run away.” And with these words she struck me a severe blow in the face. I lay for an instant half-stunned. Then the wrathful woman seized me by the arm, and gave me a sound thrashing, finally dragging me to my bedroom and flinging me in.

I heard the key turn in the lock. I was a prisoner. My back was stiff and sore from the beating. But what hurt me most was the thought that I was locked up, and that Mademoiselle Elvierra was expecting me the next day. What would she think? I thought, too, of my cousin. She would be alarmed at my absence.

Oh, how I suffered that night! I cried and cried till my eyes ached. My position seemed quite hopeless; there was a hard fate against me. At the very moment when I fancied that I was free this terrible fate had overtaken me, and I was again in the clutch of my grandmother. I saw the dawn break, and I still lay sobbing on the bed in the utmost dejection.

It was Sunday morning, and the street was quiet. I could only hear the clink of the milkman’s pail, the steady tread of a policeman, and the distant sound of a railway train. I knew that my guardians would not get up until about eleven o’clock.

Presently I became wild and desperate. I looked into the street, and measured with my eye the height of the drop on to the pavement. Had I been a trained acrobat, as I am now, I would not have hesitated to clamber down the water spout. But my courage was not strong enough to risk a broken neck. I wrung my hands in utter misery. Oh, that I could screw up my courage to leap out of the window. Again and again I looked down on the pavement with a shudder of fright. If I jumped and broke my leg, I could not get to Balham. No, fate was against me. I was a wretched, helpless little girl.

Soon I began to hear sounds in the house. My grandmother was up and getting a cup of tea to carry to my grandfather. The church bells began to ring, and people passed along the street. It was a bright day, and the sky was a clear blue, but the sunshine seemed to mock at my grief.

Suddenly the door was thrown open, and my stern grandmother appeared.

“Now, then, you worthless little hussy, go and take the milk in, and then make your bed,” she said, scowling at me.

Here was my chance. If I gained the front door I could easily make a dash down the street. My heart began to throb hurriedly, and my breath came short, as I opened the front door. The street was quiet; no one was in sight. I left the door open, darted off as fast as I could run, and flew round the first corner. In a few minutes I was panting down the Camden Road, running as I had never run before. Several people stared at me as I tore along. I think I ran nearly the whole length of the Hampstead Road before I dropped into a walk. I was at last forced to walk, for there was a sharp pain in my chest, and my breath was quite spent. But I am sure that I ran almost all the way to Balham. Sometimes I looked anxiously behind me, fearing that some one might be pursuing me. And when I thought of my grandmother’s rage, I started to run again, like a hunted creature.

At last I staggered up the steps of Mademoiselle Elvierra’s lodgings. I had scarcely strength enough left to knock at the door.

My future mistress was up and busy packing her things in a theatrical dress-basket. I entered a littered room, and found her, with her yellow hair down her back, kneeling at a drawer.

“Great Scott!” she exclaimed; “I’ve been tearing my hair all the morning. Do you know we’re due at Euston in two hours? Where have you been? I expected you early.”

Her voice was agitated and angry, and there was a gleam in her eyes that frightened me. I noticed that she was not a woman to be trifled with.

Well, I am afraid I told her a long string of fibs about having overslept myself, and lost my way walking from my cousin’s house.

“You’ll have to smarten up,” she said. “If you’d have come a little later you’d have found me gone, bag and baggage, and you wouldn’t have been able to find me. Where are those clothes you were going to get, and where is your hat?”

Then I remembered that I had run away without my hat, and that my new clothes were at my cousin’s.

“I’m sorry,” I stammered. “You see, I was in such a hurry that I came out without my hat and the parcel of things.”

“You little idiot,” said Mademoiselle Elvierra. “We’ll have to drive round that way and fetch your things. That’ll be another two or three shillings for the cab fare. How vexing!”

She tossed a pair of mauve tights into the basket, and muttered something under her breath, which I took for a threat. It was quite plain that my employer had a temper. I wondered if I had jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire. Would she be cruel to me?

Soon the packing was finished, and I was sent to bring a four-wheeler from a neighbouring stand. Mademoiselle Elvierra was ready for the journey. Her cheeks were touched with rouge, and she had darkened her eyebrows, and passed a powder-puff over her face. She looked every inch a performer. No one could have mistaken her for anything else than a “professional.” She wore a large, showy hat and a lot of flash jewellery.

I felt very shabby and insignificant by her side as we sat in the jolting cab.

At my cousin’s I jumped out and rang the bell. Mademoiselle Elvierra remained in the cab, and told me to be quick.

My dear cousin was delighted to see me again, for she had been very alarmed at my absence; but there was no time to waste. I told my story hurriedly, took my clothes, and, after she had pressed me to her breast, and asked me to write often to her, my cousin bade me good-bye.