THE NEIGHBOUR’S BAIRN.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2180, 19 February 1881, Page 3

THE NEIGHBOUR’S BAIRN.

[By Henry Irving, la ‘ Tho Green Room, ] When, a year ago, we produced at the Lyceum, aa a first piece, the old Scotch drama of * Cramond Brig,’ the various members of the company playing in the ; piece had fall choice of wherewithal to wash down their ‘ heed and harriglea ’ —(of which, by the way. over 100 were consumed during the run) —and the miller’s sapper became a nightly jollity, except, perhaps, to the Scotch nobility and the king’s huntsmen, who, with watery mouths aud eager eyes, crowded the wings, forbidden by the irony of dramatic fate to enter upon the scene until the supper had been cleared away. This piece had reminded me of an lacident which came under my notice a good many years ago. In the off season of a large provincial theatre, in which I was a stock actor, I took an engagement at a small town, then known as one of the most thriving seaports of the North. The salary was little; the parts were long, and there was not much opportunity for gaining renown. However, it was bettor than remaining idle, as, at the worst, tho amount of debt to be accumulated was minimised. Tho manager was not a bad fellow, and having been a good actor in his time was only too glad to be surrounded by a dais cf actors whose services ho could only obtain by tho opportunity sffordtd by the bright summer—-in those palmy days the darkest and wintriest season to the airy comedian or the thoroughly legitimate tragedian. Huropening bill consisted of ‘Cramond Brig,’ ‘Lord Darnley,’ * Wallace, the hero of Scotland,’ and ‘Gilderoy, the Bonnie fo/,’ li all of which I played, besides contributing my share in the National Anthem, which was right loyally and loudly sung by the entire strength of the company. After the rehearsal of ‘Cramond Brig,’ our jolly manager said, 1 Now, boys, I shall stand a real supper tonight ; no pasteboard and parsley, but a real sheep’s head, and a little drop of real Bdotoh.’ A tumult ot applause. 1 he manager was as good as his word, for at night there was a real head well equipped with turnips and carrots, and the “drop of the real Scotch.” The “neighbor’s bairn,” an important character in the scene, came in and took her seat sa usual beside the millers chair. She was a pretty, sad-eyed, intelli gent child of some nine years old. _ In the coarse ot the meal, when Jock Howison was freely passing the whisky, she leaned over to him and said—

‘ Please, will you give me a little ?’ Ho looked surprised. She was so earnest in her request that I whispered to her—-‘To-morrow, perhaps, if yon want it very much, you shall have a thimbleful.’ To-morrow night came, and, to my amusement, she produced from the pocket of her little plaid frock a bright piece of brass, and held is out to me. I said—‘ What’s this ?’ ‘A thimble, sir.' * But what am I to do with it ?’ ‘Yon said that you would give me a thimbleful of whisky if I wanted it, and I do w»nt it.’

This was said so naturally that the audience laughed and applauded. I looked over to the miller, and found him with the butt end of his knife and fork on the table, and his eyes wide open, gazing at us in astonishment. However, we were both ex* perienced enough to pass off this unrehearsed effect as a part of the piece. I filled the thimble, and the child took it back carefully to her little “ creepy ” stool beside the miller. I watched her, and presently saw her turn her back to the audience and pour it into a little halfpenny tin snuff-box. She covered the box with a bit of paper, and screwed on the ’id, thus making the box pretty water-tight, and put it into her pocket. When the curtain fell, our manager came forward and patted the child’s head. * Why, my little girl,’ eaid he, * you are quite a genius. Tour gag is the beat thing in ’the piece. We must have it in every night Bat, my child, you mustn’t drink the whisky. No, no ! that would never do.' * Oh, sir, indeed I won’t; I give you my word I won’t,’ she said, quite earnestly, and ran to her dressing room. “Oiamond Brig " had an unprecedented run of six nights, and the little lady always got her thimbleful of whisky, and her round of applause. And eaoh time I noticed that sbo corked up the former safely in the snuff box. I was ;curious as to what she could posaib’y want with the spirit, and who she was and where ehe came from. I asked her, but she seamed so unwilling to tell, and turned bo red, that I did not press her; but 1 found out that it was the old story—no mother, and a drunken father. Still, it was strange ; what coaid she want with the whisky—a child like her ? It could not be for the drunken father. I was completely at fault, I took a fancy to the little thing, and wished to fathom her secret, for a secret I felt sure there was. After the performance, I saw my little lady come out. Poor little child! there was no mother or brother to see her to her home. She hurried up the street, and turning into the poorest quarter of the town entered the common stair of a tumble-down old house. I followed, feeling my way as best I could. She went np and up, till in the very top flat she entered a little room. A handful cf fire glimmering in the grate revealed a sickly boy, some two years her junior, who crawled towards her from where he was lying before the fire. •Cissy, I’m glad you’re heme,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d never come.’ Hho pnt her arms icund him, laid the poor little bead on her thin shoulders, and took him over to tho fire again, trying to comfort him as she went, ‘ls the pain very bad to-night, Willie ? ’ •Yes.’ A sadder “ yes ” I never beard. ‘Willie, I with 1 could bear the pain for you.’ * It’s cruel of father to send me out in the wet; he knows how bad I am.’ * Hush! Willie, hush! he might hear you.’ ‘I don’t care! I don’t care! I wish he would kill me at once.’ The reckless abandon of the child’s des* pair was dreadful, ‘ Hush ! hush ! ho is our father, and we musn’t say such things.’ This through her faat;f*lling tears. Then she said, ‘ Let me try to make the pain better.’ Tho boy took off his ehirt. The girl leaned over and pnt her arms round him and kissed the shoulder ; she then pat her hand into her pocket and took out the snnff box.

1 Oh, Willie, 1 wish we had more, bo that it might ouio the pain.’ Having lighted a dip candle, she rubbed the child’s rheumatic shoulder with the few drops of spirit, and then covered up the little thin body, and sitting before the fire, took the boy's bead on her knee and began to sing him to sleep I took another look into the room through the half-open door; my foot creaked; the frightened eyes met mine, I put my fingers on my lips and crept away. But es I began to descend the stair I met a drunken man ascending—slipping and stumbling as he came. He slipped and stumbled by mo, and entered the room. I followed to the landing unnoticed, and stood in the dark shadow of the half-open door. A hoarse brnt»l voice growled, * What are yon doing there?—get np I’ * I can’t father ; Willie’s head is on my knees. * * Get up!’ She gently laid the boy’s bead on the floor, pillowed it in her little shawl, and stood up. * Father, Willie is very sick ! you ought to try to get him cured.’ ‘Phut np. If I hear another word I’ll make you and him too keep yourselves quiet ’ And the brute flung himself on his bed, mattering to himself in his drunken semioblivion, 4 Cure him, indeed ! Not if I know it. 'lhat’s not the way to get the money ; bis congh is worth a lot alone. Cure him. indeed 1 Not likely !’ The black-hearted scoundrel! The girl bowed her head lower and lower, I could not bear It. I entered the room. The brute was on the bed already in his besotted sleep. The child stole up to me, and in a half-frightened whisper said, 4 Oh, sir, oughtn’t people to keep secrets if they knew them ? I think they ought, if they are other people’s. This with the dignity of a queen. I conld not gainsay her ; so I said, as gravely as I could, to the little woman, ‘ The secret shall be kept, but yon mnst ask me if yon want anything.’ She bent over, suddenly kissed my hand, and I went down the stair.

The next night she was shy in coming for the whisky, and I took care that she had good measure The last night of our long run of six nights she looked more happy than I had ever seen her. When she came for the whisky she hold out the thimble and whispered to me, with her poor pale lips trembling, ‘ You need only pretend to night,’ * Why?’ I whispered. ‘ Because he doesn’t want it now, B e’a dead !*