LIFE STORIES OF LONDON BEGGARS

Waipawa Mail, Volume XXXVII, Issue 8178, 3 May 1919, Page 4 (Supplement)

LIFE STORIES OF LONDON BEGGARS

By STUART MARTIN. THE STORY OF CLARE BURDIS. .In one of the refuges for women which are only known to sqcial workers Li- London there was until recently a beautiful woman whose dark complexion told plainly that she had more than British blood in her veins.

She was found one night on the Embankment. as she 'was in the act of throwing herself into the Thames; and when she was dragged back by the firm but kindly hand of the police she was handed over to a social workers’ organisation for them to look after her. She was in a very frail condition, and must have undergone terrible privations. Yet she refused to give a detailed story of herself, and declined even to divulge her real name.

Social workers soon learn to classify the flotsam and jetsam of poor humanity with which they come into contact. They know that the people who have “ fallen” from well-to-do conditions are •the least inclined to /tell their tragic history. The others, the poor who have always been poor, and have never felt the tremendous humiliation of their wreachedness, generally give their rescuers all the information necessary readily enough. When some wretched creature refuses to give Ins or her name, and speaks in a refined voice, then the social workers know that there is more than ordinary tragedy behind the veil. It was so in the case of this woman who had been snatched from .the Thames. But this woman was an exception among exceptions. As she overcame the semi-starvation through which she had passed she blossomed into a magnificent creature —so pretty that even the social workers into whose hands she had fallen became uneasy. They wondered what aristocrat had fallen so low; yet they did not press itheir inquiries too closely, for Clare Buidis, as she told them her name was had a. way of putting a stop to questions which indicated at once that she was no ordinary woman.

In spiite of her shabby, patched clothing, she was strikingly handsome. Tall, of commanding appearance with perfect teeth and large, lustrous eyes, it was easy to see that had she gowned in silks she would have taken her place among the fascinating women in the West End. Her main anxiety was to get out of the shelter in which, was placed,, and only the lack of opportunity fto get. away kept her there. The guardians of the home in vain asked for the names of her fitfiends <U rrelatives. To ail questions she replied with the same answer, “I have no friends nor relatives.” In itime she became conscious that the only way to get out into the Iworid again was to get- the officials to procure a humble position for her, and after a few more weeks she was informed that she could have a position as scullery maid in one of the big West End houses near Park Lane. She remained silent for a few moments when the offer was! made to her, then she bowed.

“I shall take it,” she said. “And when I have made some money I shall repay you for your kindness. I will not forget.” vShe lefit at the end of that week, and was taken to her new place. There she had an interview with the lady of the house, who was rather surprised at her new maid’s commanding beauty. That day she entered on her dirties—and m the afternoon she walked out of the house and never returned.

It was annoying for the mistress, but she paid no more attention to the incident than simply applying ito her registry office for another. Clare Burdis had told one of the other kitchen maids that she did not intend to come back ;■ and that was the end of it so far as that house was concerned . But it was not the end of Clare. Her life for over a year became that/ of a beggar. She became known to the police as the “Princess,” and on several occasions she was taken to the police court and charged with begging. On each occasion the magistrate was astonished at the fading beauty—for hardships were telling on her —of the prisoner, and let her go after she had promised to ger employment. The police court missionaries offered their services —and were as steadily refused by the prisoner. Each time she became more determined than ever to lead her own life.

But at last one police-court missionary, finding that all his questions were met with a stony indifference, tried a new form of attack. He had 'taken her to his office.

“Your husband is looking for you,’ lie said suddenly. Why don’t you go back to him?” The shot told. Clare Burdis turned pale, and her hand went up ito her throat as if she were choking. The missionary rose and placed a glass of water before her. What do you know of my husband?’' she asked huskily.

“Nothing,” was the candid reply. “1 know nothing whatever, buit. I know that you are not a bad woman, and l know that lie must lie looking for you. J have watched you. You are ncib a woman of the streets. You have been tempted, you have been tried, and you have been compelled to endure hard, terrible conditions. You are inflicting these hardships on yourself. Why do you do it? I cannot tell. But I know that you are not an .ordinary woman. I want you to tell me just who you are.” “ But how did you know I was married ”*

“I. guessed that. You were in the court yesterday with a poor mother who carried a half-starved child in her arms. She was a bad woman, and she was careless of the child. I saw you draw the shawl protectingly around the childwhile the mother was carelessly gossiping with someone. Only a mother could have done that ”

“A mother!” repeated this strange woman absently. “Yes. I am a mother.’’ She looked for a moment at her Jof.b hand, then, remembering that there was no wedding ring on her third finger, she shuddered and burst out weeping. T]he missionary let her weep. Later, when she had collected herself, he got the story from her wliidh no other man had been able to extract, and lie read it. to me in her words which he took down at the time. It was a pitiful story, and it was stramrer /than he had expected to hear. She told everything, leaving nothing concealed. “I was born in Liverpool,” she said, “ my father being English and my mother Greek. That is where T got my dark complexion from; she was the (laugher of one of the wealthy councillors of one of the Greek isla.nds. My age is thirty-two. .My father was engaged spoil go-fishing among the islands when ho met my mother. She used to come i-o England with him on hi*- trips heme, and that is how T was horn there. During one of the Balkan disturbance" my father was killed, and my mother took mo into the interior. I was but a few years old then. We travelled To Armenia then to Oir-nssia. When I was forteen years old I was sold to ore of the Turkish pasha* for his harem. 1 learned to dance there. The nasha was p. good man, and I was his favourit .

but I was noit: allowed to remain long in his harem. I respected the pasha. He was very good to me, and I had an easy, clean life. But one day when i w as out driving I saw a very handsome British officer attired in a uniform of brilliant colours; and he saw me. 1 raised my veil, and we fell in love with each other that instant. He followed my carriage home, and bribed a servant to bring a note to me. I replied, and made arrangements to meet him. Wo kept our first meeting ithat evening undler a figtree near the harem. This w.as my first and only love sifair. i loved that man more than life.

‘‘l shall not tell you his name, for lie still lives. He was a baronet, and held a high post in .the British service. He was brave, true, and strong. He came to tho pasha and asked him for me. The pasha knowing that I was but a girl and was innocent, at first hesitated to part with me, but ultimately I joined my appeals to those of my lover and one night 1 ran away to him. He protected me while he secured the pasha’s consent. Then we were married.

“A year after we were married we had a son. I worshipped my child as few women would worship their only child. My nature wa*s strong, impulsive, and passionate. I grew to be anxious whenever my boy was absent from me. Next to my hoy 1 loved my husband best of all on earth.

“One of my maids was a rough, sullen native girl who knew I disliked her. One day site deliberately let fall and broke a very valuable vase which my husband had secured for me after infinite pains. I was as once consumed with rage, and I seized a riding whip and beat this clumsy girl. I could' not help it; I knew she had done it deliberately. “ She left my house swearing revenge. I did not know at the time, but this girl was ito be married to one of my menservants, also a Turk. He had seen me beat her, and the two set to work to get revenge . You do not understand in this /country, but in the East it is different. Less than a week after .1 had thrashed the girl my little boy, barely five years old, took ill and died in my arms. I knew he had been poisoned, buib I could not prove it. The doctors said there was no trace of poison in his body, 'but I knew differently. Even my husband tried to get me/ to think as the doctors did.

“ After the funeral I sent for the girl and told her 'that I knew she liacl caused my baby’s death, and that L would accuse her of murder before the authorities, and she would be sent to prison for life. My words frightened her, and she confessed (that her lover had done the deed. She told me that ho had a great knowledge of herbs, and had given one to my baby to eat after dipping it in sugar. It was a poison, -the traces of which cannot be found in the body. When the girl told me this I sent her to the kitchen, pretending to let her go fired after she had had some food. I did not wait for my husband as I should have done. ) sat down at the window and looked out over the garden, wondering and thinking, l did not weep. I was past weeping. “Suddenly, down in the courtyard, 1 saw the man who had given my baby the poison. I rose and went to my husband’s room where he kept his revolvers. Taking one, I made sure that it was loaded . Then, wntih the weapon under m.y dress, I went out into the courtyard.

The man was standing at the door of the stables. I went up to him and accused him in front of other servants. He tried to deny it at first; but I drew my revolver, and he fell on his kneec confessing. I was mad and wrong, but I could not help myself. I shot him between the eyes. I remember that I shot him twice in the same place, then emptied the revolver into his body as lie lay. Then I turned and ran into the house.

I was arrested, but my husband, who was stupefied at the occurrence, spent time and money on my behalf. His high position permitted him to do /things which could not have been done in England. He secured my release, and the affair did nat get into the newspapers. Buit a few days after my release there came word from the local authorities that I could not be allowed to remain in-the country, and tnat I most leave within two weeks. My husband set to work again to got the authorities to change their minds, but. I saw it was useless.

“I spent many sleepless nights, then 1 made u/p my mind. 1 slaw 1 was ruining my husband’s career. He could stay if I was away. The /terrible position into which I had brough him preyed on my mind. Perhaps the death of my boy had unhinged my mind. I do not know. At any rate, I went away, leaving a note for my husband 'telling him that I would/ go out of his life. “111 my haste I forgot to take much money and left practically all my jewels. I reached Vienna, only to find that l had but twenty drachmae in my purse. What happened after that is neither here nor there. I earned my living as best I could. At times 1 have danced m cabarets. I have sung in the streets, just as I am doing in London. I spent some time in Paris, ana had some money saved when it was stolen from me. Then i crossed to London. That is all.”

“ Why did you not write to your father’s people?” asked the missionary.

“ I could not. I did not know them. Liverpool is a big city.” “Well, you will stay with me for a little, now. won’it you?” said the missionary, “and I will see that you are compensated somewhat for the terrible unhappiness through which you have passed. I can well understand why you would not take a position as a scullerymaid. I want you to stay with my wife and I—won’t you stay tor a'day or two?

Three days later as the missionary and his wife and their guest- sat in their little parlour one afternoon there came a knock ;to the door. The missionary opened it, and saw a tail, rfiilitary-look-mg gentleman with a grey moustache standing facing him. “You ore Mr. So and So. the missionary?” asked the stranger. “lam. And you?”

The distinguished looking man handed the missionary a card. It bore the name of a baronet. “Come in.”

They stood in the hall for a moment. The stranger took the missionary’s arm in a strong grip. “I was in Paris when your inquiry was made,” he said. ‘ My agents have been busy, and I came over this morning. I cannot explain all I owe ito you yet ”

There was a stifled scream from the parlour, for the two women had heard their voices.

“Who is that?” cried the voice of Glare Burdis in quick, agonised accents. The stranger 'thrust the missionary swiftly aside, and opened the parlour door wide. For a moment lie and Clare gazed at each other. The baronet opened his arms.

“Clare,” he said .'carrely above a. whisper, “I have searched the world for you .”

Next moment lmsb.ind and wife were in each other’s arms. The missionary and his wife slipped o-ut qof/tly. ,

Editor; ‘ Have you submitted 'these yoo-ns -anywhere else first ?” Poet: “No. sir.” Editor ; “Then where did you get that hook eye?”