Kitabı oku: «Scamp and I: A Story of City By-Ways», sayfa 10
“Tell wife, that Willie will be a comfort to her; he promised me before I went away to keep a faithful and good lad.”
The boy heard so far, then, stung with a maddening sense of remorse and shame, stole out of the house as softly as he had entered it – met the policeman at the door, and delivered himself into his hands; by him he was taken to the police-station, then to prison for a day or two.
But when he was free he did not return home, he never went home again. His mother might suppose him dead, drowned, but never, never as long as she lived should she know that he was a thief. For this reason he had given himself up to the policeman; to prevent his entering that house he had met him on the threshold and delivered himself up. And his only pure pleasure during the past guilty years was the hope that his mother knew nothing of his evil ways.
But now she did know, the letter said she did know. What suffering she must have gone through I what agony and shame! He writhed at the thought.
Then a second thought came to him – she knew, and yet she forgave him – she knew, and yet she loved him.
She was preparing for his return, getting ready for him.
Now that she was acquainted with the prison in which he was wearing out his months of captivity, perhaps she would even come on the day that captivity was over, perhaps she would meet him at the prison gates, and take his hand, and lead him home to the little old home, and show him the clothes of his innocent, happy childhood, ready for him to put on, and perhaps she would kiss him – kiss the face that had been covered with the prisoner’s mask – and tell him she loved him and forgave him! Would she do this, and would he go with her?
“I am Jesus whom thou persecutest.”
Back again came the sermon and its text to his memory.
“Every time you commit a theft, or even a much smaller sin, you persecute Jesus,” said the preacher.
Jenks had known about Jesus, but hitherto he had thought of Him simply as an historical character, as a very good man – now he thought of Him as a man good for him, a man who had laid down His life for him, and yet whom he persecuted.
If he went on being a thief he would persecute Jesus —that was plain. And little Flo had said in her letter that God loved him, God and Jesus loved him. Why, if this was so, if his mother loved him, and God loved him, and the old little bright home was open to him, and no word of reproach, but the best robe and the fatted calf waiting for him, would it be wise for him to turn away from it all? to turn back into that dark wilderness of sin, and live the uncertain, dangerous life of a thief, perhaps be unlucky, and end his days in a felon’s cell? And when it all was over – the short life – and no life was very long – to feel his guilty soul dragged before God to receive the full vials of the wrath of Him whom he had persecuted.
He was perplexed, overcome, his head was reeling; he cast himself full length on the floor of his cell – he could think no longer – but he pressed the grey lock and the brown to his lips.
Chapter Eighteen
God Calls His Little Servant
At last, carefully as they were all worked, and tedious as the job was, the jacket, vest, and trousers were finished. They were brushed, and rubbed with spirits of turpentine to remove every trace of grease, and then wrapped up carefully in a white sheet, with two pen’orth of camphor to keep off the moths, and finally they were locked up in Mrs Jenks’ box along with her Sunday gown, shawl, and bonnet.
Flo watched these careful preparations with unfeigned delight. She was quite as sure now as Mrs Jenks that the lad for whom such nice things were ready would come back in the spring. Every word of the letter her patient little fingers had toiled over had gone forth with a prayer, and there was no doubt whatever in her mind that the God who had given her her bed, and taken care of her, would do great things for Jenks also.
About this time, too, there actually came to her a little letter, a funnily-printed, funnily-worded little letter from Dick himself, in which he told her that he was learning to read and write, that his first letter was to her, that he was happy and doing well, and that never, no never, never, never would he be a thief any more; and he ended by hoping that when the spring came, Flo would pay him a little visit!
When this letter was shown to Miss Mary and to the widow, they agreed that when the spring came this should be managed, and not only Flo, but Miss Mary herself, and the widow, and Scamp, and perhaps the widow’s lad, should pay Dick a visit. And Flo pictured it all often in her mind, and was happy.
Her life was very bright just then, and in the peaceful influence of her pleasant home she was growing and improving in body and mind. She could read and write a little, she could work quite neatly, and was very tidy and clever about the various little household works that Mrs Jenks taught her; and Miss Mary smiled at her, and was pleased with her; and thought what a nice little servant she would make when Annie was married; and Flo looked forward to this time with a grave, half-wistful pleasure which was characteristic of her, never in her heart forgetting that to be a good earthly servant she must be God’s servant first.
Yes, her cup of happiness was full, but it was an earthly cup, and doubtless her Heavenly Father felt He could do better for her – anyhow the end came.
It came in this way. Since Flo arrived and Mrs Jenks had quite finished making preparations for her lad’s return, she had set her sharp wits to work, and discovered quite a famous receipt for getting up fine linen.
The secret of this receipt all lay in a particular kind of starch, which was so fine, pure, and excellent, so far beyond Glenfield’s Starch, or anybody else’s starch, that even old lace could be stiffened with it, instead of with sugar. Mrs Jenks made this starch herself, and through Miss Mary’s aid she was putting by quite a nice little supply of money for Willie when he came home – money honestly earned, that could help to apprentice him to an honest trade by and by.
But there was one ingredient in the starch which was both rare and expensive, and of all places in the world, could only be got good in a certain shop in Whitechapel Road. Mrs Jenks used to buy it of a little old Jew who lived there, and as the starch was worthless without it, she generally kept a good supply in the house.
No Londoner can forget the severe cold of last winter, no poor Londoner can forget the sufferings of last winter. Snow, and frost, and hail, bitter winds, foggy days, slippery streets, every discomfort born of weather, seemed to surround the great metropolis.
On one of these days in February, Mrs Jenks came home quite early, and as she had no more charing to get through, she built up a good fire, and set to work to make a fresh supply of starch. Flo sat at one side of her and Scamp at the other, both child and dog watching her preparations with considerable interest. She had set on a large brass pan, which she always used on these occasions, and had put in the first ingredients, when, going to her cupboard, she found that very little more than a table-spoonful of the most valuable material of all was left to her.
Here was a state of affairs! She wrung her hands in dismay; all the compound, beginning to boil in the brass pan, would be lost, and several shillings’ worth thrown away.
Then Flo came to the rescue. If Mrs Jenks stayed to watch what was boiling, she – Flo – would start off at once to Whitechapel Road, and be back with the necessary powder before Mrs Jenks was ready for it.
The widow looked out of the window, where silent flakes of snow were falling, and shook her head – the child was delicate, and the day – why, even the ’buses were hardly going – it could not be!
But here Flo overruled her. She reminded her of how all her life she had roughed it, in every conceivable form, and how little, with her thick boots on, she should mind a walk in the snow. As to the ’buses, she did not like them, and would a thousand times rather walk with Scamp. Accordingly, leading Scamp by his collar and chain, which Miss Mary had given him, she set off.
Mrs Jenks has often since related how she watched her walk across the court, such a trim little figure, in her brown wincey dress and scarlet flannel cloak – another gift of Miss Mary’s – and how, when she came to the corner, she turned round, and, with her beautiful brown eyes full of love and brightness, kissed her hand to the widow – and how Scamp danced about, and shook the snow off his thick coat, and seemed beside himself with fun and gaiety of heart.
She did not know – God help her – she could not guess, that the child and dog were never to come back.
The snow fell thickly, the wind blew in great gusts, the day was a worse one than Flo had imagined, but she held on bravely, and Scamp trotted by her side, his fine spirits considerably sobered down, and a thick coating of snow on his back. Once or twice, it is true, he did look behind him piteously, as much as to say, “What fools we both are to leave our comfortable fireside,” but he flinched no more than his little mistress, and the two made slow but sure progress to Whitechapel Road.
They had gone a good way, when suddenly Flo remembered a famous short cut, which, if taken, would save them nearly a mile of road, and bring them out exactly opposite the Jew’s shop. It led through one of the most villainous streets in London, and the child forgot that in her respectable clothes she was no longer as safe as in the old rags.
She had gone through this street before – she would try it again to-day!
She plunged in boldly. How familiar the place looked! not perhaps this place, – she had only been here but once, and that was with her mother, – but the style of this place.
The bird-fanciers’ shops, the rags-and-bones’ shops, the gutter children, and gutter dogs, all painfully brought back her old wretched life. Her little heart swelled with gratitude at the thought of her present home and present mercies. She looked round with pity in her eyes at the wretched creatures who shuffled, some of them drunken, some starving, some in rags, past her.
She resolved that when she was a woman she would work hard, and earn money, and help them with money, and if not with money, with tender sympathy from herself, and loving messages from her Father in heaven.
She resolved that she, too, as well as Miss Mary, would be a sister of the poor.
She was walking along as fast as she could, thinking these thoughts, when a little girl came directly in her path, and addressed her in a piteous, drawling voice.
“I’m starving, pretty missy; give me a copper, in God’s name.”
Flo stopped, and looked at her; the child was pale and thin, and her teeth chattered in her head. A few months ago Flo had looked like this child, and none knew better than she what starvation meant. Besides the five shillings Mrs Jenks had given her to buy the necessary powder, she had sixpence of her own in her little purse; out of this sixpence she had meant to buy a bunch of early spring flowers for her dear Miss Mary’s birthday, but doubtless God meant her to give it to the starving child.
She pulled her purse out of her pocket, and drawing the sixpence from it, put it into the hands of the surprised and delighted little girl.
“God bless yer, Missy,” she said in her high, shrill tones, and she held up her prize to the view of two or three men, who stood on the steps of a public-house hard by. They had watched the whole transaction, and now three of them, winking to their boon companions, followed the child and dog with stealthy footsteps.
Flo, perfectly happy, and quite unconscious of any danger, was tripping gaily along, thinking how lucky it was for her that she had remembered this short cut, and how certain she was now to have the powder back in time for Mrs Jenks, when suddenly a hand was passed roughly round her waist, while a dexterous blow in the back of her neck rendered her unconscious, and caused her to fall heavily to the ground.
The place and the hour were suitable for deeds of violence. In that evil spot the child might have been murdered without any one raising a finger in her behalf. The wicked men who had attacked her seemed to know this well, for they proceeded leisurely with their work. One secured the dog, while another divested Flo of her boots, warm cloak, and neat little hat. A third party had his hand in her pocket, had discovered the purse, and was about to draw it out, whereupon the three would have been off with their booty, when there came an interruption.
An unexpected and unlooked-for friend had appeared for Flo’s relief.
This friend was the dog, Scamp. We can never speak with certainty as to the positive feelings of the dumb creatures, but it is plain that ever since Flo turned into this bad street Scamp – as the vulgar saying has it – smelt a rat. Perhaps it called up too vividly before his memory his old days with Maxey – be that as it may, from the time they entered the street he was restless and uneasy, looking behind him, and to right and left of him, every moment, and trying by all means in his power to quicken Flo’s movements. But when the evil he dreaded really came he was for the first instant stunned, and incapable of action: then his perceptions seemed to quicken, he recognised a fact – a bare and dreadful fact – the child he loved with all the love of his large heart, was in danger.
As he comprehended this, every scrap of the prudent and life-preserving qualities of his cur father and mother forsook the dog, and the blue blood of some unknown ancestor, some brave, self-sacrificing Saint Bernard, flowed through all his veins: his angry spirit leaped into his eyes, and giving vent to a great howl of rage and sorrow, he wrenched his chain out of the man’s hand who was trying to hold him, and springing on the first of the kneeling figures, fastened his great fangs into his throat. In an instant all would have been over with this ruffian, for Scamp had that within him then which would have prevented his ever leaving go, had not the man’s companion raised an enormous sledge hammer he held in his hand, and beat out the poor animal’s brains on the spot. He sank down without even a sigh at Flo’s feet, and the three villains, hearing from some one that the police were coming, disappeared with their booty, leaving the unconscious child and dead dog alone.
The little crowd which had surrounded them, at tidings of the approach of the police, dispersed, and the drifting hail and snow covered the dog’s wounds and lay on the child’s upturned face.
Just then a fire-engine, drawn by horses at full gallop, came round the corner, and the driver, in the fast-failing light, never, until too late, perceived the objects in his path. He tried then to turn aside, but one heavy wheel passed partly over the child’s body. The firemen could not stop, their duty was too pressing, but they shouted out to the tardy policemen, who at last appeared in view.
These men, after examining Flo, fetched a cab, and placing her in it, conveyed her to the London Hospital, and one, at parting, gave Scamp a kick.
“Dead! poor brute!” he said, and so they left him.
They left him, and the pure snow, falling thickly now, formed a fit covering for him, and so heavily did it lie over him in the drift into which he had fallen, that the next day he was shovelled away, a frozen mass, in its midst, and no mortal eye again saw him, nor rough mortal hand again touched him.
Thus God Himself made a shroud for His poor faithful creature, and the world, did it but know it, was the poorer by the loss of Scamp.
Chapter Nineteen
Queen Victoria and Flo
Flo was carried into the Buxton Ward for children.
They laid her in one of the pretty white cots, close to a little girl of three, who was not very ill, and who suspended her play with her toys to watch her.
Here for many hours she lay as one dead, and the nurses and doctors shook their heads over her – she had no broken bones, but they feared serious internal injuries.
Late in the evening, however, she opened her eyes, and after about an hour of confused wandering, consciousness and memory came fully back.
Consciousness and memory, but no pain either of mind or body. Even when they told her her dog was dead, she only smiled faintly, and said she knew ’ee’d give ’is life fur ’er! and then she said she was better, and would like to go home.
They asked her her name, and the address of her home, and she gave them both quite correctly, but when they said she had better stay until the morning, and go to sleep now, she seemed contented, and did sleep, as calmly as she had done the night before, in her own little bed, in Mrs Jenks’ room.
The next morning she again told them she was better, and had no pain, but she said nothing now about going home: nor when, later in the day, Mrs Jenks, all trembling and crying, and Miss Mary, more composed, but with her eyes full of sorrow, bent over her, did she mention it.
She looked at them with that great calm on her face, which nothing again seemed ever to disturb, and told them about Scamp, and asked them if they thought she should ever see her dog again.
“I don’t know wot belief to hold about the future of the dumb creatures,” said little Mrs Jenks, “but ef I was you, I’d leave it to God, dearie.”
“Yes,” answered Flo, “I leaves heverythink to God.”
And when Miss Mary heard her say this, and saw the look on her face, she gave up all hope of her little servant.
She was going to the place where His servants shall serve Him.
Yes, Flo was going to God.
The doctors knew it – the nurses knew it – she could not recover. What a bright lot for the little tired out London child! No more weary tasks – no more dark days – no more hunger and cold. Her friends had hoped and planned for a successful earthly life for her – God, knowing the uncertainty of all things human, planned better. He loved this fair little flower, and meant to transplant it into the heavenly garden, to bloom for ever in His presence.
But though Flo was not to recover she got better, so much better, for the time at least, that she herself thought she should get quite well; and as from the first she had suffered very little pain, she often wondered why they made a fuss about her, why Mrs Jenks seemed so upset when she came to see her, why the nurses were so gentle with her, and why even the doctors spoke to her in a lower, kinder tone than they did to the other children. She was not very ill; she had felt much, much worse when she had lain on the little bed that God had lent her – what agony she had gone through then! and now she was only weak, and her heart fluttered a good deal. There was an undefined something she felt between her and health, but soon she must be quite well.
In the pleasant Buxton Ward were at this time a great many little children, and as Flo got better and more conscious, she took an interest in them, and though it hurt her and took away her breath to talk much, yet her greatest pleasure was to whisper to God about them. There was one little baby in particular, who engrossed all her strongest feelings of compassion, and the nurses, seeing she liked to touch it, often brought it, and laid it in her cot.
Such a baby as it was! Such a lesson for all who gazed at it, of the miseries of sin, of the punishment of sin!
The child of a drunken mother, it looked, at nine months old, about the size of a small doll. Had any nourishment been ever poured down that baby’s throat? Its little arms were no thicker than an ordinary person’s fingers – and its face! Oh! that any of God’s human creatures should wear the face of that baby!
It was an old man’s face, but no man ever looked so old – it was a monkey’s face, but no monkey ever looked so devoid of intelligence. All the pain of all the world seemed concentrated in its expression; all the wrinkles on every brow were furrowed on its yellow skin.
It was always crying, always suffering from some unintelligible agony. (The writer saw exactly such a baby at the Evelina Hospital a short time ago.) The nurses and doctors said it might recover, but Flo hoped otherwise, and her hope she told to God.
“Doesn’t you think that it ’ud be better fur the little baby to be up there in the Gold Streets?” she said to God, every time she looked at it. And then she pictured to herself its little face growing fair and beautiful, and its anguish ceasing for ever – and she thought if she was there, what care she would take of the baby.
Perhaps she does take care of the baby, up There!
One day great news came to the London Hospital – great news, and great excitement. It was going to be highly honoured. Her gracious Majesty the Queen was coming in person to open a new wing, called The Grocers Company’s Wing.
She was coming in a few days, coming to visit her East-end subjects, and in particular to visit this great Hospital.
Flo, lying on her little bed, weaker than usual, very still, with closed eyes, heard the nurses and sisters talking of the great event, their tones full of interest and excitement – they had only a short time to prepare – should they ever be ready to receive the Queen? – what wards would she visit? with a thousand other questions of considerable importance.
Flo, lying, as she did most of her time, half asleep, hardly ever heard what was going on around her, but now the word Queen – Queen – struck on her half dull ear.
What were they saying about the Queen? Who was the Queen? Had she ever seen the Queen? Then like a flash it all came back to her – that hot afternoon last summer – her ambitious little wish to be the greatest person of all, her longing for pretty sights and pretty things, the hurried walk she, Jenks, and Dick had taken to Buckingham Palace, the crowd, the sea of eager faces, the carriage with its out-riders, the flashing colour of the Life Guards! Then, all these seemed to fade away, and she saw only the principal figure in the picture – the gracious face of a lady was turned to her, kind eyes looked into hers. The remembrance of the glance the Queen had bestowed upon her had never passed from the little girl’s memory. She had treasured it up, as she would a morsel of something sacred, as the first of the many bright things God had given her. Long ago, before she knew of God, she had held her small head a trifle higher, when she considered that once Royalty had condescended to look at her, and she had made it a fresh incentive to honesty and virtuous living.
A thrill of joy and anticipation ran now through her heart. How much she should like to see again the greatest woman in the world; if her eyes again beheld her she might get well.
Trembling and eager, she started up in bed.
“Please is the Queen coming?”
The sister who had spoken went over and stood by her side. She was surprised at the look of interest in her generally too quiet little face.
“Yes, dear,” she said, “the Queen is coming to see the Hospital.”
“And shall I see the Queen?”
“We are not quite sure yet what wards she will visit; if she comes here you shall see her.”
“Oh!” said Flo, with a great sigh, and a lustrous light shining out of her eyes, “ef I sees the Queen I shall get well.”
The sister smiled, but as she turned away she shook her head. She knew no sight of any earthly king or queen could make the child well, but she hoped much that her innocent wish might be gratified.
The next day, as Mrs Jenks was going away, Flo whispered to her —
“Ef you please, ma’am, I’d like fur you to fetch me that bit of sky blue ribbon, as you ’ave in yer box at ’ome.”
“What do you want it for, dearie?”
“Oh! to tie hup my ’air with. I wants fur to look nice fur the Queen. The Queen is comin’ to pay me a wisit, and then I’ll get well.”
“But, my child, the Queen cannot make you well.”
“Oh! no, but she can pray to God. The Queen’s werry ’igh up, you knows, and maybe God ’ud ’ear ’er a bit sooner than me.”
“No, indeed, Flo, you wrong Him there. Your heavenly Father will hear your little humble words just as readily and just as quickly as any prayer the Queen might offer up to Him.”
“Well, then, we’ll both pray,” said Flo, a smile breaking over her white face. “The Queen and me, we’ll both pray, the two of us, to God – He’ll ’ave ’er big prayer and my little prayer to look hout fur; so you’ll fetch me the ribbon, ma’am dear.”
Mrs Jenks did so, and from that day every afternoon Flo put it on and waited in eager expectancy to see the Queen, more and more sure that when they both – the poor little London child and the greatest woman in the world – sent up their joint petitions to Heaven, strength would return to her languid frame, and she could go back, to be a help and comfort to her dear Mrs Jenks.
At last the auspicious day arrived, a day long to be remembered by the poor of the East End. How gay the banners looked as they waved in the air, stretching across from housetop to housetop right over the streets!
At the eastern boundary of the City was a great band of coloured canvas bearing the word “Welcome.” And as the Royal procession passed into Whitechapel High-street the whole thoroughfare was one bright line of Venetian masts, with streamers of flags hanging from every house, and of broad bands of red, with simple mottoes on them.
But better to the heart of the Queen of England than any words of welcome were the welcoming crowds of people. These thronged the footways, filled the shop-windows, assembled on the unrailed ledges of the house-fronts, on the pent-houses in front of the butchers’ shops, and stood out upon the roofs.
Yes, this day would long be remembered by the people in the East End, and of course most of all by those in the great Hospital which the Queen was to visit.
But here, there was also disappointment. It was discovered that in the list of wards arranged for Her Majesty to see, the Buxton Ward in the Alexandra Wing was not mentioned. More than one nurse and more than one doctor felt sorry, as they recalled the little face of the gentle, dying child, who had been waiting for so many days full of hope and longing for the visit which, it seemed, could not be paid to her.
But the day before, Flo had said to Mr Rowsell, the Deputy Chairman —
“I shall see the Queen, and then I shall get well.”
And that gentleman determined that if he could manage it her wish should be granted.
Accordingly, when the Queen had visited the “Grocers Company’s Wing,” and had named the new wards after herself and the Princess Beatrice, when she had read the address presented to her by the governors of the Hospital, had declared the new wing open, and visited the Gloucester Ward, then Flo’s little story was told to her, and she at once said she would gratify the child’s desire.
Contrary to the routine of the day, she would pay the Buxton Ward a visit.
Flo, quite sure that it was God’s wish that the great Queen of England should come to see her, was prepared, and lay in her pretty white cot, her chestnut hair tied back with blue ribbons, a slight flush on her pale cheeks, her brown eyes very bright.
It was a fair little picture, fair even to the eyes that had doubtless looked on most of the loveliest things of earth – for on the beautiful face of the dying child was printed the seal of God’s own peace.
“My darling,” said the Queen to the little girl, “I hope you will be a little better now.”
But Queen Victoria knew, and the nurses knew, and the doctors knew, and all knew, but little Flo Darrell herself, that on earth the child would never be well again.
They knew that the little pilgrim from earth to heaven, had nearly completed her journey, that already her feet – though she herself knew not of it – were in the waters of Jordan, and soon she would pass from all mortal sight, through the gates into the City.
