For a considerable time the Bible-seller plied Sam with every argument
he could think of in order to induce him to return home, and he was
still in the middle of his effort when the door opened, and two young
men of gentlemanly appearance walked in, bearing a portable harmonium
between them.
They were followed by one of the ladies of the Beehive, who devote all
their time--and, may we not add, all their hearts--to the rescue of the
perishing. Along with her came a tall, sweet-faced girl. She was our
friend Hetty Frog, who, after spending her days at steady work, spent
some of her night hours in labours of love. Hetty was passionately fond
of music, and had taught herself to play the harmonium sufficiently to
accompany simple hymns.
After her came the missionary, whose kind face was familiar to most of
the homeless ones there. They greeted him with good-natured
familiarity, but some of their faces assumed a somewhat vinegar aspect
when the tall form of Sir Richard Brandon followed Seaward.
"A bloated haristocrat!" growled one of the men.
"Got a smart little darter, anyhow," remarked another, as Di, holding
tight to her father's hand, glanced from side to side with looks of
mingled pity and alarm.
For poor little Di had a not uncommon habit of investing everything in
_couleur de rose_, and the stern reality which met her had not the
slightest tinge of that colour. Di had pictured to herself clean rags
and picturesque poverty. The reality was dirty rags and disgusting
poverty. She had imagined sorrowful faces. Had she noted them when the
missionary passed, she might indeed have seen kindly looks; but when her
father passed there were only scowling faces, nearly all of which were
unshaven and dirty. Di had not thought at all of stubbly beards or
dirt! Neither had she thought of smells, or of stifling heat that it
was not easy to bear. Altogether poor little Di was taken down from a
height on that occasion to which she never again attained, because it
was a false height. In after years she reached one of the true
heights--which was out of sight higher than the false one!
There was something very businesslike in these missionaries, for there
was nothing of the simply amateur in their work--like the visit of Di
and her father. They were familiar with the East-end mines; knew where
splendid gems and rich gold were to be found, and went about digging
with the steady persistence of the labourer, coupled, however, with the
fire of the enthusiast.
They carried the harmonium promptly to the most conspicuous part of the
room, planted it there, opened it, placed a stool in front of it, and
one of the brightest diamonds from that mine--in the person of Hetty
Frog--sat down before it. Simply, and in sweet silvery tones, she
sang--"Come to the Saviour."
The others joined--even Sir Richard Brandon made an attempt to sing--as
he had done on a previous occasion, but without much success, musically
speaking. Meanwhile, John Seaward turned up the passage from which he
had prepared to speak that evening. And so eloquent with nature's
simplicity was the missionary, that the party soon forgot all about the
Twitters while the comforting Gospel was being urged upon the unhappy
creatures around.
But _we_ must not forget the Twitters. They are our text and sermon
just now!
Young Sam Twitter had risen with the intention of going out when the
missionary entered, for words of truth only cut him to the heart. But
his companion whispered him to wait a bit. Soon his attention was
riveted.
While he sat there spell-bound, a shabby-genteel man entered and sat
down beside him. He wore a broad wide-awake, very much slouched over
his face, and a coat which had once been fine, but now bore marks of
having been severely handled--as if recently rubbed by a drunken wearer
on whitewashed and dirty places. The man's hands were not so dirty,
however, as one might have expected from his general appearance, and
they trembled much. On one of his fingers was a gold ring. This
incongruity was lost on Sam, who was too much absorbed to care for the
new comer, and did not even notice that he pushed somewhat needlessly
close to him.
These things were not, however, lost on Reggie North, who regarded the
man with some surprise, not unmixed with suspicion.
When, after a short time, however, this man laid his hand gently on that
of Sam and held it, the boy could no longer neglect his eccentricities.
He naturally made an effort to pull the hand away, but the stranger held
it fast. Having his mind by that time entirely detached from the
discourse of the missionary, Sam looked at the stranger in surprise, but
could not see his face because of the disreputable wide-awake which he
wore. But great was his astonishment, not to say alarm, when he felt
two or three warm tears drop on his hand.
Again he tried to pull it away, but the strange man held it tighter.
Still further, he bent his head over it and kissed it.
A strange unaccountable thrill ran through the boy's frame. He stooped,
looked under the brim of the hat, and beheld his father!
"Sammy--dear, dear Sammy," whispered the man, in a husky voice.
But Sammy could not reply. He was thunderstruck. Neither could his
father speak, for he was choking.
But Reggie North had heard enough. He was quick-witted, and at once
guessed the situation.
"Now then, old gen'lm'n," he whispered, "don't you go an' make a fuss,
if you're wise. Go out as quiet as you came in, an' leave this young
'un to me. It's all right. I'm on _your_ side."
Samuel Twitter senior was impressed with the honesty of the man's
manner, and the wisdom of his advice. Letting go the hand, after a
parting squeeze, he rose up and left the room. Two minutes later, North
and Sammy followed.
They found the old father outside, who again grasped his son's hand with
the words, "Sammy, my boy--dear Sammy;" but he never got further than
that.
Number 666 was there too.
"You'll find the cab at the end of the street, sir," he said, and next
moment Sammy found himself borne along--not unwillingly--by North and
his father.
A cab door was opened. A female form was seen with outstretched arms.
"Mother!"
"Sammy--darling--"
The returning prodigal disappeared into the cab. Mr Twitter turned
round.
"Thank you. God bless you, whoever you are," he said, fumbling in his
vest pocket; having forgotten that he represented an abject beggar, and
had no money there.
"No thanks to me, sir. Look higher," said the Bible-seller, thrusting
the old gentleman almost forcibly into the vehicle. "Now then, cabby,
drive on."
The cabby obeyed. Having already received his instructions he did not
drive home. Where he drove to is a matter of small consequence. It was
to an unknown house, and a perfect stranger to Sammy opened the door.
Mrs Twitter remained in the cab while Sammy and his father entered the
house, the latter carrying a bundle in his hand. They were shown into
what the boy must have considered--if he considered anything at all just
then--a preposterously small room.
The lady of the house evidently expected them, for she said, "The bath
is quite ready, sir."
"Now, Sammy,--dear boy," said Mr Twitter, "off with your rags--and
g-git into that b-bath."
Obviously Mr Twitter did not speak with ease. In truth it was all he
could do to contain himself, and he felt that his only chance of bearing
up was to say nothing more than was absolutely necessary in short
ejaculatory phrases. Sammy was deeply touched, and began to wash his
dirty face with a few quiet tears before taking his bath.
"Now then, Sammy--look sharp! You didn't use--to--be--so--slow! eh?"
"No, father. I suppose it--it--is want of habit. I haven't undressed
much of late."
This very nearly upset poor Mr Twitter. He made no reply, but assisted
his son to disrobe with a degree of awkwardness that tended to delay
progress.
"It--it's not too hot--eh?"
"Oh! no, father. It's--it's--v-very nice."
"Go at it with a will, Sammy. Head and all, my boy--down with it. And
don't spare the soap. Lots of soap here, Sammy--no end of soap!"
The truth of which Mr Twitter proceeded to illustrate by covering his
son with a lather that caused him quickly to resemble whipped cream.
"Oh! hold on, father, it's getting into my eyes."
"My boy--dear Sammy--forgive me. I didn't quite know what I was doing.
Never mind. Down you go again, Sammy--head and all. That's it. Now,
that's enough; out you come."
"Oh! father," said the poor boy, while invisible tears trickled over his
wet face, as he stepped out of the bath, "it's so good of you to forgive
me so freely."
"Forgive you, my son! forgive! why, I'd--I'd--" He could say no more,
but suddenly clasped Sammy to his heart, thereby rendering his face and
person soap-suddy and wet to a ridiculous extent.
Unclasping his arms and stepping back, he looked down at himself.
"You dirty boy! what d'you mean by it?"
"It's your own fault, daddy," replied Sam, with a hysterical laugh, as
he enveloped himself in a towel.
A knock at the bath-room door here produced dead silence.
"Please, sir," said a female voice, "the lady in the cab sends to say
that she's gettin' impatient."
"Tell the lady in the cab to drive about and take an airing for ten
minutes," replied Mr Twitter with reckless hilarity.
"Yes, sir."
"Now, my boy, here's your toggery," said the irrepressible father,
hovering round his recovered son like a moth round a candle--"your best
suit, Sammy; the one you used to wear only on Sundays, you extravagant
fellow."
Sammy put it on with some difficulty from want of practice, and, after
combing out and brushing his hair, he presented such a changed
appearance that none of his late companions could have recognised him.
His father, after fastening up his coat with every button in its wrong
hole, and causing as much delay as possible by assisting him to dress,
finally hustled him down-stairs and into the cab, where he was
immediately re-enveloped by Mrs Twitter.
He was not permitted to see any one that night, but was taken straight
to his room, where his mother comforted, prayed with, fed and fondled
him, and then allowed him to go to bed.
Next morning early--before breakfast--Mrs Twitter assembled all the
little Twitters, and put them on chairs in a row--according to order,
for Mrs Twitter's mind was orderly in a remarkable degree. They ranged
from right to left thus:--
Molly, Willie, Fred, Lucy, and Alice--with Alice's doll on a doll's
chair at the left flank of the line.
"Now children," said Mrs Twitter, sitting down in front of the row with
an aspect so solemn that they all immediately made their mouths very
small and their eyes very large--in which respect they brought
themselves into wonderful correspondence with Alice's doll. "Now
children, your dear brother Sammy has come home."
"Oh! how nice! Where has he been? What has he seen? Why has he been
away so long? How jolly!" were the various expressions with which the
news was received.
"Silence."
The stillness that followed was almost oppressive, for the little
Twitters had been trained to prompt obedience. To say truth they had
not been difficult to train, for they were all essentially mild.
"Now, remember, when he comes down to breakfast you are to take no
notice whatever of his having been away--no notice at all."
"Are we not even to say good-morning or kiss him, mamma?" asked little
Alice with a look of wonder.
"Dear child, you do not understand me. We are all charmed to see Sammy
back, and so thankful--so glad--that he has come, and we will kiss him
and say whatever we please to him _except_," (here she cast an awful eye
along the line and dropped her voice), "_except_ ask him _where--he--
has--been_."
"Mayn't we ask him how he liked it, mamma?" said Alice.
"Liked what, child?"
"Where he has been, mamma."
"No, not a word about where he has been; only that we are so glad, so
very glad, to see him back."
Fred, who had an argumentative turn of mind, thought that this would be
a rather demonstrative though indirect recognition of the fact that
Sammy had been _somewhere_ that was wrong, but, having been trained to
unquestioning obedience, Fred said nothing.
"Now, dolly," whispered little Alice, bending down, "'member dat--you're
so glad Sammy's come back; mustn't say more--not a word more."
"It is enough for you to know, my darlings," continued Mrs Twitter,
"that Sammy has been wandering and has come back."
"Listen, Dolly, you hear? Sammy's been wandering an' come back. Dat's
'nuff for you."
"You see, dears," continued Mrs Twitter, with a slightly perplexed
look, caused by her desire to save poor Sammy's feelings, and her
anxiety to steer clear of the slightest approach to deception, "you see,
Sammy has been long away, and has been very tired, and won't like to be
troubled with too many questions at breakfast, you know, so I want you
all to talk a good deal about anything you like--your lessons,--for
instance, when he comes down."
"Before we say good-morning, mamma, or after?" asked Alice, who was
extremely conscientious.
"Darling child," exclaimed the perplexed mother, "you'll never take it
in. What I want to impress on you is--"
She stopped, suddenly, and what it was she meant to impress we shall
never more clearly know, for at that moment the foot of Sammy himself
was heard on the stair.
"Now, mind, children, not a word--not--a--word!"
The almost preternatural solemnity induced by this injunction was at
once put to flight by Sammy, at whom the whole family flew with one
accord and a united shriek--pulling him down on a chair and embracing
him almost to extinction.
Fortunately for Sammy, and his anxious mother, that which the most
earnest desire to obey orders would have failed to accomplish was
brought about by the native selfishness of poor humanity, for, the first
burst of welcome over, Alice began an elaborate account of her Dolly's
recent proceedings, which seemed to consist of knocking her head against
articles of furniture, punching out her own eyes and flattening her own
nose; while Fred talked of his latest efforts in shipbuilding; Willie of
his hopes in regard to soldiering, and Lucy of her attempts to draw and
paint.
Mr and Mrs Twitter contented themselves with gazing on Sammy's
somewhat worn face, and lying in watch, so that, when Alice or any of
the young members of the flock seemed about to stray on the forbidden
ground, they should be ready to descend, like two wolves on the fold,
remorselessly change the subject of conversation, and carry all before
them.
Thus tenderly was that prodigal son received back to his father's house.