"Come home with me," said the little woman by Flo's side.
She had thrown up her veil now, and the face the child saw was nearly as
pale and sad as her own. She hardly noticed it, however, she was
absorbed in a recognition. The little woman in black had the gentle
voice and kind eyes, the little woman in black _was_ her friend of the
Derby Day.
"My dear, I am real glad to find you again. You shall come to my house
and have a bit of dinner."
"No, ma'am," said Flo, shaking away her hand, "I knows yer, ma'am, and
you is werry kind. But I'm not a goin' 'ome wid yer, missis; I'm not
'spectable to be in yer 'ouse. Dick, 'ee be a thief and in prison, I'm
not 'spectable no more."
Flo said this without tears, and defiantly.
"Oh, my dear, you are quite respectable enough for me. You are poor and
in trouble, child--just the one that Jesus Christ wants; and surely if
the King of Glory wants you, I may want you too."
"Wot's glory?" asked Flo.
"Glory, child; that's where the King lives."
"Ain't kings and queens the same?"
"Oh! now, my dear, I see you don't know nothing about the matter, or you
wouldn't speak of any king or queen in the breath with my King. Come
and have a bit of dinner with me, and then I'll tell you about my King."
"I ain't 'ungry," said Flo; "but I'd real like to 'ear o' that King as
wants me. Would 'ee make a swell o' me, missis?"
"He can raise you very high, little girl," said the woman; and taking
Flo's hand, they walked together in silence.
"You was fond of poor Jenks?" said the little woman at last.
"Yes, ma'am; 'ee wasn't a bad sort o' a feller. But 'ee shouldn't 'ave
tempted the little chap. I don't go fur to blame Jenks, ma'am, fur 'ee
'adn't no mother--but 'ee shouldn't 'ave tempted Dick."
At these words the little woman withdrew her hand from Flo's, and
pulling out her handkerchief, applied it to her eyes; and Flo, wondering
what made her cry, and what made her appear so sad altogether, walked
again by her side in silence.
They passed down several streets until at last they came to one of those
courts hidden away from the general thoroughfares, so well-known to
London district visitors. There are Sun streets in London, where the
sun never shines--there are Jubilee courts, where feasts are never held,
where Satan and his evil spirits are the only beings that can rejoice.
This place was called Pine Apple Court, and doubtless a few years ago it
as nearly resembled Cherry Court and May-Blossom Court as three peas
resemble each other; but now, as Flo and the little woman walked into
it, it really and truly, as far as sweetness and purity went, was worthy
of its name. Here, in the midst of London, was actually a place where
the decent poor might live in comfort and respectability. [One of Miss
Octavia Hill's courts.] The freshly-painted, white-washed houses had
creepers twining against them; and before the doors was a
nicely-cared-for piece of ground, where trees were planted, where the
women could dry their clothes, and where, out of school-hours, the
children could play.
The little woman conducted Flo across this pleasant court into one of
the freshest and cleanest of the white-washed houses, where she brought
her into a room on the ground floor, as bright as gay chintz curtains to
the windows, neat paper on the walls, and the perfect purity which the
constant use of soap and water produces, could make it. The polished
steels in the grate shone again, a little clock ticked on the
mantel-piece, and a square of crimson drugget stood before the
fire-place. The window-sash was wide open, and on the ledge stood two
flower-pots, one containing a tea-rose, the other a geranium in full
blossom.
The rose was ticketed, prize 1st, and stood in a gaily ornamented pot,
doubtless its prize at the last poor people's flower show. Had Flo ever
heard of Paradise she would have supposed that she had reached it; as it
was she believed that she had come to some place of rest, some sweet
spot where weary limbs, and weary hearts too, might get some repose.
She sat down thankfully on a small stool pointed out to her by her
hostess and gazed around.
"Please, ma'am," she said presently, "wot am I to call yer?"
At this question the little woman paused, and a faint colour came into
her pale cheeks.
"Why, now," she said, "that's a curious thing, but my name's Jenks, same
as that poor fellow they put in prison this morning--Mrs Jenks is my
name, little Darrell."
"Yes, missis," replied Flo respectfully.
She had admired Mrs Jenks very much on the Derby Day, but now her
feelings of wonder and admiration amounted almost to fear. For aught
she could tell the owner of such a room might be a "Dook's" wife in
disguise.
"You sit in this chair and rest," said Mrs Jenks, "and I'll see about
dinner."
And Flo did rest, partly stunned by what she had witnessed and
undergone, partly soothed by the novel scene now before her.
Mrs Jenks had made her take off mother's old bonnet, and had placed her
in the very softest of easy-chairs, where she could lie back and gaze at
the little woman, with a wonder, a hunger of spiritual want, a sadness
of some unexplained desire, all shining out of her eyes.
There were baked potatoes in a small oven at the side of the fire-place,
and over the potatoes some nice pieces of hot bacon, and Mrs Jenks made
coffee, fragrant coffee, such as Flo had never tasted, and toasted
bread, and buttered it. Then she drew a little table up close to the
open window, and placed a snowy cloth on it, then plates, and knives and
forks, and then the potatoes and bacon, the coffee and toast; and when
all was ready she put a chair for Flo, and another for herself.
But before they began to eat a more astonishing thing still happened.
The little woman stood up, and folded her hands, and closed her eyes,
and said these words:--
"I thank Thee, my God, for the dinner Thou hast given me; but more than
all I thank Thee that Thou hast let me have one of thy outcast little
ones to share it with."
Then she opened her eyes, and bustled about, and helped Flo. And Flo,
who had found her appetite come back in full vigour at the first smell
of the coffee and bacon, ate very heartily of Mrs Jenks' liberal
helpings, leaning back in her chair when she had finished, with quite a
pink flush on her thin cheeks, and the hunger of bodily want gone out of
her eyes.
"Now," said the little woman, after all the plates and dishes were
washed up and put away, "Now," she said, "I will get to my work, and you
shall tell me all that story over again. All about your poor dear
mother and the boys, and when that poor fellow with the same name as
mine came to live with you."
"Yes," answered Flo, whose little heart was so drawn to Mrs Jenks, and
so comforted by her, that any words she asked her to say came easily to
her lips; and the story of the Derby Day was repeated with fuller
confidence by the child, and listened to with fuller understanding on
the part of her kind listener. Flo told over again all about her
mother, and mother's death, and the promise they had given mother--then
of their own lives, and what hard work translating was, and how little
Dick earned by his broom and crossing--finally how Jenks came, and how
good-natured he was at first, and how glad they were to have him, and
how they wondered what his trade was, and how he had promised to teach
them both his trade.
Then at last, on the day she saw Regent Street and the Queen, and tasted
'ot roast goose for the first time, then too she discovered that Jenks
was a thief. Then she related her interview with Jenks, and how he had
promised to leave Dick alone, and _not_ to teach him his wicked trade,
and how on those terms she had allowed him to remain in the cellar; and
then at last, when she was feeling so sure and so happy, he had deceived
her, and now she was in great trouble, in great and bitter trouble, both
the boys in prison, both thieves, and now mother could never rest any
more.
Here Flo broke down and sobbed bitterly.
"I think if I were you, I would leave all that about your dear mother to
God, my child," said little Mrs Jenks. "His ways are not as our ways.
If I were you, I would not fret about your mother--I would just leave
her to God."
"Who is God?" asked Flo, stopping her tears and looking up.
"Who is God?" repeated Mrs Jenks. "Why, He's the King of Glory I had
to tell you about; and now I remember, at the trial to-day you seemed to
know very little about Him--nothing, in fact. Well, you shall not leave
this house without knowing, I promise you that. Why, God--God, little
Darrell, He's your best friend, and your poor mother's best friend, and
Dick's best friend, and my--that is, Jenks' best friend too. He loves
you, child, and some day He'll take you to a place where many poor
people who have been sad, and hungry, and wanting for everything down
here, are having rest, and good times for ever."
"And will God give me a good time in that place?" asked Flo.
"Yes. If you love Him He will give you a better time than the Queen has
on her throne--a time so good, that you will never want to change with
anybody in all the world."
"Tell me about God," asked Flo in a breathless voice, and she left her
stool and knelt at Mrs Jenks' feet.
"God," said little Mrs Jenks, putting down her work and looking up
solemnly, "God--He's the Father of the fatherless, and you are
fatherless. God's your Father, child."
"Our--Father--chart--'eaven," repeated Flo.
"Your Father in Heaven--yes, that's it."
Then the little woman paused, puzzled how best to make her story plain
enough and simple enough for the ignorant child. Words came to her at
last, and Flo learned what every child in our England is supposed to
know, but what, alas! many such children have never heard of; many such
children live and die without hearing of.
Do we blame them for their social standing? do we blame them for filling
their country with vice and crime?
Doubtless we do blame them, we raise our own clean skirts and pass over
on the other side. In church we thank God that we are not as these men
are--murderers--thieves--unclean--unholy. Let them go to prison, and to
death--fit ends for such as they.
True! virtue is to them not even a name, they have never heard of it at
all.
The fountain opened for sin and for uncleanness has never come in
_their_ path. Their iniquities are unpurged, their sins unpardoned.
Christ, it is certain, would wash them white enough, and give them a
place in His kingdom; but they know nothing of Christ, and we who do
know, to whom His name is a sound too familiar to excite any attention,
His story too often read, too often heard of, to call up any emotion--we
are either too lazy, or too selfish, or too ignorant of their ignorance,
to tell them of Him.
Now for the first time Flo learned about God, and about God's dear Son,
our Saviour. A little too about Heaven, and a very little about prayer.
If she spoke ever so low, down in her dark cellar, God would hear her,
and some day, Mrs Jenks said, He would come for her, and carry her away
to live with Him in Heaven.
Only a glimmering of the great truth could be given at one time to the
child's dark mind, but there is a vast difference between twilight and
thick darkness, and this difference took place in Flo's mind that day.
She listened with hardly a question--a breathless, astonished look on
her face, and when Mrs Jenks had ceased speaking, she rose slowly and
tied on mother's old bonnet.
"May I come again?" asked Flo, raising her lips to kiss the little
woman.
"Yes, my child, come again to-morrow. I shall look out for you
to-morrow."
And Flo promised to come.