As Flo walked down the street, the wonderful news she had heard for the
first time completely absorbed her mind, so much so that she forgot that
Dick was a thief, that Dick and Jenks were both suffering from the
penalty of their crime, that she was returning to her cellar alone,
without even Scamp to keep her company. The news she had heard was so
great, so intensely interesting in its freshness and newness, that she
could think of nothing else.
She walked down, as her wont was, several by-streets, and took several
short cuts, and found herself more than once in parts of the town where
no respectable person was ever seen.
The gutter children working at their several wretched trades called
after her as she passed, one addressing her as "old bonnet," another
asking how much she wanted a-piece for the flowers that dangled so
ludicrously on her forehead.
And being a timid child, and, London bred as she was, sensitive to
ridicule, she walked on faster and faster, really anxious to find any
quiet place where she could sit down and think. At last, as she was
passing a more open piece of ground, where a group of boys were playing
pitch-and-toss, they, noticing her quickened movements, and rather
frightened face, made a rush at her, and Flo, losing all presence of
mind, began to run.
Little chance would she have had against her tormentors, had not just
then a tall policeman appeared in sight, whereupon they considered it
more prudent to give up their chase, and return to their interrupted
amusements.
Poor Flo, however, still believing them to be at her heels, ran faster
than ever down a narrow lane to her right, turned sharp round a corner,
when suddenly her foot tripped against a cellar grating, the grating,
insecurely fastened, gave way, and the child, her fall partly broken by
a ladder which stood against the grating, found herself bruised,
stunned, almost unconscious, on the ground several feet below the
street.
For some moments she lay quiet, not in pain, and not quite insensible,
but too much frightened and shaken to be capable of movement.
Then a sound within a foot or two of her caused her heart to leap with
fresh fear. She sat up and listened intently.
It was a stifled sound, it was the whine of a dog.
For Scamp's sake Flo had learned to love all dogs. She made her way,
though not without pain, to this one now, and put her hand on its head.
Instead of being angry and resenting this freedom, as a strange dog
might, a quiver of joy went through the animal, its tail wagged
violently, its brown eyes cast melting glances of love at Flo, its small
rough tongue tried to lick her face and hands, and there, gagged and
tied, but well fed, as yet unhurt, and a platter of broken meat by its
side, was her own dog, her lost dog, Scamp.
Flo laid her head on the head of the dog, and burst into tears of joy.
The pain of her fall was forgotten, she was very glad she had knocked
against that broken grating, that by this means she had stumbled into
this cellar; her dog could accompany her home--she would not be so
lonely now.
With her own hands she unfastened the gag, and loosened the chain from
Scamp's neck, and the dog, delighting in his recovered freedom, danced
and scampered madly round her, uttering great, deep bays of joy.
Alas! for Scamp, his foolish and untimely mirth excited undue attention
to him.
His loud and no longer muffled bark brought two men quickly into the
cellar.
Flo had the prudence of mind to hide behind some old boards, and Scamp
with equal prudence did not follow her.
"Down, you brute," said the short thick-set man whom Jenks on a former
occasion had addressed as Maxey. "Wot a noise, 'ee's makin'; the
perleece'll get scent of the young dawg wid his noise," and the cruel
wretch shied a great blow at Scamp, which caused the poor animal to
quiver and cry out with pain.
"'Ee'll be quiet enough afore the night is hover," said the man's
companion, with a loud laugh. "Lor! won't it be fun to see the
bull-dawg a tearin' of 'im? I'm comin' to shave and soap 'im presently;
but see, Maxey, some one 'as been and tumbled inter the cellar, down by
the gratin', as I'm alive! See! them two bars is broke right acrost."
"Run and put them together, then, the best way possible," called out
Maxey, "and I'll look round the cellar to give it to any one as is in
hidin'."
How fast Flo's heart beat at those words, but Maxey, though he imagined
he had searched in every available nook, never thought of examining
behind the three thin boards almost jammed against the wall, and behind
which the child had crushed her slight frame.
He believed that whoever had fallen into the cellar had beaten a hasty
retreat, and after tying up Scamp more firmly than ever, took his
departure.
Now was Flo's time. She had only a few moments to effect her escape and
the dog's escape. A dreadful meaning had Maxey's words for her--her
dog's life was in peril.
Never heeding an acute agony which had set in by this time in her right
foot, she made her way to Scamp's side, and first putting her arms round
his neck, entreated him in the most pathetic voice to be quiet and not
to betray them by any more barking.
If dogs cannot understand words and their meanings, they are very clever
at comprehending tones and _their_ meanings.
Perfectly did this dog's clear intelligence take in that Flo meant them
both to escape, that any undue noise on his part would defeat their
purpose. He confessed to himself that in his first joy at seeing her he
had acted foolishly, he would do so no more.
When she unfastened him he bounded up the ladder, and butting with his
great strong head against the broken grating, removed it again from its
place, then springing to the ground, was a free dog once more. Half a
moment later Flo was by his side.
There were plenty of people, and idle people too, in the streets, but,
strange to say, no one noticed the child and dog, and they passed on
their way in safety. A few moments' walking brought them to Duncan
Street, then to their own cellar, down the ladder of which Scamp trotted
with a happy, confident air.
Flo followed him feebly, and tottering across the floor, threw herself
on her straw bed. Not another step could she go. She was much hurt;
she was in severe pain.
Was her foot broken? Hardly that, or she could not have walked at all,
but her present agony was so great, that large drops stood on her brow,
and two or three sharp cries came from her patient lips.
How she longed for Dick then, or Jenks then, or Janey then. Yes, she
had Scamp, and that was something--Scamp, who was lying abject by her
side, pouring out upon her a whole wealth of love, who, knowing what she
had done for him, would evermore do all that dog could do for her sake.
She raised her hand to his head and patted him, glad, very glad that she
had rescued him from an unknown but dreadful fate.
But she wanted something else, something or some one to give her ease in
her terrible agony, and God, her loving Father, looking down from
heaven, saw His little child's sore need, and though as yet He sent her
no earthly succour, He gave to her the blessed present relief of
unconsciousness. Flo fainted away.
When she recovered an hour or two later, the scanty light that ever
penetrated into the cellar had departed, and at first, when the child
opened her eyes in the darkness, pain and memory of all recent events
had completely left her. She fancied she was lying again by her
mother's side on that very straw mattress, she stretched out her arms to
embrace her, and to ask her the question with which she had greeted her
for the last three months of her life.
"Be yer werry tired, mother?"
But then the empty place, the straw where the weary form was no longer
lying, brought back remembrance; her mother was not there--her mother
was gone. She was resting in her quiet grave, and could never help, or
succour, or protect her more.
But then again her thoughts were broken. There were rude noises
outside, a frightened cry from Scamp at the foot of the bed, the cellar
door was violently opened, two men scrambled down the ladder, and with
many oaths and curses began tossing about the wretched furniture, and
calling loudly for the missing dog.
Where was he? Not on Flo's bed, which they unmercifully raked about,
unheeding her moans of pain; not anywhere apparently. Vowing vengeance
on _whoever_ had stolen the dawg, the men departed at last.
Then again all was silence, and in a few moments a cowed-looking and
decidedly sooty animal might, had any light been there to see, have been
observed descending from the chimney where he had lain _perdu_.
Of the life-preserving qualities Scamp possessed a large share, as
doubtless before this his story proves.
Perhaps his cur mother had put him up to a wrinkle or two in his
babyhood; at any rate, fully determined was he to meet no violent end,
to live out his appointed time, and very clever were the expedients he
used to promote this worthy object.
Now he shook himself as free as he could of the encumbrances he had met
with in the smoky, sooty chimney, and again approached Flo's side.
She laid her hand on his head, praised him a little for the talent he
had shown in again escaping from Maxey, and the dreadful fate to which
Maxey meant to consign him; then the two lay quiet and silent.
A child and a dog!
Could any one have looked in on them that night they would have said
that in all the great city no two could be more utterly alone and
forsaken.
That individual, whoever he might have been, would have gone away with a
wrong impression--they were not so.
Any creature that retains hope, any creature that retains faith, which
is better, than hope, cannot be really desolate.
The dog had all the large, though unconscious faith of his kind in his
Creator. It had never occurred to him to murmur at his fate, to wish
for himself the better and more silken lives that some dogs live. To
live at all was a blessed thing, to love at all a more blessed thing--he
lived and he loved--he was perfectly happy.
And the child--for the first time she knew of and had faith in a Divine
Father, she had heard of some one who loved her, and who would make all
things right for her. She thought of this love, she pondered over it,
she was neither desolate nor unhappy. God and God's Son loved her, and
loved Dick--they knew all about her and Dick; and some day their Father
would send for them both and give them a home in His House in Heaven.
Flo had at all times a vivid imagination, since her earliest days it had
been her dear delight to have day dreams, to build castles in the air.
No well-dressed or happy-looking child ever crossed her path that she
did not suppose herself that child, that she did not go through in fancy
that child's delightful life. What wardrobes had Flo in imagination,
what gay trinkets adorned her brow, her arms, her neck!
What a lovely house she lived in, what heaps of shillings and sovereigns
she possessed! Now and then, in her moments of most daring flight, she
had even a handle to her name, and people addressed her as "Lady Flo."
But all the time, while happy in these dreams, she had always known them
to be but dreams. She was only Flo, working as a translator of old
boots and shoes, down in a dark cellar--she had no fine dresses, no
pretty ornaments, no money, she was hungry and cold, and generally
miserable, and as far as she could possibly see there was never any
chance of her being anything else.
She generally came down from her high imaginings to this stern reality,
with a great burst of tears, only one sad thought comforting her, to be
alive at all she could never be worse than she was, she could never sink
any lower.
She was mistaken.
Last night, lying all alone and waiting for Dick's trial, lying hour
after hour hoping and longing for sleep to visit her, and hoping and
longing in vain, she had proved that she was mistaken. Lower depths of
sorrow and desolation could be reached, and she had reached them.
Through no fault of hers, the stern hand of the law was stretched out to
grasp her one treasure, to take her brother away.
Dick had broken a promise sealed on dying lips--Dick was a thief.
Henceforth and for ever the brand of the prison would be on him.
When, their punishment over, he and Jenks were free once again, nothing
now, no power, or art, or persuasion, on her part could keep those two
apart. Together they would plunge into deeper and more daring crime,
and come eventually to the bad and miserable end her mother had so often
described to her. It was plain that she and Dick must separate.
When the boys were released from prison, it was plain that she and they
could not live together as of old. The honest could not live with the
dishonest. Her mother had often told her that, had often warned her to
be sure, happen what might, to choose honest companions. So Flo knew
that unless _she_ too broke her word to mother, they must part--Dick and
she must part. And yet how much she loved him--how much her mother had
loved him!
He was not grave like her; he had never carried an old head on young
shoulders; he was the merriest, brightest, funniest boy in the world--
one of those throw-all-care-to-the-winds little fellows, who invariably
give pleasure even in the darkest and most shady homes. His elastic
spirits never flagged, his gay heart never despaired, he whistled over
his driest crusts, he turned somersaults over his supperless hours--he
had for many a day been the light of two pairs of eyes. True, he had
often been idle, and lately had left the brunt of the daily labour, if
not all of it, to Flo. But the mother heart of the little sister, who
was in reality younger than himself, accepted all this as a necessity.
Was he not a boy? and was it not one of the first laws of nature that
all girls should work and all boys should play?
But now Dick must work with the hard labour the law accords to its
prisoners. That bright little face must look out behind a prisoner's
mask, he must be confined in the dark cell, he must be chained to the
whipping-post, he must be half-starved on bread and water. Out of
prison he was half his time without the former of these necessities of
life, and at his age he would not be subjected to hard labour.
But Flo knew nothing of these distinctions, and all the terrible stories
she had ever heard of prisoners she imagined as happening to Dick now.
So the night before the trial had been one long misery to the sensitive,
affectionate child.
Now the trial was over, now Dick was really consigned to prison, or to
what seemed to Flo like prison. With their eyes they had said good-bye
to each other, he from the prisoners' dock, she from her place in the
witnesses' box. The parting was over, and she was lying alone in her
dark cellar, on her straw pallet, bruised, hurt, faint, but strange to
say no longer unhappy, strange to say happier than she had ever been in
her life before.
She had often heard of bright things--she had often imagined bright
things, but now for the first time she heard of a bright thing for her.
She was not always to be in pain, she had heard to-day of a place with
no pain; she was not always to be hungry, poor, and in rags--she had
heard to-day of food enough and to spare, of white dresses, of a home
more beautiful than the Queen's home, of a good time coming to her who
had always, always, all her life had bad times.
And Dick, though he was a thief, might share in the good time, and so
might Jenks.
Our Saviour gave of His good times to thieves, and sinners, and poor
people, if only they wanted them, and of course they had only to hear of
them to want them.
"May I come down, Flo?" called out Janey's voice at this juncture, at
the cellar door. "Father 'ave beat me hawful; may I come down and set
by yer a bit?"
The lame girl was sobbing loudly, and without waiting for Flo's reply
she scrambled down the ladder and threw herself on the bed by the
child's side.
"There now," she said, panting out her passionate words, "'ee 'ave me
hall black and blue, and my lame leg 'urt worse nor hever; and I wish
'ee wor in prison, I do; and I wish I wor dead, I do."
"Oh! Janey," said Flo, with a great gasp of longing, "_wouldn't_ it be
nice to be dead?"
This corroboration of her desire startled Janey into quiet, and into a
subdued--
"_What_, Flo Darrell?"
"To be dead, Janey, and 'avin' a good time?"
"Well," said Janey, recovering herself with a laugh, "wen I'm down
haltogether in the dumps, as I wor a minute ago, I wishes fur it, but
most times I 'ates the bear thought o' it--ugh!"
"That's cause yer doesn't know, Janey, no more nor I did till to-day.
Plenty of wittles, plenty of clothes, plenty of pretty things, plenty of
love, all in the good time as we poor folks have arter we are dead."
Janey gave her companion an angry push.
"There now, ef yer ain't more than hagriwating, a comin' on me wid yer
old game of s'posin', and me fairly clemmed wid the 'unger. There's no
good time fur me, nor never will be, I reckon," and she again lifted up
her voice and wept.
"There's Our--Father--chart--'eaven," began Flo, but Janey stopped her.
"I don't want 'im--one father's too much fur me." Flo was silent--she
would tell no more of her sweet message to unbelieving ears.
After a time she spoke in a different tone.
"Janey?"
"Well?"
"I'd like fur to 'ear the Glory song."
Janey had a good voice, and desired nothing better than to listen to
herself. She complied readily.
"`I'm glad I hever saw the day, Sing glory, glory, glory, When first I
larned to read and pray, Sing glory, glory, glory.'
"Why, Flo! my 'eart alive! Flo, 'ere's Scamp."
"Sing it again," murmured Flo.
And Janey did sing it again, and again, and yet again, until the dark
cellar seemed to grow full of it, and to be lit up and brightened by it,
and to its music the sick and weary child went to sleep.