All through the night Flo had visions of bright, and clean, and lovely
things. She dreamt that she had left the cellar for ever, that all the
musty, ragged boots and shoes were mended, and paid for, and gone, and
that instead of earning her bread in that hard and wretched way, God had
come and placed her in a beautiful room, looking out on green fields,
such as mother had told her of, and given her pure white dresses to make
for the angels.
And God looked so kind, and so like what she had imagined her own father
to look like, that she had ventured to ask Him what had become of Dick,
and God had told her that He Himself was taking care of Dick, and He
Himself had placed him in a good school, and all would be well with him.
And she thought she sat by the open window and made the angels dresses,
and was, oh! so very, very happy; and Scamp lay at her feet, and was
also happy; and Mrs Jenks was in the room, ready whenever she liked to
tell her more about God, and she too was happy.
Yes, they all were happy, with a happiness Flo had never conceived
possible hitherto, and she felt that it was not the nice room, nor the
lovely view, nor the pleasant occupation that made her happy, but just
because God was near. At last the morning came, and she awoke to find
that it all was only a dream.
She was still in the cellar, she must get up as usual, she must work as
usual at her old thankless work, the work that barely kept starvation
from the door. She felt very faint and hungry, but she remembered that
she had two shillings of the money she had earned on the Derby Day
locked away in the box where she usually kept mother's old bonnet. She
would get up at once and buy some breakfast for herself and Scamp. She
called the dog and told him what she was about to do, and, to judge from
the way he wagged his tail and rubbed his head against her hands, he
understood her, and was pleased with her intention. Nay, more, to hurry
her movements, he placed himself under the ladder, mounted a few rungs,
came down again, and finally darted from the ladder to her, and from her
to the ladder, uttering short impatient barks.
What ailed Flo? She was hungry, very hungry, but how slowly she rose
from her bed. She removed her head from the pillow, she steadied
herself on her elbow--how strange, and weak, and giddy she felt. She
lay down again, it was only a passing weakness; then once more she
tried, back came that overpowering sense of sickness and giddiness.
Well, it _should_ not conquer her this time; happen what might, she
_must_ get up. She tried to put her right foot to the ground, but a
great, sharp cry of agony brought Scamp to her side in consternation,
and brought also beads of pain to her brow.
No, hungry as she was, she could not walk, by no possible means could
she even stand.
She lay perfectly still for a moment or two, suffering so intensely that
every breath was an agony. At last this passed, and she was able to
realise her position a little. In truth it was not a pleasant one.
Even the night before, she had been in great need, she had longed much
for a drink, her pain had brought on intense thirst, she had meant to
ask Janey to put a cup, and a jug of cold water, by her side before she
left, but the sweetness of Janey's song had caused her to fall asleep
before she had made known her request, and the lame girl had gone away
unconscious that anything was the matter with her. It was highly
probable that she might not pay Flo a visit for days; unless her father
gave her another beating, or some quite unexpected event occurred, the
chances were that she would not come.
And now Flo needed meat and drink, and nursing, as she had never needed
them in all her life before. Though pale and delicate-looking, she had
hitherto been possessed of a certain wiry strength, which those little
withered city children, with every one of health's necessaries
apparently denied them, in some strange way seem to have.
She had never gone through severe pain before; and never, with all her
privations, had she known the hunger and thirst which now tormented her.
Scamp, seeing that she had changed her mind about going out, fixed on
her one or two reproachful glances, and then in a very discontented
manner resigned himself to his fate, and to a few more hours' sleep.
And Flo lay and wondered what was going to become of her. She was very
ill, she knew. She was alternately hot and then cold, she was
alternately tortured by pangs of the most acute hunger, and then deadly
sickness seemed to make the bare thought of food insupportable.
She wondered what was to be her fate. Was she to lie there, a little
more sick, a little more weak, a little more hungry and thirsty, in a
little more pain, until at last she died, as mother had died? Well,
what then?
Only last night she had thought dying a good thing, the best thing. It
was bidding good-bye to all that now troubled her, it was beginning at
once the good time God had put by so carefully for little outcast
children like her. If only it would come at once, this kind, beautiful
Death--if only she had not to walk the dark bit of road between now and
then, between now and the blessed moment when God would take her in His
arms to Heaven.
But Flo had been too long with the poor, with the very, very poor, had
seen too many such die, not to know well that dying was often a very
long business, a business so long, and so sad, that, though the dying
were suffering just as much as she now suffered, yet many weary hours,
sometimes many weary days, had to be passed before relief and succour
came to them; before kind Death came and took away all their sorrows and
gave them rest, and sleep, and a good time. And this long period of
waiting, even though the end was such brightness, felt very terrible to
the lonely child. Then, suddenly, words Mrs Jenks had said to her
yesterday came into her head.
"When you want food, or anything else very bad, and you don't know how
to get it, then is the time to ask God for it. All you have to do is to
say up your want, whatever it be, in as few, and small, and simple words
as you like, and though you speaks down in your dark cellar, God will
hear you up in Heaven, and if 'tis any way possible He'll give you what
you want."
Flo remembered these words of Mrs Jenks' now with great and sudden
gladness. If ever a time of need and sore want had come to any one it
had come to her now.
What a good thing to have a Father like God to tell it all to, what a
wonderful thing that He could hear her, without her having to get up to
go to Him.
Her ideas of God were misty, very misty, she had not the least
conception where Heaven was, or what it was, she only knew there _was_ a
God, there _was_ a Heaven--a God for her, a Heaven for her; and with all
her ignorance, many of the gifted, and mighty, and learned of the earth
do not know as much. Now for the first time she would pray. She
thought of no difficulty in making her petition known to God.
No more hard to tell Him of a want than it was, when her mother lived,
to tell her of a desire or longing that possessed her.
"Please, I wants fur Janey or somebody to come to the cellar afore
long," she said; "I wants a sup of water werry bad, and somethink to
eat. And there is two shillings stored away in mother's old bonnet-box.
Janey'd buy lots of wittles wid it. She'd be glad to come, 'cause I'd
pay 'er, and I'm werry faint like. You'd 'ave to fetch 'er, please,
God, 'cause she's not at 'ome, but away to the paper factory--but you
that is real kind won't mind that."
Then Flo lay still and listened, and waited.
She had made her request, and now the answer would come any moment.
Any instant Janey's quick step and the sound of her crutch might be
heard outside, and she would look in with her surprised face, to say
that notwithstanding her employer's anger she had been fetched away by
God Himself, and meant to wait on Flo all day.
And then Flo pictured how quickly she would send Janey out, and how
eagerly and willingly, with a whole bright shilling in her greedy little
hand, Janey would go; and how she would commission her to buy two large
mutton bones for Scamp, and a jug of cold, cold water, and a hice--for
Flo felt more thirsty than hungry now--for herself.
For half-an-hour she lay very patient, straining her ears to catch
Janey's expected footstep; but when that time, and more than that time
passed, and every footfall still went by on the other side, she grew
first fretful, then anxious, then doubtful. She had never prayed
before, but Mrs Jenks had told her that assuredly when she did pray an
answer would come.
Well, she had prayed, she had spoken to God very distinctly, and told
Him exactly what she wanted, but no answer came. He was to fetch Janey
to her, and no Janey arrived. She had not made a hard request of Him,--
she had only begged that a little child, as poor as herself, should come
and give her a cup of cold water,--but the child never appeared, and
Flo's parched lips were still unmoistened. How strange of Mrs Jenks to
tell her God would hear and answer prayer--not a bit of it. At least He
would not hear little prayers like hers. Very likely He was too busy
listening to the Queen's prayers, and to the great people's prayers.
The great, rich people always had the best of everything, why should
they not have the best of God's time too?
Or, perhaps--and this was a worse and darker thought--perhaps there was
no God; perhaps all Mrs Jenks' talk of yesterday had been just a pretty
fable--perhaps wicked Mrs Jenks had been deceiving her all the time!
The more Flo considered, the more did she believe this probable.
After all, it was very unlikely that she should have lived so long and
never, until yesterday, have heard anything of God and heaven, very
unlikely that her mother should have lived her much longer life without
knowing of these things! If there was a good time coming, was it likely
that her mother should have lived and died without ever hearing of it?
Slowly and reluctantly Flo gave up the hope that had brightened and
rendered endurable the last four-and-twenty hours. She had no Father in
heaven, there was no God! Great sobs broke from the poor little thing,
a great agony of grief seemed to rend her very life in two.
She cried her heart out, then again sank into uneasy slumber. All
through the long hours of that burning summer day the child lay, now
sleeping fitfully, now starting in feverish fright and expectancy. At
last, as evening came on, and the air, cooler elsewhere, seemed to grow
hotter and hotter in this wretched spot, she started upright, suffering
more intense pangs of hunger than she had hitherto known. Be her agony
what it might, she must crawl, though on her knees, to the cupboard,
where she knew a very old and mouldy crust still was. She rolled
herself round off the straw, and then managed to move about two or three
feet on the damp floor. But further movement of any description was
impossible; the agony of her injured foot was greater than the agony of
her hunger; she must stay still--by no possible means could she even get
back to her wretched bed. She was past all reasoning or any power of
consecutive thought now; she was alive to nothing but her intense bodily
suffering. Every nerve ached, every limb burned; her lips were black
and parched, her tongue withered in her mouth; what words she uttered in
her half-unconsciousness, could hardly be distinguished.
In a much milder degree, it is true, Scamp had also spent an uneasy
day--Scamp too had tried to sleep off his great hunger. It was at its
height now, as he crouched by Flo's side on the floor. During the time
of his captivity he had been well fed, he had left behind him a large
platter of broken meat; since Flo had set him free neither bite nor sup
had passed his lips. Hungry in the morning, without doubt he was
ravenously hungry now, and being of the genus designated "knowing," saw
clearly that the time had come for him to set his wits to work. As a
rule he partook of Flo's spirit, and was, in truth, an honest dog; but
he had a clause in his code of morals which taught him that when no man
gave to him, then it would be right for him to help himself.
He had proved the necessity of this rule once or twice in his
adventurous life, and had further proved himself a clever and
accomplished thief.
He had some butchers' shops in his mind's eye now, some tempting
butchers' shops, that he had cunningly noticed when returning home with
Flo yesterday.
From those butchers' stalls hung pork chops, and mutton chops, ready
cut, all prepared to be received into his capacious jaws. A leisurely
walk down the street, a little daring, a sudden spring, and the prize
would be his.
Should he go and satisfy this terrible hunger, and feel comfortable once
more? Why did he not go? why did he not at once go?
Why? because he had a heart,--not a human heart, which often,
notwithstanding all that is said about it, is cold, and callous, and
indifferent enough, but a great faithful dog's heart. With considerable
disquietude he had watched Flo all day. Not for nothing had she lain so
still, not for nothing had such piercing moans come from her lips, not
for nothing did she look so pale, and drawn, and suffering now.
Drooping his ears, bending his head, and frowning deeply, he reflected,
in dog-fashion, how Flo too had tasted no meat and drank no water that
day.
She too was hungry and in a worse plight than him--it was his bounden
duty to provide her with food. What should he bring her? A bone?
Bones were delicious, but strange to say neither Flo, nor Dick, nor
Jenks ever ate them!
A nice pork or mutton chop: how good they were--too good for a hungry
dog to think about patiently, as he reflected that a chop, if he could
get it, would be only supper, and not too large a supper, for one.
No, he must give up that butcher's meat in which his spirit delighted
and attack the bread shops.
A loaf of bread would satisfy them both!
Rising to his feet, and bestowing on Flo one or two looks of intense
intelligence, looks which said as plainly as possible, "I have not an
idea of deserting you, I am going for our supper," he started off.
Up the ladder with nimble steps he went, and then, by a succession of
cunning dives, along the street, until he came to the butchers' stalls.
Here his demeanour totally changed, he no longer looked timid and cowed:
the currish element very prominent when, with his tail between his legs,
he had scuttled up Duncan Street, now had vanished; he walked along the
centre of the road soberly and calmly, a meditative look in his eyes,
like a dog that has just partaken of a good dinner, and is out for a
constitutional: not one glance did he cast at the tempting morsels, so
near and yet so far.
A baker's cart turned the corner--this was what Scamp wanted, and
expected. He joined the cart unknown to the baker's boy, he walked
demurely behind, to all appearance guarding the tempting, freshly-baked
loaves. His eye was on them and yet not on them.
To the passers-by he looked like a very faithful, good kind of dog, who
would fasten his teeth into the leg of any one who attempted to
appropriate his master's property.
More than one little hungry street _gamin_, on thieving intent, wished
him anything but well as he passed.
The cart stopped at several doors, the bread was delivered, but still no
opportunity of securing a supper for himself and Flo arose.
Scamp's lucky star was, however, in the ascendant.
At number 14, Q--Street, Jerry, the baker's boy, had brought Mrs
Simpson's little bill, and evinced to that worthy woman a very righteous
desire to have it settled.
Mrs Simpson, whose wishes differed from Jerry's, thought mercy, not
justice, should be exercised in the matter of bills owing _from_
herself, when owing _to_ herself the case was different. In the dispute
that ensued, Jerry stepped into the house.
Here was Scamp's golden opportunity.
Did he lose it? Not he. Half a moment later he might have been seen at
his old game of diving and scuttling, his tail again tucked under his
legs, a hangdog look on his face, but victorious for all that, for
Jerry's brownest and most crusty loaf was between his teeth.
Woe to any one who attempted to dispossess Scamp of that loaf; his blood
would have been up then, and serious battle would have ensued.
In safety he bore it through the perilous road, down the ladder into the
cellar, and panting and delighted, looking like one who had done a good
deed, which indeed he had, he laid the bread under Flo's nose.
The smell of the good food came sweetly to the nostrils of the starving
child, it roused her from the stupor into which she had been sinking,
she opened her eyes, and stretched out her hot little hand to clutch at
it eagerly. The dog crouched at her side, his lips watering, his teeth
aching to set themselves once more into its crisp brown crust.
Just then footsteps stopped in reality at the cellar door, footsteps
that had no idea of going away, footsteps that meant to come right in
and find out about everything.
For a moment Flo's heart stood still, then gave a great cry of joy, for
little Mrs Jenks stood by her side.
"Who sent you?" asked the trembling child.
"God sent me, little Darrell," said the woman, bending over her with,
oh! such a tender, loving face.
"Then there be a God, after all," said Flo, and in her weakness and
gladness she fainted away.