The next morning Flo watched Mrs Jenks very narrowly, wondering and
hoping much that she would show some sorrow at the thought of the coming
parting. A shade, even a shade, of regret on the little woman's face
would have been pleasing to Flo; it would have given her undoubted
satisfaction to know that Mrs Jenks missed her, or would be likely to
miss her, ever so little. But though she watched her anxiously, no
trace of what she desired was visible on the bright little woman's
features. She was up earlier than usual, and looked to Flo rather more
brisk and happy than usual. She went actively about her work, singing
under her breath for fear of disturbing Flo, whom she fancied was still
asleep, some of the hymns she delighted in.
"Christ is my Saviour and my Friend,
My Brother and my Love,
My Head, my Hope, my Counsellor,
My Advocate above,"
sang Mrs Jenks, and while she sang she dusted, and tidied, and scrubbed
the little room; and as she polished the grate, and lit the small fire,
and put the kettle on for breakfast, she continued--
"Christ Jesus is the heaven of heaven;
My Christ, what shall I call?
Christ is the first, Christ is the last,
My Christ is all in all."
No, Mrs Jenks was not sorry about anything, that was plain; there was a
concealed triumph in her low notes which almost brought tears to the
eyes of the listening child. Perhaps she would have sobbed aloud, and
so revealed to Mrs Jenks what was passing in her mind, had not that
little woman done something which took off her attention, and astonished
her very much. When she had completed all her usual preparations for
breakfast, she took off her old working gown, and put on her best
Sunday-go-to-meeting dress.
This surprised Flo so utterly that she forgot she had been pretending to
be asleep and sat up on her elbow to gaze at her.
Over the best dress she pinned a snowy kerchief, and putting on finally
a clean widow's cap, drew up the blinds and approached Flo's side.
"I'll just see about that poor foot now," she said, "and then, while I
am frying the herring for breakfast, you can wash and dress yourself,
dearie."
But poor Flo could not help wondering, as Mrs Jenks in her brisk clever
way unbandaged her foot, and applied that pleasant strengthening lotion,
who would do it for her to-morrow morning, or would she have any lotion
to put. She longed to find courage to ask Mrs Jenks to allow her to
take away what was left in the bottle, perhaps by the time it was
finished her foot would be well.
And Flo knew perfectly, how important it was for her, unless she was
utterly to starve, that that lame foot should get well. She remembered
only too vividly what hard times Janey, even with a father and mother
living, had to pull along with her lame foot, but she could not find
courage to ask for the lotion, and Mrs Jenks, after using a sufficient
quantity, corked up the remainder and put it carefully away.
"There's an improvement here," said the little woman, touching the
injured ankle. "There's more nerve, and strength, and firmness. You'll
be able to walk to-day."
"I'll try, ma'am," said Flo.
"So you shall, and you can lean on me--I'll bear your weight. Now get
up, dearie."
As Flo dressed herself she felt immensely comforted. It was very
evident from Mrs Jenks' words, that she intended going with her to her
cellar, she herself would take her back to her wretched home.
To do this she must give up her day's charing, so Flo knew that her
going away was of some importance to the little woman, and the thought,
as I have said, comforted her greatly.
She dressed herself quickly and neatly, and after kneeling, and
repeating "Our Father" quite through very softly under her breath, the
three--the woman, child, and dog--sat down to breakfast. It would be
absurd to speak of it in any other way.
In that household Scamp ate with the others, he drew up as gravely to
every meal as Mrs Jenks did herself.
His eyes were on a level with the table, and he looked so at home, so
assured of his right to be there, and withal so anxious and expectant,
and he had such a funny way of cocking his ears when a piece of nice
fried herring was likely to go his way, that he was a constant source of
mirth? and pleasure to the human beings with whom he resided.
Mrs Jenks was one of the most frugal little women in the world; never a
crumb was wasted in her little home, but she always managed to have
something savoury for every meal, and the savoury things she bought were
rendered more so by her judicious cooking. Her red herrings, for
instance, just because she knew where to buy them, and how to dress
them, did not taste at all like poor Flo's red herrings, cooked against
the bars, and eaten with her fingers in the Duncan Street cellar.
So it was with all her food; it was very plain, very inexpensive, but of
its kind it was the best, and was so nicely served that appetites far
more fastidious than Flo's would have enjoyed it.
On this morning, however, the three divided their herring and sipped
their tea (Scamp had evinced quite a liking for tea) in silence, and
when it was over, and Flo was wondering how soon she could break the ice
and ask Mrs Jenks _when_ she meant to take her to Duncan Street, she
was startled by the little woman saying to her in her briskest and
brightest tones--
"I wonder, child, whether I'd best trim up that old bonnet of your
mother's for you to wear, or will you go with yer little head exposed to
the sun?
"The bonnet's very old, that's certain, but then 'tis something of a
protection, and the sun's 'ot."
"Please, ma'am," said Flo, "I can walk werry well wid my head bare; but
ef you doesn't mind I'd like to carry 'ome the bonnet, fur it was
mother's Sunday best, it wor."
"Lor, child, you're not going home yet awhile, you've got to go and pay
a visit with me. Here, show me the bonnet--I'll put a piece of decent
brown upon it, and mend it up." Which Mrs Jenks did, and with her
neat, capable fingers transformed it into by no means so
grotesque-looking an object.
Then when it was tied on Flo's head they set off.
"A lady wishes to see you, Flo, and she wishes to see Scamp too,"
explained Mrs Jenks; and calling the dog, they went slowly out of the
court.
Flo had very little time for wonder, for the lady in question lived but
a few doors away, and notwithstanding her slow and painful walking she
got to her house in a very few moments.
It was a tiny house, quite a scrap of a house to be found in any part of
the middle of London--a house back from its neighbours, with little
Gothic windows, and a great tree sheltering it. How it came to pass
that no railway company, or improvement company, or company of something
else, had not pounced upon it and pulled it down years ago remained a
marvel; however, there it stood, and to its hall door walked Mrs Jenks,
Flo, and Scamp, now.
The door was opened by a neat little parlour-maid, who grinned from ear
to ear at sight of Mrs Jenks.
"Is your mistress at home, Annie?"
"That she is, ma'am, and looking out for you. You're all to come right
in, she says--the dog and all."
So Flo found herself in a pretty hall, bright with Indian matting, and
some fresh ferns towering up high in a great stone jar of water.
"We was in the country yesterday, ma'am, Miss Mary and me, and have
brought back flowers, and them 'igh green things enough to fill a house
with 'em," explained the little handmaid as she trotted on in front,
down one flight of stairs and up another, until she conducted them into
a long low room, rendered cool and summery by the shade of the great
tree outside. This room to-day was, as Annie the servant expressed it,
like a flower garden. Hydrangeas, roses, carnations, wild flowers,
ferns, stood on every pedestal, filled twenty, thirty vases, some of
rarest china, some of commonest delf, but cunningly hid now by all kinds
of delicate foliage. It was a strange little house for the midst of the
city, a strange little bower of a room, cool, sweet-scented, carrying
those who knew the country miles away into its shadiest depths--a room
furnished with antique old carvings and odd little black-legged spindle
chairs.
On one of the walls hung a solitary picture, a water-colour framed
without margin, in a broad gilt frame.
A masterpiece of art it was--of art, I say? something far beyond art--
genius.
It made the effect of the charming little room complete, and not only
carried one to the country, but straight away at once to the seashore.
Those who saw it thought of the beech on summer evenings, of the happy
days when they were young. It was a picture of waves--waves dancing and
in motion, waves with the white froth foaming on them, and the sunlight
glancing on their tops. No other life in the picture, neither ship nor
bird, but the waves were so replete with their own life that the salt
fresh breeze seemed to blow on your face as you gazed.
The effect was so marvellous, so great and strong, that Flo and Mrs
Jenks both neglected the flowers, only taking them in as accessories,
and went and stood under the picture.
"Ah! there's the sea," said Mrs Jenks with a great sigh, and a passing
cloud, not of pain, but of an old grief, on her face.
"The sea shall give up her dead," said a young voice by her side, and
turning quickly, Flo saw one of the most peculiar, and perhaps one of
the most beautiful, women she had ever looked at. Was she old? The
hair that circled her low forehead was snowy white. Was she young? Her
voice was round, flexible, full of music, rich with all the sympathy of
generous youth.
She might be thirty--forty--fifty--any age. She had a story--who
hasn't?
She had met with sorrow--who hasn't? But she had conquered and risen
above sorrow, as her pale, calm, unwrinkled face testified. She was a
brave woman, a succourer of the oppressed, a friend in the house of
trouble, or mourning, as the pathetic, dark grey eyes, which looked out
at you from under their straight black brows, declared. Long afterwards
she told Flo in half-a-dozen simple words her history.
"God took away from me all, child--father--mother--lover--home. He made
me quite empty, and then left me so for a little time, to let me feel
what it was like: but when I had tasted the full bitterness, He came and
filled me with Himself--brim full of Himself. Then I had my mission
from Him. Go feed my sheep--go feed my lambs. Is it not enough?"
"You like my picture, Mrs Jenks," she said now, "and so does the
child," touching Flo as she spoke with the tips of her white fingers.
"Come into this room and I will show you another--there."
She led the way into a little room rendered dark, not by the great tree,
but by Venetian blinds. Over the mantel-piece was another solitary
picture--again a water-colour.
Some cows, four beautifully sketched, ease-loving creatures, standing
with their feet in a pool of clear water: sedgy, marshy ground behind
them, a few broken trees, and a ridge of low hills in the background--
over all the evening sky.
"That picture," said the lady, "is called `Repose,'--to me it is repose
with stagnation; I like my waves better."
"And yet, Miss Mary," replied the widow, "how restful and trustful the
dumb creatures look! I think they read us a lesson."
"So they do, Mrs Jenks; all His works read us a lesson--but come back
to my waves, I want their breezes on my face, the day is stifling."
She led the way back into the first room, and seated herself on a low
chair.
"This is your little girl, and this the dog--Scamp, you call him. Why
did you give him so outlandish a name? he does not deserve it, he is a
good faithful dog, there is nothing scampish about him, I see that in
his face."
"Yes, ma'am, he's as decent conducted and faithful a cretur as ever
walked. Wot scamp he is, is only name deep, not natur deep."
"Well, that is right--What's in a name? Come here, Scamp, poor fellow,
and you, little Flo, you come also; I have a great deal to say to you
and your dog." The child and the dog went up and stood close to the
kind face. Miss Mary put her arm round Flo, and laid one shapely white
hand on Scamp's forehead.
"So God has taken away your little bed," she said to the child, "and you
don't know where to sleep to-night."
"Oh! yes, mum, I does," said Flo in a cheerful voice, for she did not
wish Mrs Jenks to think she missed her bed very much. "Scamp and me,
we 'as a mattress in hour cellar."
Miss Mary smiled.
"Now, Flo," she said, "I really don't wish to disappoint you, but I
greatly fear you are mistaken. You may have a mattress, but you have no
mattress in number 7, Duncan Street, for that cellar, as well as every
other cellar in the street, has been shut up by the police three weeks
ago. They are none of them fit places for human beings to live in."
If Miss Mary, sitting there in her summer muslin, surrounded by every
comfort, thought that Flo would rejoice in the fact that these places,
unfit for any of God's creatures, were shut up, she was vastly mistaken.
Dark and wretched hole of a place as number 7, Duncan Street, was, it
was there her mother had died, it was there she and Dick had played, and
struggled, and been honest, and happy. Poor miserable shred of a home,
it was the only home she had ever possessed the only place she had a
right to call her own.
Now that it was gone, the streets or the Adelphi arches stared her in
the face. Veritable tears came to her eyes, and in her excitement and
distress, she forgot her awe of the first lady who had ever spoken to
her.
"Please, mum, ef the cellar is shut up, wot 'ave come of my little bits
o' duds, my mattress, and table, and little cobbler's stool?--that
little stool wor worth sixpence any day, it stood so steady on its legs.
Wot 'ave come o' them, mum, and wot's to come o' Scamp and me, mum?"
"Ah!" said the lady more kindly than ever, "that is the important
question, what is to become of you and Scamp? Well, my dear, God has a
nice little plan all ready for you both, and what you have to do is to
say yes to it."
"And I 'ave brought you here to learn all about it, Flo," said Mrs
Jenks, nodding and smiling at her.
Then Miss Mary made the child seat herself on a low stool by her side,
and unfolded to her a wonderful revelation. She, Flo, was no stranger
to this lady. Mrs Jenks once a week worked as char-woman in this
house, and had long ago told its mistress of her little charge; and Miss
Mary was charmed and interested, and wanted to buy Scamp, only Mrs
Jenks declared that that would break Flo's heart. So instead she had
contributed something every week to the keep of the two.
Now she wished to do something more. Miss Mary Graham was not rich, and
long ago every penny of her spare money had been appropriated in various
charitable ways, but about a fortnight ago a singular thing had happened
to her. She received through the post a cheque for a small sum with
these words inside the envelope--
"_To be spent on the first little homeless London child you care to
devote it to_."
The gift, sent anonymously, seemed to point directly to Flo, and Miss
Graham resolved that she should reap the benefit.
Her plan for her was this,--she and Scamp were to live with Mrs Jenks
for at least a year, and during that time Mrs Jenks was to instruct Flo
in reading and writing, in fine sewing, and in all the mysteries of
household work and cooking, and when Flo was old enough and strong
enough, and if she turned out what they earnestly trusted she would turn
out, she was to come to Miss Mary as her little servant, for Miss Mary
expected that in a year or two Annie would be married and have a home of
her own.
"Does this plan suit you, Flo? Are you willing when the time comes to
try to be a faithful little servant to any master or mistress you may be
with?" Whatever Flo's feelings may have been, her answer was a softly,
a very softly spoken--
"Yes, ma'am."
"Do you know how you are to learn?"
"No, ma'am; but Mrs Jenks, she knows."
"Mrs Jenks knows certainly, and so may you. You must be God's little
servant first--you must begin by being God's little servant to-day, and
then when the time comes you will be a good and faithful servant to
whoever you are with."
"Yes, ma'am," answered Flo, a look of reverence, of love, of wonder at
the care God was taking of her, stealing over her downcast face. Miss
Mary saw the look, and rose from her seat well satisfied, she had found
the child her Heavenly Father meant her to serve.
"But please, mum," said Flo, "does yer know about Dick?"
"Yes, my dear, I know all about your little brother. Mrs Jenks has
told me Dick's story as well as yours. And I know this much, which
perhaps you may not know; his stealing was a bad thing, but his being
taken up and sent, not to prison, but to the good reformatory school
where he now is, was the best thing that could happen to him. I have
been over that school, Flo, and I know that the boys in it are treated
well, and are happy. They are taught a trade, and are given a fair
start in life.
"Many a boy such as Dick owes his salvation to the school he now is in.
"By the way, did you notice Annie, my little servant?"
"Yes, ma'am," and a smile came to Flo's face at the remembrance of the
bright, pleasant-looking handmaiden.
"She has given me leave to tell you something, Flo; something of her own
history.
"Once my dear, faithful Annie was a little London thief--a notorious
little London thief. She knew of no God, she knew of nothing good--she
was not even as fortunate as you and Dick were, for she had no mother to
keep her right. When not quite ten years old she was concerned in a
daring city robbery--she was taken up--convicted--and at last sentenced,
first for a month to Wandsworth House of Correction, afterwards for four
years to the girls' reformatory school at that place.
"She has often told me what happened to her on the day she arrived at
this school. She went there hating every one, determined never to
change her ways, to remain for ever hardened and wicked.
"The matron called her aside and spoke to her thus:
"`I know what is said of you, but I do not believe half of it--_I am
going to trust you_.
"`Here is a five-pound note; take this note to such a shop, and bring me
back four sovereigns in gold, and one in silver.'
"That noble trust saved the girl. At that moment, as she herself said,
all inclination for thieving utterly left her. [A fact.] From that day
to this she has never touched a farthing that is not strictly her own.
You see what she is now in appearance; when you know her better, you
will see what she is in character--a true Christian--a noble woman. All
the nobler for having met and conquered temptation."
Miss Mary paused, then added softly, "What she has become, Dick may
become."
When Mrs Jenks, and Flo, and Scamp came home that morning, Flo, who
after all that had happened felt sure that nothing ever _could_ surprise
her again, still could not help, when she entered the neat little room--
her _real_ home now--starting back and folding her hands in mute
astonishment. The rough-looking, untidy mattress was gone, and in its
place stood a tiny, bright-looking iron bedstead, on which the smallest
of snowy beds was made up.
Over the bedstead, pinned against the wall, was a card with these words
printed on it--
"GOD'S GIFT TO FLO."