'You must answer me this question very decidedly, ma'am: am I to go, or
the baby? Is my night's sleep to be again disturbed by the peevish wails
of a troublesome infant? I must know at once, madam, what you intend to
do? Miss Jenkins, over the way, has offered me her front parlour with
the bedroom behind, and her terms are lower than yours. You have but to
say the word, ma'am, and my bed will be well aired, and the room at Miss
Jenkins's all comfortable for me to-night. I don't want you to turn that
infant away, oh dear me! no, but I must decide my own plans; stay in the
house with a baby, and have my sleep broken, I will not!'
The speaker was Mr Martin. He had come into Mrs Franklin's little back
parlour and expressed his mind very freely. The poor woman was standing
up and regarding her best lodger with a puzzled and almost despairing
air. She did not know that Flossy had crept into the room and was hiding
herself behind her chair, and that Flossy's little face had grown even
more white and despairing than her own.
'Give me until to-night, sir,' she said. 'Mrs Potts has also been in and
complaining about the poor child. She's an orphan child, and my
husband's niece, but we are in no way bound to support her. I would not
treat her badly, sir, but there are limits; and, of course, as you say,
your night's sleep must not be broken. Rather than that should happen,
Mr Martin, I would send the child to the workhouse, for, of course, she
has no legal claim on us. If you will be so kind, sir, as to give me
until to-morrow morning, I will then let you know what I have decided to
do with the baby, and I faithfully promise that you are not to be
disturbed to-night, sir.'
'That is all right,' said Mr Martin, with a mollified air. 'Of course it
is not to be expected that an old bachelor such as I am should be worried
by an infant's screams. The screams of a baby have to me an appalling
sound. Do what you think well with the child, ma'am, and let me know in
the morning; only I may as well state that I think the workhouse an
extreme measure.'
Then Mr Martin left the house. Mrs Franklin followed him out of the
room, and Flossy crept slowly back to the nursery.
Mrs Franklin did not notice her little daughter, and Flossy did not
venture to address her mother. She came into the room where Peter and
Snip-snap were doing their utmost for the baby. Peter had her in his
arms, and was walking up and down with her, and Snip-snap was bounding
after a ball and tossing it into the air for her benefit.
'She's to go, Peter,' said Flossy. 'I guessed it--I guessed it quite
well last night. She's to go away to the workhouse--that's what mother
said; I heard her telling Mr Martin so.'
'She's not!' said Peter. He turned very pale, and, still holding the
child in his arms, sat down on the nearest chair.
It is to be doubted whether this poor neglected baby had ever been
christened. The children had given her a name of their own; they had
called her Dickory Dock. The reason they had given her this distinctive
title was because the first amusement which had brought a smile to her
little face had been the old play of Dickory Dock and the mouse that ran
up the clock.
'She said it,' repeated Flossy, coming up close to her brother, and
fixing her anxious eyes on the baby. 'She said that our Dickory was to
go to the workhouse.'
'Well then, she shan't!' said Peter. 'I know nothing about workhouses,
but I expect they are very nasty places, and Dickory shan't go there!'
Then he sat silent, his arm round the little child, who looked up at him
and then back at Flossy, and then smiled in that wonderfully pathetic way
she had.
'Look here, Flossy,' said Peter, 'if you are quite certain sure that
mother said the workhouse, that she didn't say nothing about Dickory Dock
being put to sleep in another room, or maybe down in the kitchen--if you
are quite positive about the workhouse, Flossy, why, I know what I'll
do.'
'She did say the workhouse,' answered Flossy; 'I heard her with my own
ears, and Mr Martin said it was a stream measure. I don't know what he
meant by that, but I do know that mother said the workhouse, and that she
has got till to-morrow morning to take baby away.'
'No, she hasn't,' said Peter; 'we'll take her away first, you and me,
Flossy--you and me and Snip-snap--we'll take our little baby away, and
we'll hide her. Dickory shall never go to no workhouse!'
Here Dickory looked up again at Peter, who looked down at her and kissed
her, and two tears splashed from his eyes on her little face.
'Oh, what a dear baby she is!' said Flossy. 'Yes, Peter, we'll run away,
and we'll take Dickory. Where shall we take her to, Peter?'
'Oh, I don't know,' said Peter. 'We'll get her out of this, that's the
first thing. How much money have you got, Flossy?'
'A crooked halfpenny,' said Flossy, in a decided voice.
Peter sighed. He was older than Flossy, and he knew that a crooked
halfpenny did not represent a large capital.
'I have got sixpence,' he said; 'that'll buy milk for her. We'll manage
quite well, Floss. When mother goes out with her market-basket, we'll
slip downstairs with Dickory, and well take her away, and we'll hide her
somewhere. She shan't go to no workhouse, the darling pet!'
'No, that she shan't, the dear!' said Flossy. 'It's a lovely plan,
Peter, and I'll just go and watch on the top of the stairs for mother to
go out with the old market-basket.'
'We'd better take a bag with us,' said Peter. 'The bag will come in very
handy; it will hold baby's milk when we buy it, and some bread for you
and me; for we may have to walk a long way before we find a nice hiding-
place for Dickory.'
Children seldom take long in carrying out their resolutions, and Mrs
Franklin, puzzled and anxious, and with no real intention of sending the
poor baby to the workhouse, had not long turned the corner of the street
before the hall door of the rambling old house was eagerly and nervously
opened, and a funny little quartette issued forth. Dickory did not often
get the air, and she enjoyed herself very much, sitting well up in
Peter's arms, and wrapped up, head and all, in an old tartan shawl.
Flossy, holding the bag, walked by her brother's side, and Snip-snap
behaved in his usual erratic fashion, now running before, now lingering
behind, now stopping to exchange a greeting with a fellow-dog, or to
sniff with watering jaws and wistful eyes at a butcher's shop, but always
returning faithfully to his charge, and always raising an inquiring face
to see if Dickory was quite comfortable. She was thoroughly so, and when
she crowed, and laughed, and chuckled, Flossy wondered they had never
thought of taking her out before. The sun was shining and the day was
bright and warm, with the promise of spring in it, and the two children
were highly delighted with their scheme, and not a bit afraid of the
result. The only thing which had at all alarmed them was the fear that
Mrs Franklin or Martha might find out their little plan before they had
time to carry it into effect.
Having succeeded in getting quite away with the baby, they considered
their difficulties at an end. Peter was old enough to know that a
crooked halfpenny did not mean much, considered as a provision for three
human beings and a dog; but he was still sufficiently young to have
perfect confidence in the capabilities of sixpence for meeting the
demands of the hour. As they walked along, Flossy, Dickory, and Snip-
snap were all very happy, and Peter too was happy, although his arms
ached sadly. But, alas! the paths of the poor little adventurers were
not to be without thorns.
The time was April, and an April shower first damped the ardour of the
travellers--the poor baby's shawl was wet through, and she began to cry
pitifully with hunger and want of sleep.
'She must want her milk,' said Peter; 'there, Dickory, there's a darling,
now go to sleep like the dear baby you are.'
'You know, Peter, she won't go to sleep without her milk,' said Flossy.
'I'll run across to that milk-shop and buy some. How much milk shall I
get, Peter?'
'A ha'p'orth,' said Peter; 'you get a ha'p'orth, Flossy, and we'll sit
down on the step of this empty house and feed the baby, and eat up our
crusts ourselves.'
A bottle to hold the milk was to be found in Flossy's bag, and
accordingly in a short time Dickory had a meal; not quite what she was
accustomed to, but sufficient to soothe her off into a slumber in which
she forgot the discomfort of her damp clothes and all her other baby
tribulations.
'Flossy,' said Peter, 'we have gone a long way from home now, and baby is
asleep and resting nicely on my knee; my arm won't ache a bit when she
wakes, and I'll be able to carry her a splendid long way. We'll have to
think of making up our plans, Floss--we'll have to find some place where
we can all sleep comfortably to-night.'
'Well, we've got sixpence,' said Flossy, 'that's lots and lots of money;
but the night is a long way off, Peter, and I'm so hungry. I've eaten up
all the crusts that you and Snip-snap left for me, but I'm still as
hungry as possible. Mightn't I spend a halfpenny or so of our sixpence
in getting a good dinner for you and me and Snip-snap?'
Peter put his hand to his brow, and began to reflect.
'I don't think so, Floss,' he said, 'for I'm afraid you don't understand
marketing--it's best for me to go, for I'm quite old, and I know the way
mother talks to the baker's man and the milkman when they come to the
door. I must be sharp with them, Floss; that's what I must be, and I
don't think you could be; so you had better hold the baby while I fetch
our dinner. Oh dear, what a good thing it is I have got sixpence!'
The baby, being very sound asleep, was transferred to Flossy's arms
without waking, Snip-snap was left in charge of the two, and Peter, who
knew very little more of London and London life than his little sister,
started off manfully to the eating-house round the corner. He had gone
away with a bright face, but he returned in a very short time with one
singularly depressed.
'Here's a bit of stale bread for each of us,' he said, 'and I had to give
two halfpennies for that. I did see such a nice piece of beef and of
pudding, and I ordered some for you and me and Snip-snap, but the woman
said all that much would cost three sixpences, so then I had to say I
wouldn't have it; and I took the stale bread, and she was very cross. O
Floss, I hope I'm right about sixpence; I hope it will buy a bed for
baby, and milk and food for us all, for I'm thinking we had much better
none of us go back to-night.'
'Of course, we won't go back,' said Flossie. 'The stale bread's
'licious, and I'm so hungry. O Peter, do look! Dickory is stretching
herself, and rubbing her little fat hands into her eyes; and I know she's
going to wake, and I'm afraid she'll cry.'
'Give her to me,' said Peter, with the air of a practised nurse. 'I'll
hold her, and you can feed me while I'm doing so, Flossy.'
But notwithstanding all Peter's efforts, notwithstanding his singing, and
even shouting, for the baby's benefit, notwithstanding the admiring
cheers of a little street mob that collected round him, the baby cried,
not a loud cry, but a weak, broken-hearted wail. The fact was, the
indifferent milk Flossy had fed her with had made her ill, and her little
frame was already sadly chilled by the damp shawl which she wore about
her. Poor Dickory scarcely ever got any air or exercise, and in
consequence was very susceptible to cold.
'She is sneezing,' said Flossy. 'Oh the poor, poor darling! Peter, I
think we'd better see about our night's lodging soon; it doesn't agree
with Dickory to keep her out so long.'
'We'll go at once,' said Peter, rising to his feet. 'There's another
black cloud coming up, and there'll be a shower again before long. We'll
get a nice room for us four, and then we'll be as happy as possible.'
Accordingly the little party again moved forward, and whenever Peter or
Flossy saw a card up in a window they stopped and rang the house-bell,
and inquired for lodgings for themselves and their baby. Of course, they
were repulsed in all kinds of ways--some people merely laughing, and
shutting the door in their faces; some scolding them, and calling them
tiresome, impertinent little brats; and some even threatening to tell the
police about them; but no one ever hinted at the possibility of taking
them in. Presently they left the more respectable streets, and wandered
into very poor quarters. Here, doubtless, they could have found
accommodation were they able to pay for it, but everybody laughed at
Peter's pennies, and no one dreamt of offering them a shelter. Then the
rain which had threatened came down, and baby was again wet through, and
now she looked ill, as well as fretful, and refused some fresh milk which
Flossy bought for her. She was not the least like the bright little
Dickory who used to laugh and show her dimples in the old attic-nursery
at home.
'Look here,' said Peter, 'what are we to do? 'T will be night soon, and
we haven't found no hiding-place for Dickory, and no one will take us
in.'
'Baby is not at all well, either,' said Flossy; 'her head is quite hot,
like fire, when I touch it.'
'What are we to do?' asked Peter. 'We can't get home, but it seems to
me, Floss, that this is worse for poor Dickory than the workhouse.'
'I'll tell you what,' said Flossy suddenly, raising her bright
half-humorous face to Peter's, 'let's take baby to the lady what cried.'
'The lady who cried?' repeated Peter. 'I don't know nothing about her,
Floss.'
'O Peter, you do know; it was that day our Uncle David took us a long
walk, and we went to the cemetery with him, you know, the place with the
flowers and the trees, and where they put the pretty little children when
they die--there was a little baby being put there, and there was a lady
crying very, very bitter. I never saw no one cry so dreadful bitter as
that lady, and they said she was putting her baby in the ground. I'm
sure she must want another baby, and I think perhaps it would be right
for us to give her Dickory.'
Peter's face became very sad. 'I don't know,' he said; 'I don't want to
give Dickory away. I'm quite dreadfully fond of her; it seems to me she
makes a lot of difference in the house, and you know, Floss, it used to
be very dull before she came.'
'Yes,' said Flossy, 'I love her more than anything; she's a dear baby,
and I never find the days long when I'm playing with her and talking to
her: but you see, Peter, she's not to be kept at home; she's to go to the
workhouse to-morrow morning, unless we can find a nice hiding-place for
her. We can't find a hiding-place, Peter, for though you are a rich boy
and have got a lot of pennies, yet you haven't enough for us to get a
room for ourselves and Dickory, and the night air don't agree with
her--oh, there, she's sneezing again--bless her, the pet! Peter, I hope
you always say "bless her!" when Dickory sneezes. Martha says it isn't
lucky if you don't. O Peter, I do think if we must part with the baby it
would be better to give her to the lady who cried than to send her to the
workhouse.'
'But we don't know where the lady lives,' said Peter. 'We might do it if
we knew where the lady lived; but we can't, however much we wish to, if
we don't.'
'But I do know,' answered Flossy, 'I know quite well, 'cause last week I
saw the lady. I was out with mother, and mother went to the
greengrocer's, and while she was there the lady comed in. She was all in
black, and I am sure she had been crying a lot, for she looked so sad;
and I knew it was her. Afterwards mother and I walked behind her as she
went home, and she turned into a great big house in the square near us.
You know the square, Peter, the square that begins with a big B; Bev---
something, I can't say it all.'
'Bevington Square,' said Peter, in a gloomy voice.
'Yes, yes, that was it, and 10 was the number of the house. I don't
forget the number 'cause I asked mother, and she said it was 10. O
Peter, that's where our lady lives, and I do think it would be better to
give her Dickory. There, Peter, bless her! she's sneezing again. I'm
sure we had better take her to the lady.'
'All right,' answered Peter, 'I'll be a termagant again when she's gone;
see if I won't. I'll get up an awful racking cough at night, and I'll
worry that nasty Mr Martin much more than Dickory has worried him, see if
I don't; and I'll sing on the stairs, and I'll whistle awful loud, and
I'll buy a Jew's-harp with one of my pennies. I'll turn into a horrid
boy! but I suppose you are right about Dickory, Flossy. Here, let's go
back as fast as we can to that house you were so 'cute as to take the
number of. I'm mis'rible, and I mean to be mis'rible, so don't you
expect nothing cheerful from me, Flossy.'
'Very well, Peter,' said Flossy meekly.
And then the little party, slowly and painfully, for Flossy was very,
very tired, and poor Peter's arms ached fearfully, retraced their steps.
The baby had ceased crying and was asleep, and after about two hours'
patient walking and asking their way, the children found themselves in
Bevington Square.
'I'd better go up first to the door,' said Flossy, 'and ask her if she'd
like a baby. You might stand round there, Peter, and you might keep Snip-
snap with you.'
'You needn't press her about it,' said Peter; 'if she don't seem quite
delighted we won't give up Dickory on no account; and kiss her before you
go, Flossy, for of course the lady will take her; and in a few minutes
she won't be our Dickory no more.'
Peter unfastened a corner of the old tartan shawl, and Flossy imprinted a
grave kiss on the baby's forehead. Then, with great solemnity, and with
the air of one engaged on an important mission, she went up the steps of
the great house and rang the bell. Flossy was an attractive little
child, her hair was really beautiful, and she had a very wistful and
taking manner.
'Please,' she said now to the tall, powdered footman, 'I know the lady
what cried is here; please can I see her? I've brought her a little
baby, and I want to see her about it.'
Flossy did not look quite like a common child, and her face wore a very
sweet expression when she spoke of the baby; nevertheless the footman
only stared at her, and would have certainly shut the door in her face,
had not the lady of the house at that moment come into the hall. Flossy
saw her, and quick as thought she darted past the servant and up to the
lady.
'Please, lady,' she said, 'I've often thought of you, and I'm so very
sorry for you. Please, I've brought you another little baby instead of
the one you put into the ground in the pretty place where the flowers and
trees are. She's a dear little baby, and when you have her you won't cry
no more.'
Flossy's voice was very earnest, and her eyes looking up full into the
lady's face were full of the most intense sympathy. Those pretty eyes of
hers were too much for the poor bereaved mother: she put her handkerchief
to her own eyes, and there and then burst into fits of fresh weeping.
'Come away, little girl, at once,' said the indignant footman; but the
lady put out one of her hands and took Flossy's.
'Leave the child with me,' she said to the man. 'I'll be better in a
moment, little girl,' she continued, 'and then you shall tell me what you
mean; but you have upset me talking about babies: it is not long since I
buried my child, my only child.'
'I saw you,' said Flossy, nodding her bright head. 'I was in the
cemetery and I saw you. Oh, didn't you cry bitter! but you needn't cry
no more now, for God has sent you another little baby.'
'No, my little girl,' said the lady, 'He has not. I have asked Him, but
it is not His will.'
'I guessed you'd want another baby,' said Flossy. 'I knew quite well you
would, and she's waiting for you round the corner with Peter and Snip-
snap. You put on your bonnet and come and look at her; she's a real
beauty; she's got a dimple, and her name is Dickory.'
'I'll come,' said the lady in an excited voice. 'It's the very strangest
thing I ever heard. A child coming to me like that. We'll slip out,
little girl. James need not open the door for us.'
Flossy wondered who James was.
'Give me your hand, little girl,' continued the lady. 'And take me to
the baby; I'll look at her anyhow.'
Peter was standing in a very sulky attitude at the corner where the
railings were. In his heart of hearts he was extremely anxious that
Flossy's mission should fail. It seemed to him that every bit of the
niceness, all the interest would go out of his life if he hadn't Dickory.
In some ways he considered that Dickory was more to him than she was to
Flossy. He wondered how Flossy could even talk of parting with her. He
hoped sincerely she would fail in winning the lady's pity.
But no, there they were both coming to meet him, the tall lady in deep
black, and little eager wistful Flossy.
'This is the lady what cried,' she said to Peter. 'She have come out to
see our baby. Show her our baby, Peter.'
In solemn gloomy silence Peter unfolded a morsel of the tartan shawl
which covered the baby's face.
'Let me have her in my arms, please,' said the lady.
She took the baby tenderly, peeped once again at its small wee face, felt
a sudden glow coming back into empty arms and more empty heart, and then
turned again to the children.
{She took the baby tenderly: p47.jpg}
'I must be mad to do such a thing,' she said. 'Two little waifs in the
street come and offer me a baby, and I don't refuse it! There, baby,'
for Dickory began to cry again, 'there, baby--hush, sweet--hush, dear
little baby, hush.'
This lady's voice had quite a new tone for Dickory, a sweeter tone even
than Peter's or Flossy's. She stopped crying at once.
'Our baby takes to you, ma'am,' said Flossy, in a voice of thrilling
interest.
Peter, very pale, and still silent, drew a step nearer.
'Well, children,' said the lady, 'I have made up my mind. I'll take this
baby home for the night. My husband will think me mad--anyone in their
senses would think me mad, but I'm nearly wild with mother-hunger, and
that little mite there,' pointing to Flossy, 'guessed it, and she brought
me the baby, and I say God bless her for it, whether she's a ragamuffin
or not. Yes, I have made up my mind. I shall take the baby home for to-
night at least. In the morning I shall make inquiries, but for to-night
the baby is mine.'
'Half milk, half water in her bottle,' said Peter in a very grave
reproachful voice. 'Half milk, half water, and a little sugar, and a
pinch of salt, and Dickory likes her feet kept werry warm. Come home,
Flossy.'
'And we are not ragamuffins, please lady,' said Flossy. 'Our name is
Franklin, and we live in 24 Montfiore Square. We lets lodgings, please
lady, and it was Mr Martin what turned so crusty about baby.'
'Tell your mother I will come and see her to-morrow,' said the lady. 'You
have a mother, I suppose?'
'Yes, oh yes. She wanted to send the baby to the workhouse.'
'I don't think that will be necessary. My name is Ross. Tell your
mother to expect me to-morrow.'