Scamp and I: A Story of City By-Ways

However cold she now was, however hungry she now was, she had a hope which would charm away the hunger and cold, she had a strong Friend who in her hour of extreme need would come again, as He had come once, to her succour.

But must they both go out into the world again?

This question perplexed her very often. That Scamp should love quarters where beef and mutton bones were at least sometimes tasted, where his bed was warm, and his life easy, was not to be wondered at. Under his present gentle treatment he was growing into quite a handsome dog, a dog that really did credit to his friends. His ribs no longer stuck out in their former ungainly manner, his coat was thick and good, his eyes bright. Of course he liked the comfortable feelings which accompanied these outward signs of prosperity: still he was not the dog to desert his mistress in her need; and cheerfully, and without a murmur, would he have followed her through hunger and privation, to the world’s end.

But the question was not, would he go, but should she take him? Had she, who could do so little for him, any right to take him?

Perhaps when she had him back in her cellar, that dreadful Maxey would again find him, and carry him away to fight with his bull-dogs, and his life would be sacrificed to her selfishness.

The desolate side of the picture, which represented herself in the cellar without Scamp, she resolutely turned away from, and determined that if Mrs Jenks would be willing to keep her dog, she should have him. And Mrs Jenks loved him, and had already paid the dog-tax for him, so it was very unlikely that she would refuse his society.

Flo thought about this for several nights while lying, awake in bed, and for several days when Mrs Jenks was out, and at last one evening she spoke.

“Mrs Jenks, ma’am, is you fond of Scamp?”

Mrs Jenks had just returned after a day’s charing, and now, having washed up, and put away the tea-things, and made herself clean and comfortable, she was seated in her little arm-chair, a tiny roll of coloured calico in her lap, and a mysteriously small thimble in her hand. At Flo’s question she patted the dog’s head, and answered gently —

“Yes, dear, I loves all dumb creatures.”

“Then, Mrs Jenks, may be yer’d like fur to keep Scamp?”

“Why, my child, of course you are both on a little visit with me for the present. See, Flo, I am going to teach you needlework – it is what all women should be adepts in, dear.”

At another time Flo could not have resisted this appeal, but she was too intensely in earnest now to be put off her subject.

“I means, ma’am,” she said, rising to her feet and speaking steadily, “I means, ma’am, wen my little wisit is hover, and you ’as back yer bed, ma’am, as God gave me the loan of – I means then, ma’am, seeing as you loves my dawg, and you’ll be kind to ’im, and hall ’ee wants is no bed, but to lie on the rug, why, that you might keep my dawg.”

Flo’s voice shook so while renouncing Scamp, that the animal himself heard her, and got up and thrust his great awkward head between her hands. She had hard work to restrain her tears, but did so, and kept her eyes steadily fixed on Mrs Jenks. That little woman sat silent for fully a moment, now returning Flo’s gaze, now softly stroking Scamp’s back – at last she spoke.

“No, Flo,” she said, “I won’t part you and Scamp – you love each other, and I think God means you to stay together. He has made you meet, and let you pass through a pretty sharp little bit of life in company, and I have no idea but that He sent you His dumb creature to be a comfort to you, and if that is so, I won’t take him away. As long as you stay he shall stay, but when you go back to your cellar he shall go too.”

Scamp, whose eyes expressed that he knew all about it, and fully believed that Mrs Jenks understood his character, looked satisfied, and licked her hand, but Flo had still an anxious frown on her face. “Ef you please, ma’am,” she said, “’tis better fur me to know how much longer am I to have the loan of your bed, ma’am?”

“Why, Flo, my dear, Mrs Potter, who lent me the mattress I sleeps on, sent me down word that she must have it to-morrow morning for her niece, who is coming to live with her, so I’ll want my bed, Flo, and ’tis too little for both of us.” Mrs Jenks paused, but Flo was quite silent.

“Well, dear,” she said cheerfully, “we’ll all three lie warm and snug to-night, and we needn’t meet to-morrow’s troubles half way. Now come over, child, and I’ll give you instruction in needlework, ’tis an hart as all women should cultivate.”

Flo, still silent and speechless, went over and received the needle into her clumsy little fingers, and after a great many efforts, succeeded in threading it, and then she watched Mrs Jenks work, and went through two or three spasmodic stitches herself, and to all appearance looked a grave, diligent little girl, very much interested in her occupation. And Mrs Jenks chatted to her, and told her what a good trade needlework was, and for all it met so much abuse, and was thought so poor in a money-making way, yet still good, plain workers, not machinists, could always command their price, and what a tidy penny she had made by needlework in her day.

And to all this Flo replied in monosyllables, her head hanging, her eyes fixed on her work.

At last Mrs Jenks gave her a needle freshly threaded, and a strip of calico, and bade her seat herself on the hearth-rug and draw her needle in and out of the calico to accustom her to its use, and she herself took up a boy’s jacket, and went on unpicking and opening the seams, and letting it out about an inch in all directions.

Night after night she was engaged over this work, and it always interested Flo immensely: for Mrs Jenks took such pains with it, she unpicked the seams and smoothed them out with such clever fingers, then she stitched them up again with such fine, beautiful stitching, and when that was done, she invariably ironed them over with a nice little iron, which she used for no other purpose, so that no trace of the old stitching could be seen. She had a very short time each day to devote to this work, seldom more than ten minutes, but she did it as though she delighted in it, as though it did her heart and soul good to touch that cloth, to draw those careful, beautiful stitches in and out of it. And every night, while so engaged, she told Flo the story of the Prodigal Son.

She began it this night as usual, without the little girl looking up or asking for it.

“Once there was a man who had two sons – they were all the children he had, and he held them very dear. One – the eldest – was a steady lad, willing to abide by his father, and be guided by him, but the other was a wild, poor fellow, and he thought the home very small and narrow, and the world a big place, and he thought he’d like a bit of fun, and to see foreign parts.

“So he asked his father for all the money he could spare, and his father gave him half his living. And then the poor foolish boy set off, turning his back on all the comforts of home, and thinking now he’d see life in earnest; and when he got to the far-off lands, wild companions, thieves, and such, came round him, and between them the good bit of money his father had given him melted away, and he had not a penny to call his own. Then he began to be hungry, to want sore, and no man gave to him, and no man pitied him; and then, sitting there in the far country, came back to the poor, desolate, foolish lad the thoughts of home, and the nice little house, and the father’s love, and he thought if he was there again, why, he’d never be dying of hunger, for in the father’s house even the servants had enough and to spare.

“And he thought, why should he not go back again? and he said to himself, ‘I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against Heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be thy son.’

“And he got up and went back to his father. But the loving father was looking out for him, and when he saw him coming over the hill-top, he ran to meet him, and threw his arms about him; and the son said —

”‘Father, I have sinned against Heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.’

“But the father said, ‘Bring forth the best robe and put it on him, and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet, and let us make a feast and be merry, for this my son was dead and is alive again, he was lost and is found.’”

Night after night Flo had listened to this story, always with a question at the top of her lips, but never until to-night had she courage to put it.

“Was the best robe, a jacket and trousers and little weskit, ma’am?”

“Very like,” said Mrs Jenks, bending over a fresh seam she was beginning to unpick.

“But you hasn’t no lad comin’ back fur that ’ere jacket, ma’am?”

Mrs Jenks was silent for fully two minutes, her work had fallen from her hands, her soft, gentle eyes looked afar.

“Yes, Flo dear,” she said, “I have such a lad.”

“Wot’s ’is name, ma’am?”

“Willie,” said Mrs Jenks, “Willie’s ’is name – leastways ’is home name.”

“And is he a comin’ back any day, ma’am? Is you a lookin’ hout o’ the winder fur ’im any day?”

“No, Flo, he won’t come any day, he won’t come fur a bit.”

“Wen ’is best robe is ready, ma’am?”

“Yes; when he comes it shall be ready.”

“’Ow soon is ’ee like to walk in, ma’am?”

“I don’t know exact,” said Mrs Jenks, “but I’ll look out fur him in the spring, when the little crocuses and snowdrops is out – he’s very like to turn up then.”

As Mrs Jenks spoke she folded the jacket and put it tidily away, and then she unbandaged Flo’s foot and rubbed some strengthening liniment on it, and undressed the little girl and put her into bed, and when she had tucked her up and kissed her, and Flo hail rewarded her with a smile breaking all over her little white, thin face, something in the expression of that, face caused her to bend down again and speak suddenly.

“God has given me a message for you, child, and forgetful old woman that I am, I was near going to sleep without yer ’aving it.”

“Wot’s the message, mum?”

“The message is this, straight from God Himself – ‘Certainly I will be with thee.’ Do you know what that means, my child?”

“I can part guess, ma’am.”

“Ay, I dare say you can part guess, but you may as well know the whole sweet meaning of it. ’Tis this, Flo Darrell —wherever you be, God will be with you. Back in your cellar, dark as it is, He’ll come and keep you company. If you stay with me, why He’s here too. When you go to sleep His arm is under your head; when you walk abroad, He’s by your side – He’s with you now, and He’ll be with you for ever. When you come to die He’ll be with you. You need never fear for nothing, for God will be always with you. He says ‘Certainly,’ and His certainly, is as big, and wide, and strong as eternity, Flo Darrell.”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Flo very softly, and then Mrs Jenks went and lay down on her mattress, and was presently sleeping the sweet and heavy sleep of the hard worker.

But Flo could not sleep – she lay awake, feeling the soft white sheets with her fingers, looking with her brown eyes all round the pretty room. How bright, and pure, and fresh it all looked, with the firelight flickering over the furniture, to the beauty-loving child.

She was taking farewell of it then – she must go away to-morrow; back again to their cellar the dog and she must go – away from the sunlight of this bright little home, into the homeless darkness of their Duncan Street life.

She had not expected it quite so soon, she had thought that God would give her a little more notice, a little longer time to prepare, before he asked her to return that comfortable bed to Mrs Jenks. Well, the time had come for her to do it, and she must do it with a good grace, she must not show dear Mrs Jenks even half how sorry she was.

That little woman had done so much for her, had changed and brightened her whole existence, had been specially chosen by God Himself to do all this for her, to save her life.

Not for worlds would she look as though she expected more from Mrs Jenks. She must go away to-morrow, very, very thankful, and not too sad, otherwise the little woman would feel uncomfortable about her. She resolved that in the morning she would wear quite a cheerful face, and talk brightly of all people had made by translating. She would walk away when the time came, as briskly as her lame foot would permit, Scamp wagging his tail, and supposing he was only going for an ordinary walk, by her side.

Then they would reach the cellar, and Janey’s mother, who kept the key, would open it for them, and, perhaps Janey herself would come down and listen to all Flo’s wonderful stories.

Well; these were for to-morrow, to-night she must say farewell; to-night, with eyes too sad, and heart too heavy for childish tears, she must look around at this cleanliness, this comfort, this luxury for the last time.

Flo was a poor child, the child of low people, but she had a refined nature, a true lady’s heart beat in that little breast. All the finer instincts, all the cravings of a gentle and high spirit, were hers. Pretty things were a delight to her, the sound of sweet music an ecstasy. Born in another sphere, she might have been an artist, she might have been a musician, but never, under any circumstances, could she have led a common-place life.

The past six weeks, notwithstanding her anxiety and sorrow about Dick, had been one bright dream to her. The perfect neatness, the little rough, but no longer tattered, dress Mrs Jenks had made for her, the sense of repose, the lovely stories, had made the place little short of Paradise to the child.

And now by to-morrow night it would all be over, and the old dark life of poverty, hunger, and dirt would begin again.

As Flo was thinking this, and, leaning on her elbow, was looking sadly around, suddenly the verse Mrs Jenks had said good-night to her with darted like a ray of brightest sunshine into her soul.

“Certainly, I will be with thee.”

What a fool she was, to think Janey’s company necessary, to have any fear of loneliness. God would be with her.

Though unseen by her (she knew that much about God now), He would still be by her side. Was it likely, when He was down with her in the dark cellar, that He would allow her to want, or even have things very hard for her?

Or suppose He did allow her to go through privations? suppose He asked her to bear a few short, dark days for Him down here, He would give her a for-ever and for-ever of bright days, by and by.

After a time she grew weary, and her heavy lids closed, and she went to sleep, but her face was no longer sad, it was bright with the thought of God.

Chapter Fifteen

Miss Mary

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?