Chapter Nineteen.
Queen Victoria and Flo.
Flo was carried into the Buxton Ward for children.
They laid her in one of the pretty white cots, close to a little girl of three, who was not very ill, and who suspended her play with her toys to watch her.
Here for many hours she lay as one dead, and the nurses and doctors shook their heads over her—she had no broken bones, but they feared serious internal injuries.
Late in the evening, however, she opened her eyes, and after about an hour of confused wandering, consciousness and memory came fully back.
Consciousness and memory, but no pain either of mind or body. Even when they told her her dog was dead, she only smiled faintly, and said she knew ’ee’d give ’is life fur ’er! and then she said she was better, and would like to go home.
They asked her her name, and the address of her home, and she gave them both quite correctly, but when they said she had better stay until the morning, and go to sleep now, she seemed contented, and did sleep, as calmly as she had done the night before, in her own little bed, in Mrs Jenks’ room.
The next morning she again told them she was better, and had no pain, but she said nothing now about going home: nor when, later in the day, Mrs Jenks, all trembling and crying, and Miss Mary, more composed, but with her eyes full of sorrow, bent over her, did she mention it.
She looked at them with that great calm on her face, which nothing again seemed ever to disturb, and told them about Scamp, and asked them if they thought she should ever see her dog again.
“I don’t know wot belief to hold about the future of the dumb creatures,” said little Mrs Jenks, “but ef I was you, I’d leave it to God, dearie.”
“Yes,” answered Flo, “I leaves heverythink to God.”
And when Miss Mary heard her say this, and saw the look on her face, she gave up all hope of her little servant.
She was going to the place where His servants shall serve Him.
Yes, Flo was going to God.
The doctors knew it—the nurses knew it—she could not recover. What a bright lot for the little tired out London child! No more weary tasks—no more dark days—no more hunger and cold. Her friends had hoped and planned for a successful earthly life for her—God, knowing the uncertainty of all things human, planned better. He loved this fair little flower, and meant to transplant it into the heavenly garden, to bloom for ever in His presence.
But though Flo was not to recover she got better, so much better, for the time at least, that she herself thought she should get quite well; and as from the first she had suffered very little pain, she often wondered why they made a fuss about her, why Mrs Jenks seemed so upset when she came to see her, why the nurses were so gentle with her, and why even the doctors spoke to her in a lower, kinder tone than they did to the other children. She was not very ill; she had felt much, much worse when she had lain on the little bed that God had lent her—what agony she had gone through then! and now she was only weak, and her heart fluttered a good deal. There was an undefined something she felt between her and health, but soon she must be quite well.
In the pleasant Buxton Ward were at this time a great many little children, and as Flo got better and more conscious, she took an interest in them, and though it hurt her and took away her breath to talk much, yet her greatest pleasure was to whisper to God about them. There was one little baby in particular, who engrossed all her strongest feelings of compassion, and the nurses, seeing she liked to touch it, often brought it, and laid it in her cot.
Such a baby as it was! Such a lesson for all who gazed at it, of the miseries of sin, of the punishment of sin!
The child of a drunken mother, it looked, at nine months old, about the size of a small doll. Had any nourishment been ever poured down that baby’s throat? Its little arms were no thicker than an ordinary person’s fingers—and its face! Oh! that any of God’s human creatures should wear the face of that baby!
It was an old man’s face, but no man ever looked so old—it was a monkey’s face, but no monkey ever looked so devoid of intelligence. All the pain of all the world seemed concentrated in its expression; all the wrinkles on every brow were furrowed on its yellow skin.
It was always crying, always suffering from some unintelligible agony. (The writer saw exactly such a baby at the Evelina Hospital a short time ago.) The nurses and doctors said it might recover, but Flo hoped otherwise, and her hope she told to God.
“Doesn’t you think that it ’ud be better fur the little baby to be up there in the Gold Streets?” she said to God, every time she looked at it. And then she pictured to herself its little face growing fair and beautiful, and its anguish ceasing for ever—and she thought if she was there, what care she would take of the baby.
Perhaps she does take care of the baby, up There!
One day great news came to the London Hospital—great news, and great excitement. It was going to be highly honoured. Her gracious Majesty the Queen was coming in person to open a new wing, called The Grocers Company’s Wing.
She was coming in a few days, coming to visit her East-end subjects, and in particular to visit this great Hospital.
Flo, lying on her little bed, weaker than usual, very still, with closed eyes, heard the nurses and sisters talking of the great event, their tones full of interest and excitement—they had only a short time to prepare—should they ever be ready to receive the Queen?—what wards would she visit? with a thousand other questions of considerable importance.
Flo, lying, as she did most of her time, half asleep, hardly ever heard what was going on around her, but now the word Queen—Queen—struck on her half dull ear.
What were they saying about the Queen? Who was the Queen? Had she ever seen the Queen? Then like a flash it all came back to her—that hot afternoon last summer—her ambitious little wish to be the greatest person of all, her longing for pretty sights and pretty things, the hurried walk she, Jenks, and Dick had taken to Buckingham Palace, the crowd, the sea of eager faces, the carriage with its out-riders, the flashing colour of the Life Guards! Then, all these seemed to fade away, and she saw only the principal figure in the picture—the gracious face of a lady was turned to her, kind eyes looked into hers. The remembrance of the glance the Queen had bestowed upon her had never passed from the little girl’s memory. She had treasured it up, as she would a morsel of something sacred, as the first of the many bright things God had given her. Long ago, before she knew of God, she had held her small head a trifle higher, when she considered that once Royalty had condescended to look at her, and she had made it a fresh incentive to honesty and virtuous living.
A thrill of joy and anticipation ran now through her heart. How much she should like to see again the greatest woman in the world; if her eyes again beheld her she might get well.
Trembling and eager, she started up in bed.
“Please is the Queen coming?”
The sister who had spoken went over and stood by her side. She was surprised at the look of interest in her generally too quiet little face.
“Yes, dear,” she said, “the Queen is coming to see the Hospital.”
“And shall I see the Queen?”
“We are not quite sure yet what wards she will visit; if she comes here you shall see her.”
“Oh!” said Flo, with a great sigh, and a lustrous light shining out of her eyes, “ef I sees the Queen I shall get well.”
The sister smiled, but as she turned away she shook her head. She knew no sight of any earthly king or queen could make the child well, but she hoped much that her innocent wish might be gratified.
The next day, as Mrs Jenks was going away, Flo whispered to her—
“Ef you please, ma’am, I’d like fur you to fetch me that bit of sky blue ribbon, as you ’ave in yer box at ’ome.”
“What do you want it for, dearie?”
“Oh! to tie hup my ’air with. I wants fur to look nice fur the Queen. The Queen is comin’ to pay me a wisit, and then I’ll get well.”
“But, my child, the Queen cannot make you well.”
“Oh! no, but she can pray to God. The Queen’s werry ’igh up, you knows, and maybe God ’ud ’ear ’er a bit sooner than me.”
“No, indeed, Flo, you wrong Him there. Your heavenly Father will hear your little humble words just as readily and just as quickly as any prayer the Queen might offer up to Him.”
“Well, then, we’ll both pray,” said Flo, a smile breaking over her white face. “The Queen and me, we’ll both pray, the two of us, to God—He’ll ’ave ’er big prayer and my little prayer to look hout fur; so you’ll fetch me the ribbon, ma’am dear.”
Mrs Jenks did so, and from that day every afternoon Flo put it on and waited in eager expectancy to see the Queen, more and more sure that when they both—the poor little London child and the greatest woman in the world—sent up their joint petitions to Heaven, strength would return to her languid frame, and she could go back, to be a help and comfort to her dear Mrs Jenks.
At last the auspicious day arrived, a day long to be remembered by the poor of the East End. How gay the banners looked as they waved in the air, stretching across from housetop to housetop right over the streets!
At the eastern boundary of the City was a great band of coloured canvas bearing the word “Welcome.” And as the Royal procession passed into Whitechapel High-street the whole thoroughfare was one bright line of Venetian masts, with streamers of flags hanging from every house, and of broad bands of red, with simple mottoes on them.
But better to the heart of the Queen of England than any words of welcome were the welcoming crowds of people. These thronged the footways, filled the shop-windows, assembled on the unrailed ledges of the house-fronts, on the pent-houses in front of the butchers’ shops, and stood out upon the roofs.
Yes, this day would long be remembered by the people in the East End, and of course most of all by those in the great Hospital which the Queen was to visit.
But here, there was also disappointment. It was discovered that in the list of wards arranged for Her Majesty to see, the Buxton Ward in the Alexandra Wing was not mentioned. More than one nurse and more than one doctor felt sorry, as they recalled the little face of the gentle, dying child, who had been waiting for so many days full of hope and longing for the visit which, it seemed, could not be paid to her.
But the day before, Flo had said to Mr Rowsell, the Deputy Chairman—
“I shall see the Queen, and then I shall get well.”
And that gentleman determined that if he could manage it her wish should be granted.
Accordingly, when the Queen had visited the “Grocers Company’s Wing,” and had named the new wards after herself and the Princess Beatrice, when she had read the address presented to her by the governors of the Hospital, had declared the new wing open, and visited the Gloucester Ward, then Flo’s little story was told to her, and she at once said she would gratify the child’s desire.
Contrary to the routine of the day, she would pay the Buxton Ward a visit.
Flo, quite sure that it was God’s wish that the great Queen of England should come to see her, was prepared, and lay in her pretty white cot, her chestnut hair tied back with blue ribbons, a slight flush on her pale cheeks, her brown eyes very bright.
It was a fair little picture, fair even to the eyes that had doubtless looked on most of the loveliest things of earth—for on the beautiful face of the dying child was printed the seal of God’s own peace.
“My darling,” said the Queen to the little girl, “I hope you will be a little better now.”
But Queen Victoria knew, and the nurses knew, and the doctors knew, and all knew, but little Flo Darrell herself, that on earth the child would never be well again.
They knew that the little pilgrim from earth to heaven, had nearly completed her journey, that already her feet—though she herself knew not of it—were in the waters of Jordan, and soon she would pass from all mortal sight, through the gates into the City.
Chapter Twenty.
Sing Glory.
“I ’ave seen the Queen,” said Flo that night to Miss Mary. “I shall get well now.”
She was lying on her back, the lustrous light, partly of fever and partly of excitement, still shining in her eyes.
“Do you want to get well very much, Flo?” asked the lady.
“Yes—fur some things.”
“What things?”
“I wants fur to help Dick wen ’ee gets hout of that prison school, and I wants fur to tidy up fur Mrs Jenks the day ’er lad comes ’ome, and I wants to do something fur you, Miss Mary.”
“To be my little servant?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember what I said to you when first I asked you to be my servant?”
“I must be God’s servant.”
“Just so, dear child, and I believe fully you have tried to be His servant—He knows that, and He has sent you a message; but before I give it to you, I want to ask you a question—why do you suppose that having seen the Queen will make you well?”
“Oh! not seein’ ’er—but she looked real kind-’earted, and though I didn’t ax ’er, I knows she be prayin’ to God fur me.”
“Yes, Flo, it is very likely the Queen did send up a little prayer to God for you. There are many praying for you, my child. You pray for yourself, and I pray for you, and so does Mrs Jenks, and better than all, the Lord Christ is ever interceding for you.”
“Then I’ll soon be well,” said Flo.
“Yes, you shall soon be well—but, Flo, there are two ways of getting well.”
“Two, Miss Mary?”
“Yes; there is the getting well to be ill again by and by—to suffer pain again, and sickness again—that is the earthly way.”
Flo was silent.
“But,” continued the lady, “there is a better way. There is a way of getting so well, that pain, and sickness, and trouble, and death, are done away with for ever—that is the heavenly way.”
“Yes,” whispered Flo.
“Which should you like best?”
“To be well for ever-’n-ever.”
“Flo, shall I give you God’s message?”
“Please.”
“He says that His little servant shall get quite well—quite well in the best way—you are to go up to serve Him in heaven. God is coming to fetch you, Flo.”
“To live up in the gold streets wid Himself?” asked Flo in a bright, excited manner.
“Yes, He is coming to fetch you—perhaps He may come for you to-night.”
“I shall see God to-night,” said Flo, and she closed her eyes and lay very still.
So white and motionless was the little face that Miss Graham thought she had fainted; but this was not so; the child was thinking. Her intellect was quite clear, her perceptions as keen as ever. She was trying to realise this wonderful news.
She should see God to-night.
It was strange that during all her illness the idea of getting well in this way had never hitherto occurred to her—she had suffered so little pain, she had been so much worse before—she had never supposed that this weakness, this breathlessness, could mean death—this sinking of that fluttering little heart, could mean that it was going to stop!
A sudden and great joy stole over her—she was going to God—He was coming Himself to fetch her—she should lie in His arms and look in His face, and be always with Him.
“Are you glad, Flo?” asked Miss Mary, who saw her smile.
“Yes.”
“I have another message for you. When Dick comes out of the prison school, I am to take care of him—God wishes that.”
“You will tell him about God.”
“Certainly, I shall do that—and, Flo, I feel it will be all right about the widow’s son.”
“Yes, God’ll make it right,”—then, after a pause, going back to the older memories, “I’d like to ’ear the Glory Song.”
“What is that, darling?”
“Oh! you knows—‘I’m glad—I hever—’”
”‘Saw the day’?” finished Miss Mary.
“Yes, that’s it. Poor Janey didn’t know wot it meant—’tis ’bout God.”
“Shall I sing it for you?”
“Yes—please.”
Miss Mary did so; but when she came to the words, “I’ll sing while mounting through the air To Glory, Glory, Glory,” Flo stopped her.
“That’s wot I’ll do—sing—wile mountin’—’tis hall glory.”
And then again she lay still with closed eyes.
During that night Mrs Jenks and Miss Mary watched her, as she lay gently breathing her earthly life away.
Surely there was no pain in her death—neither pain nor sorrow. A quiet passing into a better Land. An anchoring of the little soul, washed white in the Blood of the Lamb, on a Rock that could never be moved.
Just before she died she murmured something about the Queen.
“Tell ’er—ef she ’ears o’ me—not to fret—I’m well—the best way—and ’tis hall glory.”
So it was.
Chapter Twenty One.
The Prodigal’s Return.
In the evening after Flo’s funeral Mrs Jenks was seated by her bright little fire.
Nothing could ever make that fire anything but bright, nothing could ever make that room anything but clean, but the widow herself had lost her old cheery look, she shivered, and drew close to the warm blaze. This might be caused by the outside cold, for the snow lay thick on the ground, but the expression on her brow could hardly come from any change of weather, neither could it be caused by the death of Flo.
Mrs Jenks sorrowed for the child, but not rebelliously—perhaps not overmuch. Those who loved her hardly spoke of her going away as a death at all. God had come and fetched her—that was what they said.
And the child was so manifestly fit to go—so evidently unfit to pass through any more of the waves of this troublesome world, that the tender regret that was felt at her loss was swallowed up in the joy at her gain.
No, Mrs Jenks was not mourning for Flo, but all the same she was troubled, nervous, unlike in every particular her usual self, so easily startled, that a very gentle knock at her door caused her to jump to her feet.
“’Tis only me, Mrs Jenks,” said Miss Mary Graham, taking off her snow-laden cloak, and sitting down on Flo’s little stool at one side of the fire.
“I thought you’d feel lonely, and would like me to look in on you.”
“Thank you, ma’am—yes—I’m missing the child and her dog, maybe. Anyhow, without being sorry for the blessed darling, or wishing her back, I’m very low like. If I ’ad Scamp, poor fellow, he’d keep me up. It was ’ard he should come by such a bad end.”
“Oh! Mrs Jenks, it was not a bad end. It was quite a glorious closing of life for the fine old fellow—he died defending the one he loved best. And, do you know, I could not bear to have him here without her, he would miss her so, and we could never tell him how well off she is now.”
“No, ma’am—that is true. He always lay close to her side, and curled up on the foot of her bed at night—and not a look nor a thought would he give me near her. And they say he hardly suffered a bit, that his death must ’ave come like a flash of lightning to him.”
“Yes; a woman who saw the whole thing says he dropped dead like a stone at Flo’s feet.”
Miss Mary paused—then, bending forward, she touched the widow’s arm.
“You are going to Wandsworth in the morning—may I come with you?”
At the word Wandsworth, Mrs Jenks’ face flushed crimson, the tears, so close to her eyes, rolled down her cheeks, and she threw her apron over her head.
“Oh! Miss Mary, don’t mind me, ma’am—I’m a poor weak creature, but indeed my heart misgives me sore. Suppose the lad should refuse to come back?”
“Suppose the Lord hath forgotten to be gracious?” replied Miss Mary, softly.
“Oh! no, ma’am, it ain’t that. He’s gracious any way, anyhow. No, Miss Mary dear, I feels your kindness, but I’ll go alone. It will daunt the poor boy less if I ’ave no one beside me. Down on my bended knees, if need be, I’ll beg of him to turn from ’is evil ways, and perhaps the Lord will hear me.”
“Yes, Mrs Jenks, the Lord will hear you, and give you back your lost son.”
Miss Mary went away, and the widow, having dried her eyes, sat on by the fire.
“Yes,” she said after a pause. “I were a fool to misdoubt God. Don’t his heavenly Father and his blessed Saviour care more fur the lad than I do?
“’Twill be all right for ’im, and if Flo was here to-night, she’d say, sweet lamb,—
”‘Mrs Jenks, ma’am, ain’t you about ready to get hout that jacket, and trousers, and vest, to hair ’em, ma’am?’
“Well! I just will get ’em hout, same as if she bid me.”
The widow rose, went to her trunk, unlocked it, and taking out a parcel wrapped in a snowy towel, spread its contents before the fire.
There they were—the neat, comfortable garments, smelling of lavender and camphor.
Mrs Jenks contemplated them with pride. How well grown her boy must be, to need a jacket and trousers so large as these! They would be sure to fit, she had measured his appearance so accurately in her mind’s eye that sad day when he was taken to prison!
She examined the beautiful stitching she had put into them with pride; when they were aired she took a clothes’ brush, and brushed them over again—then she folded them up, and finally raised them to her lips and kissed them.
As she did this, as she pressed her lips to the collar of the jacket, in that fervent kiss of motherly love, a great sob outside the window startled her considerably. Her room was on the ground floor, and she remembered that she had forgotten that evening, in her depression and sadness of spirit, to draw down the blind.
Holding her hand to her beating heart, she approached and looked out.
She had not been mistaken in supposing she heard a sob. A lad was lying full length on his face and hands in the snow, outside her window, and she heard suppressed moans still coming from his lips.
For the sake of her own son she must be kind to all destitute creatures.
She stepped out on her threshold, and spoke in her old cheery tones.
“Come in, poor fellow, come in. Don’t lie there perishing—come in, and I’ll give you a cup of tea. I’ve just brewed some, and a good strong cup will warm you.”
As she spoke she went and laid her hand on the boy’s arm.
“I’m a thief,” he said without stirring; “you won’t let in a thief?”
Something in the hoarse, whispered tones went straight to her heart.
“Of all people on earth, those I ’ave most feeling for are poor repentant thieves,” she said. “If you’re one of them, you ’ave a sure welcome. Why, there!” she continued, seeing he still lay at her feet and sobbed, “I’ve a lad of my own, who was a thief, and ’as repented. He’s in prison, but I feel he ’ave repented.”
“Would you let in your own lad?” asked the figure in the snow, in still that strange muffled voice.
“Let him in!” cried the widow; “let in my own lad! What do you take me for? I’m off to his prison to-morrow, and ’ome he shall come with all the love in his mother’s heart, and the prodigal son never had a better welcome than he shall have.”
Then the boy in the snow got up, and stumbled into the passage, and stumbled further, into the bright little room, and turning round, fixed his eyes on the widow’s face, and before she could speak, threw his arms round the widow’s neck. “Mother,” he said, “I’m that repentant lad.”
Jenks had been let out of prison a day sooner than his mother had calculated upon.
He had come back—humbled—sorry—nay more, clothed, and in his right mind: ready to sit at the feet of that Jesus whom once he persecuted. All the story of how these things had come to pass, all the story of that sermon which had touched his heart, all the story of that simple, childish letter, of those two locks of hair, he told to his happy and rejoicing mother.
And of her it might be said, “O woman, great was thy faith; it was done unto thee even as thou wouldest.”
These things happened a few months ago. How do the characters in this little story fare now?
Truly, with pleasure can it be said, that there is not a dark thing to relate about any of them.
Jenks, partly through Miss Mary’s aid, and partly through his mother’s savings, is apprenticed to a carpenter, and his strict honesty, his earnestness of purpose, joined to his bright and funny ways, have already made him a favourite with his master. Humanly speaking, few are likely to do better in their calling and station than he, and his dream is some day wholly to support his beloved little mother.
Pick is still at the Reformatory School, but he promises to do well, and Miss Mary promises never to cease to look after him.
Even little Janey, through this brave woman’s influence, has been rescued, and picked out of the mire of sin and ignorance, and has learned something more of the true meaning of the Glory Song.
As for Miss Mary herself, she is still a sister—a true sister of the poor, going wherever sins need reproving, and misery comforting. Not joining any particular denomination, wearing no special badge, she yet goes about, as her Master left her an example, doing good—and in the last day, doubtless, many shall rise up and call her blessed.
And the widow—when her boy came home, when her boy became a Christian, she seemed to have no other earthly good thing to ask for. She is very happy, very bright, and very dear to all who know her.
Thus all are doing well.
But surely—the one in his unbroken sleep, the other in the sunshine of her Father’s House—there are none we can leave so contentedly, so certain that no future evil can befall them, as the two, whom the child always spoke of as
SCAMP and I.
The End.