CHAPTER TWO.
FLOWERS IN THE DESERT.
Beauty and ugliness form a contrast which is presented to us every dayof our lives, though, perhaps, we may not be much impressed by the fact.And this contrast is presented in ever-varying aspects.
We do not, however, draw the reader's attention to one of the strikingaspects of the contrast--such as is presented by the hippopotamus andthe gazelle, or the pug with the "bashed" nose and the Italiangreyhound. It is to one of the more delicate phases that we wouldpoint--to that phase of the contrast wherein the fight between the twoqualities is seen progressing towards victory, and ugliness is not onlyoverborne but overwhelmed by beauty.
For this purpose we convey the reader to a scene of beauty that mightcompare favourably with any of the most romantic spots on this fairearth--on the Riviera, or among the Brazilian wilds, or, for thatmatter, in fairyland itself.
It is a garden--a remarkably small garden to be sure, but one that isarranged with a degree of taste and a display of fancy that betokens thegardener a genius. Among roses and mignonette, heliotrope, clematis andwallflower, chrysanthemums, verbenas and sweet-peas are intertwined, onrustic trellis-work, the rich green leaves of the ivy and the gracefulVirginia creeper in such a manner that the surroundings of the miniaturegarden are completely hidden from view, and nothing but the bright bluesky is visible, save where one little opening in the foliage reveals theprospect of a grand glittering river, where leviathans of the deep andsmall fry of the shallows, of every shape and size, disport themselvesin the blaze of a summer sun.
Beauty meets the eye wherever turned, but, let the head of the observerbe extended ever so little beyond the charmed circle of that garden, andnearly all around is ugliness supreme! For this is a garden on the roofof an old house; the grand river is the Thames, alive with the shippingof its world-wide commerce, and all around lies that interminable forestof rookery chimneys, where wild ungainly forms tell of the insane andvain efforts of man to cope with smoke; where wild beasts--in the formof cats--hold their nightly revels, imitating the yells of agonisedinfants, filling the dreams of sleepers with ideas of internal thunderor combustion, and driving the sleepless mad!
Susy--our Susy--is the cause of this miracle of beauty in the midst ofmisery; this glowing gem in a setting of ugliness. It is her modestlittle head that has bent over the boxes of earth, which constitute herlanded property; her pretty little fingers which have trained the stemsand watered the roots and cherished the flowers until the barrenhouse-top has been made to blossom like the rose. And love, as usual,has done it all--love to that very ugly old woman, chimney-pot Liz, whosits on the rustic chair in the midst of the garden enjoying it all.
For Liz has been a mother to that motherless bairn from her earliestyears. She has guarded, fed, and clothed her from infancy; taught herfrom God's Book the old, old story of redeeming love, and led her to thefeet of Jesus. It would be strange indeed if Susy did not love the uglyold woman, until at last she came to regard the wrinkles as veritablelines of beauty; the nut-cracker nose and chin as emblems of persistentgoodness; the solitary wobbling tooth as a sign of unconquerablecourage; and the dark eyes--well, it required no effort of imaginationto change the character of the old woman's eyes, for they had alwaysbeen good, kindly, expressive eyes, and were at that date as bright andlively as when she was sweet sixteen.
But chimney-pot Liz was poor--desperately poor, else she had not beenthere, for if heaven was around and within her, assuredly something verylike pandemonium was underneath her, and it not unfrequently appeared asif the evil spirits below were surging to and fro in a fierce endeavourto burst up the whole place, and hurl the old woman with her garden intothe river.
Evil spirits indeed formed the dread foundation of the old woman'sabode; for, although her own court was to some extent free from thecurse, this particular pile of building, of which the garden formed theapex, had a grog-shop, opening on another court, for itsfoundation-stone. From that sink of iniquity, literal and unmitigated--though not unadulterated--spirits of evil rose like horrid fumes fromthe pit, and maddened the human spirits overhead. These, descending tothe foundation-den, soaked themselves in the material spirit and carriedit up, until the whole tenement seemed to reek and reel under its maligninfluence.
But, strange to say, the riot did not rise as high as the garden on theroof--only the echoes reached that little paradise.
Now it is a curious almost unaccountable fact, which no one would everguess, that a teapot was the cause of this--at least a secondary cause--for a teapot was the chief instrument in checking, if not turning, thetide of evil. Yes, chimney-pot Liz held her castle in the very midst ofthe enemy, almost single-handed, with no visible weapon of offence ordefence but a teapot! We say visible, because Liz did indeed possessother and very powerful weapons which were not quite so obvious--suchas, the Word of God in her memory, the love of God in her heart, and theSpirit of God in her soul.
To the outside world, however, the teapot was her weapon and shield.
We have read of such a weapon before, somewhere in the glorious annalsof city missions, but just now we are concerned only with the teapot ofour own Liz of chimney-pot notoriety.
Seated, as we have said, in a rustic chair, gazing through the foliageat the busy Thames, and plying her knitting needles briskly, while thesun seemed to lick up and clear away the fogs and smoke of the greatcity, chimney-pot Liz enjoyed her thoughts until a loud clatterannounced that Susy had knocked over the watering-pot.
"Oh! granny" (thus she styled her), "I'm _so_ sorry! So stupid of me!Luckily there's no water in it."
"Never mind, dear," said the old woman in a soft voice, and with a smilewhich for a moment exposed the waste of gums in which the solitary fangstood, "I've got no nerves--never had any, and hope I never may have.By the way, that reminds me--Is the tea done, Susy?"
"Yes, not a particle left," replied the girl, rising from her florallabours and thereby showing that her graceful figure matched well withher pretty young face. It was a fair face, with golden hair divided inthe middle and laid smooth over her white brow, not sticking confusedlyout from it like the tangled scrub on a neglected common, or the frontallocks of a Highland bull.
"That's bad, Susy," remarked old Liz, pushing the fang about with hertongue for a few seconds. "You see, I had made up my mind to go downto-night and have a chat with Mrs Rampy, and I wouldn't like to visither without my teapot. The dear old woman is so fond of a cup of tea,and she don't often get it good, poor thing. No, I shouldn't like to gowithout my teapot, it would disappoint her, you know--though I've nodoubt she would be glad to see me even empty-handed."
"I should just think she would!" said Susy with a laugh, as she stoopedto arrange some of the fastenings of her garden, "I should just thinkshe would. Indeed, I doubt if that _dear_ old woman would be alive nowbut for you, granny."
The girl emphasised the "dear" laughingly, for Mrs Rampy was one ofthose middle-aged females of the destitute class whose hearts have beenso steeled against their kind by suffering and drink as to render themcallous to most influences. The proverbial "soft spot" in Mrs Rampy'sheart was not reached until an assault had been made on it bychimney-pot Liz with her teapot. Even then it seemed as if the softnessof the spot were only of the gutta-percha type.
"Perhaps not, perhaps not my dear," returned old Liz, with that pleasedlittle smile with which she was wont to recognise a philanthropicsuccess a smile which always had the effect of subduing the tooth, andrendering the plain face almost beautiful.
Although bordering on the lowest state of destitution--and that is aremarkably low state in London!--old Liz had an air of refinement abouther tones, words, and manner which was very different from that of thepoor people around her. This was not altogether, though partly, due toher Christianity. The fact is, the old woman had "seen better days."For fifty years she had been nurse in an amiable and wealthy family, thenumerous children of which seemed to have been born to bloom for a f
ewyears in the rugged garden of this world, and then be transplanted tothe better land. Only the youngest son survived. He entered the armyand went to India--that deadly maelstrom which has swallowed up so muchof British youth and blood and beauty! When the old couple becamebankrupt and died, the old nurse found herself alone and almostdestitute in the world.
It is not our purpose to detail here the sad steps by which shedescended to the very bottom of the social ladder, taking along with herSusan, her adopted daughter and the child of a deceased fellow-servant.We merely tell thus much to account for her position and her partialrefinement--both of which conditions she shared with Susan.
"Now then," said the latter, "I must go, granny. Stickle and Screw arenot the men to overlook faults. If I'm a single minute late I shallhave to pay for it."
"And quite right, Susy, quite right. Why should Stickle and Screw losea minute of their people's work? Their people would be angry enough ifthey were to be paid a penny short of their wages! Besides, the firmemploys over two hundred hands, and if every one of these was to be latea minute there would be two hundred minutes gone--nigh four hours, isn'tit? You should be able to count that right off, Susy, havin' been solong at the Board-school."
"I don't dispute it, granny," said the girl with a light laugh, as shestood in front of a triangular bit of looking-glass tying on her poorbut neatly made hat. "And I am usually three or four minutes before mytime, but Stickle and Screw are hard on us in other ways, so differentfrom Samson and Son, where Lily Hewat goes. Now, I'm off. I'll be sureto be back by half-past nine or soon after."
As the girl spoke, footsteps were heard ascending the creaky woodenstair. Another moment and Tommy Splint entering with a theatrical air,announced--
"A wisitor!"
He was closely followed by Sam Blake, who no sooner beheld Susy than heseemed to become paralysed, for he stood gazing at her as if in eagerbut helpless amazement.
Susy was a good deal surprised at this, but feeling that if she were towait for the clearing up of the mystery she would infallibly be late inreaching the shop of the exacting Stickle and Screw, she swept lightlypast the seaman with a short laugh, and ran down-stairs.
Without a word of explanation Sam sprang after her, but, although smartenough on the shrouds and ladders of shipboard, he failed to accommodatehimself to the stairs of rookeries, and went down, as he afterwardsexpressed it, "by the run," coming to an anchor at the bottom in asitting posture. Of course the lithe and active Susy escaped him, andalso escaped being too late by only half a minute.
"Never mind, she'll be back again between nine and ten o'clock, unlessthey keep her late," said old Liz, after Sam had explained who he was,and found that Susy was indeed his daughter, and chimney-pot Liz thenurse who had tended his wife to her dying day, and afterwards adoptedhis child.
"I never was took aback so in all my life," said the seaman, sittingdown beside the old woman, and drawing a sigh so long that it might havebeen likened to a moderate breeze. "She's the born image o' what herdear mother was when I first met her. _My_ Susy! Well, it's not everypoor seaman as comes off a long voyage an' finds that he's fallen heirto a property like _that_!"
"You may well be proud of her," said old Liz, "and you'll be prouder yetwhen you come to know her."
"I know it, and I'm proud to shake your hand, mother, an' thankee kindlyfor takin' such care o' my helpless lassie. You say she'll be homeabout ten?"
"Yes, if she's not kep' late. She always comes home about that time.Meanwhile you'll have something to eat. Tommy, boy, fetch out the loafand the cheese and the teapot. You know where to find 'em. Tommy's anorphan, Cap'n Blake, that I've lately taken in hand. He's a good boy isTommy, but rather wild."
"Wot can you expect of a horphing?" said the boy with a grin, for he hadoverheard the latter remark, though it was intended only for thevisitor's ear. "But I say, granny, there ain't no cheese here, 'cept abit o' rind that even a mouse would scorn to look at."
"Never mind, bring out the loaf, Tommy."
"An' there ain't no use," continued the boy, "o' bringin' out theteapot, 'cause there ain't a grain o' tea nowheres."
"Oh! I forgot," returned old Liz, slightly confused; "I've just run outo' tea, Cap'n Blake, an' I haven't a copper at _present_ to buy any,but--"
"Never mind that old girl; and I ain't quite captain yet, thoughtrendin' in that direction. You come out along wi' me, Tommy. I'llsoon putt these matters to rights."
Old Liz could not have remonstrated even if she had wished to do so, forher impulsive visitor was gone in a moment followed by his extremelywilling little friend. They returned in quarter of an hour.
"There you are," said the seaman, taking the articles one by one from abasket carried by Tommy; "a big loaf, pound o' butter, ditto tea, threepound o' sugar, six eggs, hunk o' cheese, paper o' salt--forgot thepepper; never mind."
"You've bin an' forgot the sassengers too--but here they are," saidTommy, plucking the delectable viands from the bottom of the basket witha look of glee, and laying them on the table.
Chimney-pot Liz did not look surprised; she only smiled and nodded herhead approvingly, for she felt that Sam Blake understood the right thingto do and did it.
Soon the celebrated teapot was going the round, full swing, while theair was redolent of fried sausage and cheese mingled with the perfume ofroses and mignonette, for this meal, you must know, was eaten in thegarden in the afternoon sunshine, while the cooking--done in the atticwhich opened on the garden--was accomplished by Sam assisted by Tommy.
"Well, you _air_ a trump," said the latter to the former as he sat down,greasy and glowing, beside the seaman at the small table where old Lizpresided like a humble duchess.
We need hardly say that the conversation was animated, and that it borelargely on the life-history of the absent Susy.
"You're quite sure that she'll be here by ten?" asked the excited fatherfor the fiftieth time that afternoon.
"Yes, I'm sure of it--unless she's kep' late," answered Liz.
But Susy did _not_ return at the usual hour, so her impatient father wasforced to conclude that she _had_ been "kep' late"--too late. In hisanxiety he resolved to sally forth under the guidance of Tommy Splint toinquire for the missing Susy at the well-known establishment of Stickleand Screw.
Let us anticipate him in that quest. At the usual hour that night theemployes of Stickle and Screw left work and took their several ways homeward. Susy had the company of her friend Lily Hewat as far as ChanceryLane. Beyond that point she had to go alone. Being summer-time, thedays were long, and Susy was one of those strong-hearted andstrong-nerved creatures who have a tendency to fear nothing.
She had just passed over London Bridge and turned into a labyrinth ofsmall streets on the Surrey side of the river, when a drunken man mether in a darkish and deserted alley through which she had to pass. Theman seized her by the arm. Susy tried to free herself. In the strugglethat ensued she fell with a loud shriek, and struck her head on thekerb-stone so violently that she was rendered insensible. Seeing this,the man proceeded to take from her the poor trinkets she had about her,and would have succeeded in robbing her but for the sudden appearance onthe scene of a lowland Scot clad in a homespun suit of shepherd'splaid--a strapping ruddy youth of powerful frame, fresh from the braesof Yarrow.