Scamp and I: A Story of City By-Ways

wishingthat the old feeling of satisfaction would return at sight of it. Butit did not. Try as he might, it did not. He endeavoured to guess whosent it, but no fresh ideas would occur to him. He thought of Flo, andhe thought of his mother--he fought against the thought of his mother,and endeavoured to push it away from him. But, struggle as he might, itwould come back; and at last, in desperation, he opened the letter.

  It was not a long letter when opened, but had appeared thick by reasonof a little parcel it contained, a little parcel, wrapped in two orthree folds of silver paper. Jenks looked at the parcel as it lay onhis knee, then took it up and began to unfold it. His fingers trembled,he did not know why. He threw the parcel from him and spread out theletter to read. Not very much writing in it, and what there was, wasprinted in large round type. Motes began to dance before his eyes, heput down the letter, and again took up the parcel. This time he openedit, unwrapping slowly fold after fold of the soft paper. Two locks ofhair fell out, a grey and a brown, tied together with a thread of bluesilk. They dropped from Jenks' fingers; he did not touch them. Hegazed at them as they lay on the floor of his cell, the brown locknearly hidden by the silver. A soft breeze came in and stirred them; heturned from them, gave them even a little kick away, and then, with aburning face, began to read his letter.

  "Jenks,--

  "I thot 'as yo'd like fur to no--yor mother 'ave furgiven yo, she nos asyo is a thif, and tho she may 'av freted a good bit at fust, she's werrycherful now--she 'av the litel jackit, and trouses, and westkit, halredy, as yo used to war wen a litel chap. She 'av them let hout halrond, and they'l fit yo fine. She livs in the old place--wery butifulit his, and she 'av me, flo, livin' wid 'er, and scamp to, we 'av livdyer hever sins yo and Dick was in prisin, and we both furgivs yo Jenks,wid hal our 'arts, and yor mother ses as yo is a comin' bak wen thesingin' burds com, and the floers, and we'll 'av a diner fur yo, and awelcom, and lov. yer mother don't no as i is sendin' this and i 'av kutorf a bit of 'er 'air, unknonst to 'er, and a bit of mi 'air to, widchshos as we thincs of yo, and furgivs yo; and Jenks, I wrot this mi ownself, miss mary shoed me 'ow, and i 'av a lot mor in mi 'art, but nowords, on'y god lovs yo, yor fond litel--

  "flo.

  "miss mary, she put in the stops."

  "_I am Jesus of Nazareth, whom thou persecutest--it is hard for thee tokick against the pricks_."

  This latter part of the text came back also to the boy's memory; he benthis head over the odd little letter and saturated it with tears. Hesnatched up the two locks of hair and covered them with kisses.

  His mother had forgiven him--his mother loved him.

  She knew he was a thief, and she loved him.

  How he had tried to keep this knowledge from her, how he had hoped thatduring these past three years she had supposed him dead! Her only son,and she a widow, dead! Far better--far, far better, than that sheshould believe him to be a thief!

  He recalled now the last time he had seen her--he recalled, as he hadnever dared to do hitherto, the history of that parting. He had beenwild for some time, irregular at school, and in many ways grieving hisparents' hearts; and his father, before he started on that last voyage,had spoken to him, and begged him to keep steady, and had entreated him,as he loved his mother, as he loved him, his father, as he loved hisGod, to keep away from those bad companions who were exercising sohateful an influence on his hitherto happy, blameless life. And withtears in his eyes, the boy had promised, and then his brave sailorfather had kissed him, and blessed him, and gone away never to returnagain. And for a time Jenks was steady and kept his word, and hismother was proud of him, and wrote accounts, brilliant, happy accounts,of him to his father at sea. But then the old temptations came backwith greater force than before, and the promise to his father was brokenand forgotten, and he took really to bad ways.

  His mother spoke to him of idleness, of evil companions, but she neverknew, he felt sure, how low he had sunk, nor at last, long before heleft her house, that he was a confirmed thief. He was a confirmedthief, and a successful thief, and he grew rich on his spoils.

  One evening, however, as he expressed it, his luck went against him. Hehad been at a penny gaff, where, as usual, he had enriched himself atthe expense of his neighbours. On his way home he saw a policemandodging him--he followed him down one street and up another. The boy'sheart beat faster and faster--he had never been before a magistrate inhis life, and dreaded the disgrace and exposure that would ensue. Hemanaged to evade the policeman, and trembling, entered his home, andstole up the stairs, intending to hide in his own little bed-room. Hereached it, and lay down on his bed. There was only a thin canvaspartition between his tiny room and his mother's. In that room he nowheard sobs, and listening more intensely, heard also a letter being readaloud. This letter brought the account of his father's death--he haddied of fever on board ship, and been buried in the sea. His lastmessage, the last thing he said before he died, was repeated in theletter.

  "Tell wife, that Willie will be a comfort to her; he promised me beforeI went away to keep a faithful and good lad."

  The boy heard so far, then, stung with a maddening sense of remorse andshame, stole out of the house as softly as he had entered it--met thepoliceman at the door, and delivered himself into his hands; by him hewas taken to the police-station, then to prison for a day or two.

  But when he was free he did not return home, he never went home again.His mother might suppose him dead, drowned, but never, never as long asshe lived should she know that he was a thief. For this reason he hadgiven himself up to the policeman; to prevent his entering that house hehad met him on the threshold and delivered himself up. And his onlypure pleasure during the past guilty years was the hope that his motherknew nothing of his evil ways.

  But now she did know, the letter said she did know. What suffering shemust have gone through I what agony and shame! He writhed at thethought.

  Then a second thought came to him--she knew, and yet she forgave him--she knew, and yet she loved him.

  She was preparing for his return, getting ready for him.

  Now that she was acquainted with the prison in which he was wearing outhis months of captivity, perhaps she would even come on the day thatcaptivity was over, perhaps she would meet him at the prison gates, andtake his hand, and lead him home to the little old home, and show himthe clothes of his innocent, happy childhood, ready for him to put on,and perhaps she would kiss him--kiss the face that had been covered withthe prisoner's mask--and tell him she loved him and forgave him! Wouldshe do this, and would he go with her?

  "_I am Jesus whom thou persecutest_."

  Back again came the sermon and its text to his memory.

  "Every time you commit a theft, or even a much smaller sin, youpersecute Jesus," said the preacher.

  Jenks had known about Jesus, but hitherto he had thought of Him simplyas an historical character, as a very good man--now he thought of Him asa man good for him, a man who had laid down His life for him, and yetwhom he persecuted.

  If he went on being a thief he would persecute Jesus--_that_ was plain.And little Flo had said in her letter that God loved him, God and Jesusloved him. Why, if this was so, if his mother loved him, and God lovedhim, and the old little bright home was open to him, and no word ofreproach, but the best robe and the fatted calf waiting for him, wouldit be wise for him to turn away from it all? to turn back into that darkwilderness of sin, and live the uncertain, dangerous life of a thief,_perhaps_ be unlucky, and end his days in a felon's cell? And when itall was over--the short life--and no life was very long--to feel hisguilty soul dragged before God to receive the full vials of the wrath ofHim whom he had persecuted.

  He was perplexed, overcome, his head was reeling; he cast himself fulllength on the floor of his cell--he could think no longer--but hepressed the grey lock and the brown to his lips.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

  GOD CALLS HIS LITTLE SERVANT.

  At last, carefully as they were all worked, and ted
ious as the job was,the jacket, vest, and trousers were finished. They were brushed, andrubbed with spirits of turpentine to remove every trace of grease, andthen wrapped up carefully in a white sheet, with two pen'orth of camphorto keep off the moths, and finally they were locked up in Mrs Jenks'box along with her Sunday gown, shawl, and bonnet.

  Flo watched these careful preparations with unfeigned delight. She wasquite as sure now as Mrs Jenks that the lad for whom such nice thingswere ready would come back in the spring. Every word of the letter herpatient little fingers had toiled over had gone forth with a prayer, andthere was no doubt whatever in her mind that the God who had given herher bed, and taken care of her, would do great things for Jenks also.

  About this time, too, there actually came to her a little letter, afunnily-printed, funnily-worded little letter from