SAVED BY LOVE

A Story of London Streets.

By

EMMA LESLIE.

London:

T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW.

EDINBURGH; DUBLIN; AND NEW YORK.

1913

Contents.

CHAPTER

I. ALL ALONE IN LONDON

II. GETTING A LIVING

III. OUR FATHER

IV. ELFIE'S SIXPENCE

V. SAVED BY LOVE

VI. WILL SHE CONQUER?

VII. CONCLUSION

SAVED BY LOVE.

CHAPTER I.

ALL ALONE IN LONDON.

THERE are some places in London where King Dirt holds a carnival all the year round—narrow back streets, where the tall houses, almost meeting at the top, shut out every gleam of sunlight, except during the longest and hottest days of summer; and then only a narrow rift of golden glory lights up a strip in the centre, and makes the shady corners look more dark and desolate than ever.

In one of the shadowed nooks of such a street sat a little girl, her head leaning against the brick wall for a pillow; and you might have thought her fast asleep, but for an occasional sob. She had cried so long that her eyes were swollen and heavy; and even the faint light of Fisher's Lane made them ache so much that she was glad to close them.

No one noticed her for some time, but at length a girl about her own age stopped and looked at her, and at last spoke.

"What's the matter?" she said, touching her shoulder.

With a sob and a start the girl opened her eyes.

"O Elfie, is it you?" she said; and then her tears broke out afresh.

"What is it? Haven't you got anything to eat?" she asked.

"I shall never want to eat anything again," sobbed the other. "O Elfie, mother's dead!"

"Dead, is she?" said Elfie, but looking as though she could not understand why that should cause any one to cry.

"I shall never be happy again, Elfie. O mother, mother, why didn't you take me with you?" wailed the poor little orphan.

"Just because she didn't want you, I guess," said Elfie, but at the same time sitting down to soothe the grief she could not understand. "There, don't cry," she went on in a matter-of-fact tone. "My mother's gone away, but I don't cry after her; not a bit of it; I know better than that, Susie Sanders."

Susie shrank from her companion's touch as she said this, and thought of what her mother had said about making companions of the children in the street, and half regretted having spoken to Elfie. There was a great difference in the two girls, any one could see, though both might be equally poor. Elfie was unmistakably a street child, ragged, dirty, sharp-looking, with bright cunning eyes shining out of a good-tempered-looking face; while Susie, in her patched black frock and tidy pinafore, and timid, shrinking ways, showed unmistakably that, poor as she might be, there had been some one to love and take care of her. Alas for her, poor child! Her only friend in the wide world had died that morning, leaving her alone in the streets of London.

It was the old, old story: a widow striving to work for herself and her only child, and sinking at last beneath the stroke of disease, after giving up one by one every article of furniture, and moving from place to place, until at last she was glad to find a refuge in the garret of one of these gaunt houses, where she had not lived many weeks before God called her to the mansion he had prepared for her.

She had talked to Susie of this, and tried to prepare the child's mind for the coming of the sad trial; but the little girl had hoped that her mother would get better "by-and-by." And so, when at last she woke up that morning and leaned over her mother, and found that she could not speak, nor even return the caresses lavished on her cold lips and brow, she grew frightened at the unwonted stillness, but yet could not think her mother was dead, until some of the neighbours came in and told her so.

Mrs. Sanders had not made friends with her neighbours, and they had thought her proud, because she did not talk to them of her affairs. And so, beyond telling Susie to go to the overseer of the parish, and ask him to send some one to bury her mother, they did not trouble themselves.

Susie had just been on this errand, and had wandered out again into the street to cry there, when Elfie saw her. They had spoken to each other before, but there had not been much acquaintance, for Mrs. Sanders kept her little girl in-doors as much as possible. But Elfie had taken a fancy to Susie, and resolved to befriend her now; so instead of moving away when she was repulsed, she put her bare grimy arms round Susie's neck, and said—

"Tell us all about it, Susie; the boys shan't hit you while I'm here."

To tell "all about it" was just what Susie wanted. No one else had asked about her mother, except the few hard questions put by the overseer, and so she gladly nestled close up to Elfie, and told of her waking that morning to find her mother cold and dead.

A grief like Susie's was quite beyond Elfie's comprehension. Her mother had left her six months before—gone off no one knew where, and no one cared—at least Elfie did not. No one beat her now, she said; and if she was hungry sometimes, it was better to be hungry than bruised, and no one dared to do that now, so that she was rather glad to be left free to do as she pleased. But Susie shook her head very sadly when told she ought to be glad.

"I can't," she said, "though mother told me that God would take care of me when she was gone. I wanted to go with her; and be happy in heaven now."

"And why didn't she take you?" said Elfie, whose ideas about heaven were not at all clear.

"She said I must stay here a bit longer, and do the work God meant me to do."

"What work's that?" asked Elfie.

Susie shook her head. "I don't know, unless it's sewing shirts like mother did," she said.

"Sewing shirts!" repeated Elfie; "People starve at that, and have to sit still too. I'd rather go about and see places, and starve that way than the other," she added, shrugging her shoulders.

"You don't like sewing, then," said Susie. "What do you do, Elfie, to earn money?"

Elfie laughed. "Oh, it ain't much money I earns; but I manage to get something to eat somehow, and that's what you've got to do now, I suppose."

Again the tears came into Susie's eyes. "I don't know what I'm going to do," she said. "Mother told me to read last night about the ravens taking food to Elijah, and she said God would send his angels here to take care of me."

"Then that shows she knew nothing about this place," said Elfie in her hard, matter-of-fact tone. "Angels don't come down Fisher's Lane—at least I never see 'em, and I'm out pretty near all hours, night and day too."

Susie sighed. "I don't think it was quite an angel with white wings mother meant, but somebody who would be kind and take care of me—a lady or gentleman perhaps," she said.

Elfie laughed. "Catch a lady or gentleman coming down here!" she said.

And the idea of such a thing seemed so ridiculous that she burst into a second peal of laughter, until Susie looked offended.

And then she said more gravely, "It's all a mistake, Susie, about the angels or anybody else caring for you. I know all about it, for I've lived in Fisher's Lane ever since I was born, and people have got to take care of themselves, I can tell you."

"But how shall I take care of myself?" asked Susie. "I know there's some money to pay the rent next week, but when that's gone what am I to do?"

"Get some more," said Elfie shortly. "I'll help you," she added.

"Thank you. Will you come home with me and stay to-night? I'm dull by myself," said Susie with a deep sigh.

Her companion joyfully assented, and went off to the market in search of some stale fruit to share with Susie at once. Then they went back together to Susie's home, and, going up the stairs, overheard two of the women talking to the man who had come to see about the funeral.

Susie was too much overcome with grief to pay any attention to what was said; but Elfie had had all her wits sharpened, and she laid her hand on Susie's arm and made her sit down on the stairs, while she listened to the conversation going on just above them.

When they reached the garret, and Elfie had shut the door and glanced round the room, she said, "Look here, Susie, which will you like best;—to stop here and work for yourself, and go out when you like; or have somebody come and shut you up in a horrible place, with high walls like a prison, and make you work there?"

Susie shivered. "Nobody would do that to me," she said, looking across at the bed where her mother lay covered with the sheet, and thinking what she had said of God caring for her.

"But they will, though, if you don't look sharp, for I heard the woman say you'd better go to the work-house," replied Elfie.

She had heard the work-house spoken of very often, but did not know what it was like, or that the life of children there was far less hard than hers. She only knew they were not allowed to run about the streets; and the idea of being shut up in any place was dreadful to Elfie, and must be to everybody else, she thought.

She succeeded in making Susie dread being taken there.

"But what shall I do to pay the rent here?" she asked.

"Well, it would be nice to stop here," said Elfie; "but I manage without paying rent anywhere and that's a saving of money."

"But where do you go to bed?" asked Susie.

"Well, I ain't been to bed in that sort of bed for nearly six months," she said, pointing towards the corner. "I sleep under a cart, or on a heap of straw, or anywhere I can find a nice place; it don't matter much when you're asleep where you are, so long as you're out of the way of the rats."

Susie shook her head. "I shouldn't like that," she said.

"Well, no, I suppose you wouldn't," said Elfie, again looking round the room. "People that's always been used to tables and chairs, and them sort of things, like you've got here, wouldn't like to sleep out under a waggon, I guess."

"How can people do without tables and chairs?" said Susie. "How can they live?"

"Oh, pretty well! Lots of us have to do without them, and other things besides," said Elfie carelessly; "but you couldn't, I suppose, and so we must try to keep these."

"How shall we do it?" asked Susie.

"Well, you can sew shirts, and I can get a job now and then at the market, and sometimes I clean steps for people, and that all brings money. How much do you pay for this little room?" she asked.

"A shilling a week," answered Susie. "Mother's put the shilling away for next week, and she paid the landlord yesterday."

"All right. Have you got any shirts to sew?" asked Elfie.

Susie opened her mother's bundle of work, and took out two that were unfinished.

"I'll finish them and take them home, and ask them to give me some," she said.

Elfie took one and examined it. "Well, I shouldn't know how to put all them bits in the right places," she said.

This was a difficulty that had never struck Susie. She had helped her mother to make these coarse blue shirts—sewing, hemming, and stitching in turn; but she had never put one together entirely by herself. She looked up in a little dismay.

"I don't think I know how to do it either," she said in a tone of perplexity.

But Elfie turned and turned the shirt about, and at last she said, "Look here, Susie; you'll have to keep one of these back when you take the others home, and then we'll find out how they're to be done between us."

Susie began to think Elfie almost as wise as her mother. She seemed to know how to manage everything, and before evening came she began to look up to her as a friend as well as a companion.

Elfie hardly liked sleeping in the room with that long stretch of whiteness at the farther end. She had never seen Susie's mother while living, and would not have raised the sheet now to look at the still, calm face for anything. She would rather have gone out to sleep in one of the holes or corners of the Adelphi arches, even risking an encounter with the rats, than sleep there; but for Susie's sake she determined to stay.

The next morning she persuaded Susie to sit down to her sewing, while she went out to look for something to eat. Meals taken in the ordinary way Elfie had no idea of; she was used to look about the streets for any scraps of food she could pick up, in the same way that a homeless, hungry dog might do, and so it was no hardship for her to go without her breakfast. Susie had often had to wait for it lately—wait all day, feeling faint and hungry, but obliged to sew and stitch on still, that her mother might get the work home in time. She had to do this to-day, and then could not finish all. But she tied up her bundle, leaving the unfinished one out for a pattern; and then put on her bonnet to go forth to tell the sad story to another—that her mother was dead, and would never sew shirts any more.

As the man counted the shirts over, she said, "Please, sir, I've left one at home, it ain't quite finished; but mother—"

"There, there, child, I can't listen to tales about your mother," interrupted the man; "she's always been honest, and I won't grumble about the shirt this time; but it must not occur again. I can't give you so many either this time, trade is getting dull now."

And pushing Susie's bundle towards her, he turned to another workwoman, and Susie went out wishing she had had the courage to say her mother was dead; for she felt as though she was deceiving him, taking this work to do by herself.

As she went back, Elfie met her. "I've got a nice lot of cold potatoes at home," she said, "and a big handful of cherries that I picked up in the market; and I've seen the work-house man, and told him you ain't going with him."

"What did you say?" asked Susie.

"I told him somebody was coming to live here and take care of you. It's just what I mean to do, Susie," she added; "for I like you, and it'll be fair, you see, if I comes to sleep here when it's cold and wet; for it ain't nice out-of-doors then, I can tell you."

So the compact was formed between these two, and they agreed to help each other and live together, if only the neighbours and work-house people would leave them alone.

They need not have troubled themselves very much about this. The neighbours thought they had done enough when they told the man he had better take Susie to the work-house; while he evidently thought the parish need not be troubled, if she had some one to come and live with and take care of her.

And so, after the coffin was taken out and carried to its lowly resting-place, no one troubled himself to visit the little garret, or look after the lonely orphan. Elfie did not stay in-doors much; but whenever she found anything extra nice, she always ran home to share it with Susie, and faithfully brought in every penny she earned, to put into the tin box where the rent money was kept. Susie succeeded in her shirt-making better than she expected; but life was very hard, and she sorely missed her mother, and shed many bitter tears when she thought of her.

CHAPTER II.

GETTING A LIVING.

AFTER Mrs. Sanders was buried, people seemed to forget all about Susie. The landlord called for his rent, and Susie paid him; which was all he wanted, so he did not trouble himself to inquire whether she was living alone or had any one to take care of her; and Elfie had told her not to say anything about it unless she was asked.

Elfie was rather proud of her new mode of living—having a roof to shelter her at night, a little spot she could call home—and she honestly believed Susie could not get on without her; and the feeling that she had some one to take care of, made her more careful of the things which were placed under her charge in the market.

But in spite of her care, and the extra employment it often brought her, the rent money could only be made up sometimes by Susie going without food the day before, for she could not eat the rubbish and refuse Elfie seemed to enjoy. A breakfast or dinner of raw pea-shells Susie could not eat above once or twice; and the stale fruit that Elfie brought home for her often made her ill, so that if she could not afford to buy a loaf, she often preferred being hungry to the chance of being ill and unable to work.

But the greatest trouble of all to Susie was the different way in which she spent Sunday. She missed her mother more on that day than any other; for poor as Mrs. Sanders had been, she had always contrived to go to church and take Susie with her, until she came to Fisher's Lane, and was unable to go out on account of illness. Elfie, however, had no other idea of Sunday than of a day to play more and eat less; for as there were no steps to clean nor baskets to mind, and very little refuse to be found about the market, she generally lay down to sleep, feeling very hungry on Sunday night.

Susie always folded up her work and put it away early on Saturday, that she might have time to clean the room, just as her mother had done. And so Elfie, finding her companion was not going to do any needlework on Sunday, persuaded her to come out to play; and for the sake of pleasing her Susie went. But the rough, noisy games of Elfie's companions, Susie could not enjoy, and she was glad to sit down in a quiet corner and think of her mother and the bright home she had gone to. Then she thought of their walks to church, and what she heard there, and how grieved her mother would be if she could see her now playing with these children, until she felt strongly inclined to run off to church now if only she knew her way.

She resolved not to go out to play again on Sunday; and when the next came round, she said, "Do you know your way to church, Elfie?"

"To church!" repeated Elfie. "They won't let us play there."

"No, I don't want to play," said Susie, looking down at her shabby frock, and wondering whether that was fit to go to church in. "I want to do as mother did, and she always went to church on Sundays."

Elfie looked puzzled. "Church ain't for poor people like us," she said.

"Oh yes, it is. Mother used to say she could never bear the trouble at all, if she could not go to church and get some help from God for it on Sundays."

"Eh? It's all along of the tables and chairs, and sleeping in beds, I suppose," said Elfie, a little disdainfully.

"Church has nothing to do with tables and chairs," said Susie. "We go there to hear about God and the Lord Jesus Christ."

"Well, there ain't no God for poor people that don't have tables and chairs," said Elfie.

"O Elfie, don't say that; God loves you, and wants you to know and love him."

"What! Wants me to go to church?" asked Elfie.

Susie nodded. "Come with me, will you?" she said eagerly.

Elfie laughed. "Catch me trying it, won't you; and there's a policeman walking up and down in front all the time."

"But the policeman is not there to keep people from going in," said Susie.

"What does he walk up and down there for, then?" asked Elfie quickly.

Susie could not answer this question, but she said, "Well, I know he don't keep people out."

"Not fine people that's got tables and chairs at home. God wants them in there perhaps, and so he gives the police orders to let 'em in. I know all about it, you see," she added triumphantly.

But Susie shook her head. "No, you don't," she said. "God wants us to know and love him—you and me, Elfie."

"I know them police that stands at the door, and that's enough for me," said the girl. "You can go if you like. Church, and tables, and chairs, and eating off plates, and sleeping in beds, is all one, I guess; and them that gets used to it can't do without it. But I can, and I shan't run to the police for that."

But although Elfie would not go with Susie, she willingly consented to show her the way; for she had not been to a church in this neighbourhood, and only knew the road to take the work backwards and forwards. So, after carefully washing her face and brushing her hair, and making herself as tidy as possible, Susie went out, carrying her prayer-book in her pocket-handkerchief, and trying to fancy that her mother was with her still.