The speaker was Mr Martin. He had come into Mrs Franklin’s little back parlour and expressed his mind very freely. The poor woman was standing5 up and regarding her best lodger6 with a puzzled and almost despairing air. She did not know that Flossy had crept into the room and was hiding herself behind her chair, and that Flossy’s little face had grown even more white and despairing than her own.
‘Give me until to-night, sir,’ she said. ‘Mrs Potts has also been in and complaining about the poor child. She’s an orphan7 child, and my husband’s niece, but we are in no way bound to support her. I would not treat her badly, sir, but there are limits; and, of course, as you say, your night’s sleep must not be broken. Rather than that should p. 23happen, Mr Martin, I would send the child to the workhouse, for, of course, she has no legal claim on us. If you will be so kind, sir, as to give me until to-morrow morning, I will then let you know what I have decided1 to do with the baby, and I faithfully promise that you are not to be disturbed to-night, sir.’
‘That is all right,’ said Mr Martin, with a mollified air. ‘Of course it is not to be expected that an old bachelor such as I am should be worried by an infant’s screams. The screams of a baby have to me an appalling8 sound. Do what you think well with the child, ma’am, and let me know in the morning; only I may as well state that I think the workhouse an extreme measure.’
Then Mr Martin left the house. Mrs Franklin followed him out of the room, and Flossy crept slowly back to the nursery.
p. 24Mrs Franklin did not notice her little daughter, and Flossy did not venture to address her mother. She came into the room where Peter and Snip-snap were doing their utmost for the baby. Peter had her in his arms, and was walking up and down with her, and Snip-snap was bounding after a ball and tossing it into the air for her benefit.
‘She’s to go, Peter,’ said Flossy. ‘I guessed it—I guessed it quite well last night. She’s to go away to the workhouse—that’s what mother said; I heard her telling Mr Martin so.’
‘She’s not!’ said Peter. He turned very pale, and, still holding the child in his arms, sat down on the nearest chair.
It is to be doubted whether this poor neglected baby had ever been christened. The children had given her a name of their own; they had called her Dickory p. 25Dock. The reason they had given her this distinctive9 title was because the first amusement which had brought a smile to her little face had been the old play of Dickory Dock and the mouse that ran up the clock.
‘She said it,’ repeated Flossy, coming up close to her brother, and fixing her anxious eyes on the baby. ‘She said that our Dickory was to go to the workhouse.’
‘Well then, she shan’t!’ said Peter. ‘I know nothing about workhouses, but I expect they are very nasty places, and Dickory shan’t go there!’
Then he sat silent, his arm round the little child, who looked up at him and then back at Flossy, and then smiled in that wonderfully pathetic way she had.
‘Look here, Flossy,’ said Peter, ‘if you are quite certain sure that mother p. 26said the workhouse, that she didn’t say nothing about Dickory Dock being put to sleep in another room, or maybe down in the kitchen—if you are quite positive about the workhouse, Flossy, why, I know what I’ll do.’
‘She did say the workhouse,’ answered Flossy; ‘I heard her with my own ears, and Mr Martin said it was a stream measure. I don’t know what he meant by that, but I do know that mother said the workhouse, and that she has got till to-morrow morning to take baby away.’
‘No, she hasn’t,’ said Peter; ‘we’ll take her away first, you and me, Flossy—you and me and Snip-snap—we’ll take our little baby away, and we’ll hide her. Dickory shall never go to no workhouse!’
Here Dickory looked up again at Peter, who looked down at her and p. 27kissed her, and two tears splashed from his eyes on her little face.
‘Oh, what a dear baby she is!’ said Flossy. ‘Yes, Peter, we’ll run away, and we’ll take Dickory. Where shall we take her to, Peter?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Peter. ‘We’ll get her out of this, that’s the first thing. How much money have you got, Flossy?’
Peter sighed. He was older than Flossy, and he knew that a crooked halfpenny did not represent a large capital.
‘I have got sixpence,’ he said; ‘that’ll buy milk for her. We’ll manage quite well, Floss. When mother goes out with her market-basket, we’ll slip downstairs with Dickory, and well take her away, and we’ll hide her somewhere. p. 28She shan’t go to no workhouse, the darling pet!’
‘No, that she shan’t, the dear!’ said Flossy. ‘It’s a lovely plan, Peter, and I’ll just go and watch on the top of the stairs for mother to go out with the old market-basket.’
‘We’d better take a bag with us,’ said Peter. ‘The bag will come in very handy; it will hold baby’s milk when we buy it, and some bread for you and me; for we may have to walk a long way before we find a nice hiding-place for Dickory.’
Children seldom take long in carrying out their resolutions, and Mrs Franklin, puzzled and anxious, and with no real intention of sending the poor baby to the workhouse, had not long turned the corner of the street before the hall door of the rambling11 old house was eagerly and nervously12 opened, and a funny little p. 29quartette issued forth13. Dickory did not often get the air, and she enjoyed herself very much, sitting well up in Peter’s arms, and wrapped up, head and all, in an old tartan shawl. Flossy, holding the bag, walked by her brother’s side, and Snip-snap behaved in his usual erratic14 fashion, now running before, now lingering behind, now stopping to exchange a greeting with a fellow-dog, or to sniff15 with watering jaws16 and wistful eyes at a butcher’s shop, but always returning faithfully to his charge, and always raising an inquiring face to see if Dickory was quite comfortable. She was thoroughly17 so, and when she crowed, and laughed, and chuckled18, Flossy wondered they had never thought of taking her out before. The sun was shining and the day was bright and warm, with the promise of spring in it, and the two children were highly delighted with their p. 30scheme, and not a bit afraid of the result. The only thing which had at all alarmed them was the fear that Mrs Franklin or Martha might find out their little plan before they had time to carry it into effect.
Having succeeded in getting quite away with the baby, they considered their difficulties at an end. Peter was old enough to know that a crooked halfpenny did not mean much, considered as a provision for three human beings and a dog; but he was still sufficiently19 young to have perfect confidence in the capabilities20 of sixpence for meeting the demands of the hour. As they walked along, Flossy, Dickory, and Snip-snap were all very happy, and Peter too was happy, although his arms ached sadly. But, alas21! the paths of the poor little adventurers were not to be without thorns.
p. 31The time was April, and an April shower first damped the ardour of the travellers—the poor baby’s shawl was wet through, and she began to cry pitifully with hunger and want of sleep.
‘She must want her milk,’ said Peter; ‘there, Dickory, there’s a darling, now go to sleep like the dear baby you are.’
‘You know, Peter, she won’t go to sleep without her milk,’ said Flossy. ‘I’ll run across to that milk-shop and buy some. How much milk shall I get, Peter?’
‘A ha’p’orth,’ said Peter; ‘you get a ha’p’orth, Flossy, and we’ll sit down on the step of this empty house and feed the baby, and eat up our crusts ourselves.’
A bottle to hold the milk was to be found in Flossy’s bag, and accordingly in a short time Dickory had a meal; not quite what she was accustomed to, but sufficient to soothe22 her off into a slumber23 in which she forgot the discomfort24 p. 32of her damp clothes and all her other baby tribulations25.
‘Flossy,’ said Peter, ‘we have gone a long way from home now, and baby is asleep and resting nicely on my knee; my arm won’t ache a bit when she wakes, and I’ll be able to carry her a splendid long way. We’ll have to think of making up our plans, Floss—we’ll have to find some place where we can all sleep comfortably to-night.’
‘Well, we’ve got sixpence,’ said Flossy, ‘that’s lots and lots of money; but the night is a long way off, Peter, and I’m so hungry. I’ve eaten up all the crusts that you and Snip-snap left for me, but I’m still as hungry as possible. Mightn’t I spend a halfpenny or so of our sixpence in getting a good dinner for you and me and Snip-snap?’
Peter put his hand to his brow, and began to reflect.
p. 33‘I don’t think so, Floss,’ he said, ‘for I’m afraid you don’t understand marketing—it’s best for me to go, for I’m quite old, and I know the way mother talks to the baker’s man and the milkman when they come to the door. I must be sharp with them, Floss; that’s what I must be, and I don’t think you could be; so you had better hold the baby while I fetch our dinner. Oh dear, what a good thing it is I have got sixpence!’
The baby, being very sound asleep, was transferred to Flossy’s arms without waking, Snip-snap was left in charge of the two, and Peter, who knew very little more of London and London life than his little sister, started off manfully to the eating-house round the corner. He had gone away with a bright face, but he returned in a very short time with one singularly depressed26.
‘Here’s a bit of stale bread for each of p. 34us,’ he said, ‘and I had to give two halfpennies for that. I did see such a nice piece of beef and of pudding, and I ordered some for you and me and Snip-snap, but the woman said all that much would cost three sixpences, so then I had to say I wouldn’t have it; and I took the stale bread, and she was very cross. O Floss, I hope I’m right about sixpence; I hope it will buy a bed for baby, and milk and food for us all, for I’m thinking we had much better none of us go back to-night.’
‘Of course, we won’t go back,’ said Flossie. ‘The stale bread’s ’licious, and I’m so hungry. O Peter, do look! Dickory is stretching herself, and rubbing her little fat hands into her eyes; and I know she’s going to wake, and I’m afraid she’ll cry.’
‘Give her to me,’ said Peter, with the air of a practised nurse. ‘I’ll hold her, p. 35and you can feed me while I’m doing so, Flossy.’
But notwithstanding all Peter’s efforts, notwithstanding his singing, and even shouting, for the baby’s benefit, notwithstanding the admiring cheers of a little street mob that collected round him, the baby cried, not a loud cry, but a weak, broken-hearted wail4. The fact was, the indifferent milk Flossy had fed her with had made her ill, and her little frame was already sadly chilled by the damp shawl which she wore about her. Poor Dickory scarcely ever got any air or exercise, and in consequence was very susceptible27 to cold.
‘She is sneezing,’ said Flossy. ‘Oh the poor, poor darling! Peter, I think we’d better see about our night’s lodging28 soon; it doesn’t agree with Dickory to keep her out so long.’
‘We’ll go at once,’ said Peter, rising p. 36to his feet. ‘There’s another black cloud coming up, and there’ll be a shower again before long. We’ll get a nice room for us four, and then we’ll be as happy as possible.’
Accordingly the little party again moved forward, and whenever Peter or Flossy saw a card up in a window they stopped and rang the house-bell, and inquired for lodgings29 for themselves and their baby. Of course, they were repulsed30 in all kinds of ways—some people merely laughing, and shutting the door in their faces; some scolding them, and calling them tiresome31, impertinent little brats32; and some even threatening to tell the police about them; but no one ever hinted at the possibility of taking them in. Presently they left the more respectable streets, and wandered into very poor quarters. Here, doubtless, they could have found accommodation were they p. 37able to pay for it, but everybody laughed at Peter’s pennies, and no one dreamt of offering them a shelter. Then the rain which had threatened came down, and baby was again wet through, and now she looked ill, as well as fretful, and refused some fresh milk which Flossy bought for her. She was not the least like the bright little Dickory who used to laugh and show her dimples in the old attic-nursery at home.
‘Look here,’ said Peter, ‘what are we to do? ’T will be night soon, and we haven’t found no hiding-place for Dickory, and no one will take us in.’
‘Baby is not at all well, either,’ said Flossy; ‘her head is quite hot, like fire, when I touch it.’
‘What are we to do?’ asked Peter. ‘We can’t get home, but it seems to me, Floss, that this is worse for poor Dickory than the workhouse.’
p. 38‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Flossy suddenly, raising her bright half-humorous face to Peter’s, ‘let’s take baby to the lady what cried.’
‘The lady who cried?’ repeated Peter. ‘I don’t know nothing about her, Floss.’
‘O Peter, you do know; it was that day our Uncle David took us a long walk, and we went to the cemetery33 with him, you know, the place with the flowers and the trees, and where they put the pretty little children when they die—there was a little baby being put there, and there was a lady crying very, very bitter. I never saw no one cry so dreadful bitter as that lady, and they said she was putting her baby in the ground. I’m sure she must want another baby, and I think perhaps it would be right for us to give her Dickory.’
Peter’s face became very sad. ‘I don’t know,’ he said; ‘I don’t want to give p. 39Dickory away. I’m quite dreadfully fond of her; it seems to me she makes a lot of difference in the house, and you know, Floss, it used to be very dull before she came.’
‘Yes,’ said Flossy, ‘I love her more than anything; she’s a dear baby, and I never find the days long when I’m playing with her and talking to her: but you see, Peter, she’s not to be kept at home; she’s to go to the workhouse to-morrow morning, unless we can find a nice hiding-place for her. We can’t find a hiding-place, Peter, for though you are a rich boy and have got a lot of pennies, yet you haven’t enough for us to get a room for ourselves and Dickory, and the night air don’t agree with her—oh, there, she’s sneezing again—bless her, the pet! Peter, I hope you always say “bless her!” when Dickory sneezes. Martha says it isn’t lucky if you don’t. O Peter, I do p. 40think if we must part with the baby it would be better to give her to the lady who cried than to send her to the workhouse.’
‘But we don’t know where the lady lives,’ said Peter. ‘We might do it if we knew where the lady lived; but we can’t, however much we wish to, if we don’t.’
‘But I do know,’ answered Flossy, ‘I know quite well, ‘cause last week I saw the lady. I was out with mother, and mother went to the greengrocer’s, and while she was there the lady comed in. She was all in black, and I am sure she had been crying a lot, for she looked so sad; and I knew it was her. Afterwards mother and I walked behind her as she went home, and she turned into a great big house in the square near us. You know the square, Peter, the square that begins with a big B; Bev--- something, I can’t say it all.’
p. 41‘Bevington Square,’ said Peter, in a gloomy voice.
‘Yes, yes, that was it, and 10 was the number of the house. I don’t forget the number ’cause I asked mother, and she said it was 10. O Peter, that’s where our lady lives, and I do think it would be better to give her Dickory. There, Peter, bless her! she’s sneezing again. I’m sure we had better take her to the lady.’
‘All right,’ answered Peter, ‘I’ll be a termagant again when she’s gone; see if I won’t. I’ll get up an awful racking cough at night, and I’ll worry that nasty Mr Martin much more than Dickory has worried him, see if I don’t; and I’ll sing on the stairs, and I’ll whistle awful loud, and I’ll buy a Jew’s-harp with one of my pennies. I’ll turn into a horrid34 boy! but I suppose you are right about Dickory, Flossy. Here, let’s go back as fast as p. 42we can to that house you were so ’cute as to take the number of. I’m mis’rible, and I mean to be mis’rible, so don’t you expect nothing cheerful from me, Flossy.’
And then the little party, slowly and painfully, for Flossy was very, very tired, and poor Peter’s arms ached fearfully, retraced36 their steps. The baby had ceased crying and was asleep, and after about two hours’ patient walking and asking their way, the children found themselves in Bevington Square.
‘I’d better go up first to the door,’ said Flossy, ‘and ask her if she’d like a baby. You might stand round there, Peter, and you might keep Snip-snap with you.’
‘You needn’t press her about it,’ said Peter; ‘if she don’t seem quite delighted we won’t give up Dickory on no account; and kiss her before you go, Flossy, for p. 43of course the lady will take her; and in a few minutes she won’t be our Dickory no more.’
Peter unfastened a corner of the old tartan shawl, and Flossy imprinted37 a grave kiss on the baby’s forehead. Then, with great solemnity, and with the air of one engaged on an important mission, she went up the steps of the great house and rang the bell. Flossy was an attractive little child, her hair was really beautiful, and she had a very wistful and taking manner.
‘Please,’ she said now to the tall, powdered footman, ‘I know the lady what cried is here; please can I see her? I’ve brought her a little baby, and I want to see her about it.’
Flossy did not look quite like a common child, and her face wore a very sweet expression when she spoke38 of the baby; nevertheless the footman only stared p. 44at her, and would have certainly shut the door in her face, had not the lady of the house at that moment come into the hall. Flossy saw her, and quick as thought she darted39 past the servant and up to the lady.
‘Please, lady,’ she said, ‘I’ve often thought of you, and I’m so very sorry for you. Please, I’ve brought you another little baby instead of the one you put into the ground in the pretty place where the flowers and trees are. She’s a dear little baby, and when you have her you won’t cry no more.’
Flossy’s voice was very earnest, and her eyes looking up full into the lady’s face were full of the most intense sympathy. Those pretty eyes of hers were too much for the poor bereaved40 mother: she put her handkerchief to her own eyes, and there and then burst into fits of fresh weeping.
p. 45‘Come away, little girl, at once,’ said the indignant footman; but the lady put out one of her hands and took Flossy’s.
‘Leave the child with me,’ she said to the man. ‘I’ll be better in a moment, little girl,’ she continued, ‘and then you shall tell me what you mean; but you have upset me talking about babies: it is not long since I buried my child, my only child.’
‘I saw you,’ said Flossy, nodding her bright head. ‘I was in the cemetery and I saw you. Oh, didn’t you cry bitter! but you needn’t cry no more now, for God has sent you another little baby.’
‘No, my little girl,’ said the lady, ‘He has not. I have asked Him, but it is not His will.’
‘I guessed you’d want another baby,’ said Flossy. ‘I knew quite well you would, and she’s waiting for you round the corner with Peter and Snip-snap. p. 46You put on your bonnet41 and come and look at her; she’s a real beauty; she’s got a dimple, and her name is Dickory.’
‘I’ll come,’ said the lady in an excited voice. ‘It’s the very strangest thing I ever heard. A child coming to me like that. We’ll slip out, little girl. James need not open the door for us.’
Flossy wondered who James was.
‘Give me your hand, little girl,’ continued the lady. ‘And take me to the baby; I’ll look at her anyhow.’
Peter was standing in a very sulky attitude at the corner where the railings were. In his heart of hearts he was extremely anxious that Flossy’s mission should fail. It seemed to him that every bit of the niceness, all the interest would go out of his life if he hadn’t Dickory. In some ways he considered that Dickory was more to him than she was to Flossy. He wondered how Flossy could even talk p. 47of parting with her. He hoped sincerely she would fail in winning the lady’s pity.
But no, there they were both coming to meet him, the tall lady in deep black, and little eager wistful Flossy.
‘This is the lady what cried,’ she said to Peter. ‘She have come out to see our baby. Show her our baby, Peter.’
In solemn gloomy silence Peter unfolded a morsel42 of the tartan shawl which covered the baby’s face.
‘Let me have her in my arms, please,’ said the lady.
She took the baby tenderly, peeped once again at its small wee face, felt a sudden glow coming back into empty arms and more empty heart, and then turned again to the children.
‘I must be mad to do such a thing,’ she said. ‘Two little waifs in the street come and offer me a baby, and I don’t refuse it! There, baby,’ for Dickory p. 48began to cry again, ‘there, baby—hush43, sweet—hush, dear little baby, hush.’
This lady’s voice had quite a new tone for Dickory, a sweeter tone even than Peter’s or Flossy’s. She stopped crying at once.
‘Our baby takes to you, ma’am,’ said Flossy, in a voice of thrilling interest.
Peter, very pale, and still silent, drew a step nearer.
‘Well, children,’ said the lady, ‘I have made up my mind. I’ll take this baby home for the night. My husband will think me mad—anyone in their senses would think me mad, but I’m nearly wild with mother-hunger, and that little mite44 there,’ pointing to Flossy, ‘guessed it, and she brought me the baby, and I say God bless her for it, whether she’s a ragamuffin or not. Yes, I have made up my mind. I shall take the baby home for to-night at least. In the p. 49morning I shall make inquiries45, but for to-night the baby is mine.’
‘Half milk, half water in her bottle,’ said Peter in a very grave reproachful voice. ‘Half milk, half water, and a little sugar, and a pinch of salt, and Dickory likes her feet kept werry warm. Come home, Flossy.’
‘And we are not ragamuffins, please lady,’ said Flossy. ‘Our name is Franklin, and we live in 24 Montfiore Square. We lets lodgings, please lady, and it was Mr Martin what turned so crusty about baby.’
‘Tell your mother I will come and see her to-morrow,’ said the lady. ‘You have a mother, I suppose?’
‘Yes, oh yes. She wanted to send the baby to the workhouse.’
‘I don’t think that will be necessary. My name is Ross. Tell your mother to expect me to-morrow.’
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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wails
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| 痛哭，哭声( wail的名词复数 ) | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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lodger
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orphan
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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distinctive
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crooked
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rambling
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nervously
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forth
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erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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jaws
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thoroughly
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sufficiently
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capabilities
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alas
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soothe
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slumber
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discomfort
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tribulations
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depressed
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susceptible
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lodging
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lodgings
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repulsed
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tiresome
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brats
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cemetery
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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35
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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36
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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37
imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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38
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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39
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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40
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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41
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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42
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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43
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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44
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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45
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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