The Garret and the Garden; Or, Low Life High Up

On the evening of that day poor David Laidlaw found himself in durance vile, with massive masonry around him, and a very Vesuvius of indignation within him. Fortunately, in the afternoon of the following day, which chanced to be Sunday, a safety valve—a sort of crater—was allowed to him in the shape of pen, ink, and paper. Using these materials, he employed his enforced leisure in writing to that receptacle of his early and later joys and woes—his mother.

“Whar d’ye think I’ve gotten t’ noo, mither?” the letter began. “I’m in Newgate! It’s an auld gate noo-a-days, an’ a bad gate onyway, for it’s a prison. Think o’ that! If onybody had said I wad be in jail maist as soon as I got to Bawbylon I wad have said he was leein’! But here I am, hard an’ fast, high and dry—uncom’on dry!—wi’ naething but stane aroond me—stane wa’s, stane ceilin’, stane floor; my very hairt seems turned to stane. Losh, woman, it bates a’!

“It’s no maner o’ use gaun into the hale story. A buik wad scarce ha’d it a’. The details’ll keep till you an’ I meet again on the braes o’ Yarrow—if we iver meet there, which is by no means sure, for thae Englishers’ll be the death o’ me afore I git hame, if they gang on as they’ve begood. Here’s the ootline:—

“I’ve been thick wi’ thieves, burglars, pickpockets, an’ the like. Veesitin’ at their dens, an’ gaun aboot the streets wi’ them, an’ I’ve stolen a fifty-pun’ note, an’ it’s been fund i’ the pouch inside my bag. That’s the warst o’t; but it seems that I’ve also resistet the poliss in the dischairge o’ their duty, which means that I flang ane ower a sofa an’ stappit anither into a coal-scuttle—though I didna mean it, puir falla, for his breeks suffered in the way that ye’ve aften seen mine whan I was a wee laddie. But I was roused to that extent whan they first gruppit me that I couldna help it!

“I wadna mind it muckle if it wasna that I’ve no a freend to help me—

“I was interruptit to receive a veesiter—an’ a rebuik at the same time, for he turned oot to be a freend, though a stranger, a Colonel Brentwud, wha’s been cheetit by that blagyird lawyer that’s tryin’ to play the mischief wi’ me. But he’ll fin’ that I’m teuch! The Colonel says they’ll hae nae diffeeculty in clearin’ me, so let that comfort ye, mither.—Yer ill-doin’ son, David.

“P.S.—There’s a wee laddie I’ve faw’n in wi’ since I cam’ to Bawbylon, they ca’ him Tammy Splint. O woman, but he is a queer bairn. He’s jist been to see me i’ my cell, an’ the moment he cam’ in, though he was half greetin’, he lookit roond an’ said, ‘Isn’t this a sell!’ Eh, but he is auld-farrant! wi’ mair gumption than mony full-grown men, to say naething o’ women.”

But David Laidlaw had more friends in London than he was aware of. At the very time that he was penning the foregoing epistle to his mother, a number of disreputable-looking men were bewailing his fate and discussing his affairs in the thieves’ den, and two equally disreputable women were quarrelling over the same subject in a wretched dwelling in the presence of a third woman, who presided over a teapot.

One of the women, whose visage exhibited marks of recent violence, struck her fist on the table and exclaimed, “No, Mrs Rampy, you are wrong, as usual. The story I ’eard about ’im was quite different an’ I believes it too, for them Scotsmen are a rough lot—no better than they should be.”

“Mrs Blathers,” remarked Mrs Rampy, in a soft sarcastic tone which she was wont to assume when stung to the quick, and which her friend knew from experience was the prelude to a burst of passion, “I may be wrong as usual, but as you have never seen or conwersed with this Scotsman, an’ don’t know nothink about ’im, perhaps you will condescend to give me an’ Liz the kreckt wershion.”

“Now, Mrs Rampy,” interposed old Liz, grasping her teapot, “don’t be angry, for Mrs Blathers is right. Scotsmen are no better than they should be. Neither are English nor Irish nor Welshmen. In fact, there’s none of us—men or women—nearly as good as we should be. Now, I am sure it won’t be denied,” continued Liz, in an argumentative tone, “that Mrs Blathers might be better—”

“Ha! I won’t deny it,” said Mrs Rampy, with emphasis.

“Nor,” continued Liz, hastening to equalise her illustration, “nor that Mrs Rampy might be better—”

“Right you are,” said Mrs Blathers, with sarcasm. “And I’m still surer,” said Liz hurriedly—a little put out at the ready reception of her propositions—“that I might be better—”

“Not at all,” interrupted both ladies at once; “you’re a trump, Liz, you’re a dear creetur!”

“Come, then,” cried old Liz, with a laugh that set the fang wobbling, “you are at all events agreed upon that point so—have another cup, Mrs Rampy.”

“Thankee, Liz, and plenty of sugar.”

“H’m! you need it!” muttered Mrs Blathers; “no sugar at all for me, Liz.”

“Well, now,” cried Liz, rendered bold by desperation, “I do wonder that two such strong, warm-hearted women as you should so often fall out. Each of you loves some one—don’t I know!—with powerful affection, so, why couldn’t you love each other?”

This tribute to their feelings so tickled the women that they set down their tea-cups and laughed prodigiously.

“Now, do,—there’s a couple of dears!—shake hands over your tea, an’ let’s have a pleasant talk,” said old Liz, following up her advantage.

The mollified women did not shake hands, but each raised her tea-cup to her lips and winked.

“Your ’ealth, Blathers.”

“Same to you, Rampy.”

“And now, Liz,” said the latter, as she pushed in her cup for more, “let’s ’ear all about it.”

“Yes,” said Mrs Blathers also pushing in her cup, “let’s ’ave your wersion, Liz.”

While Liz gives her version of Laidlaw’s misfortunes we will return to the garden, where, being Sunday afternoon, Susy Blake was busy with a small class of the most disreputable little ragged boys that the neighbourhood produced.

The boys were emphatically bad boys. They feared neither God nor man. The property of other people was their chief source of livelihood, and the streets, or the jails, were their homes. Nevertheless, when in the garden class, those boys were patterns of good behaviour, because each boy knew that if he did not behave and keep quiet he would infallibly be dismissed from the class, and this was a punishment which none of them could endure. Unlike many other teachers, Susy had not to go about enticing boys to her Sabbath class. Her chief difficulty was to prevent them coming in such numbers as would have overflowed the garden altogether.

And the secret of this was that Susy Blake possessed much of an unconscious influence called loving-kindness. No weapon of the spiritual armoury is equal to this. In the hands of a man it is tremendous. In those of a pretty girl it is irresistible. By means of it she brought the fiercest little arabs of the slums to listen to the story of Jesus and His love. She afterwards asked God, the Holy Spirit, to water the good seed sown, and the result was success.

But loving-kindness was not her only weapon. She had in addition quite a glittering little armoury in which were such weapons as play of fancy, lively imagination, fervent enthusiasm, resolute purpose, fund of anecdote, sparkling humour, intense earnestness, and the like, all of which she kept flashing around the heads of her devoted worshippers until they were almost beside themselves with astonishment, repentance, and good resolves. Of course, when away from her influence the astonishment was apt to diminish, the repentance to cease, and the good resolves to vanish away; but resolute purpose had kept Susy at them until in the course of time there was a perceptible improvement in the environment of Cherub Court, and a percentage of souls rescued from the ranks of the ragamuffins.

On this particular Sunday Tommy Splint, who was a regular attendant at the garden class, arrived late.

“Why, Tommy,” said the teacher, turning herself from a little boy on whom she had been trying specially to impress some grand eternal truth, “this is not like you. Has anything happened to detain you?”

“No, Susy,” answered the boy, slipping into his place—with a compound expression in which the spirit of fun, whom no one doubted, gave the lie to the spirit of penitence, in whom no one believed—“but I’ve bin to a sort o’ Sunday class a’ready.”

“Indeed, where have you been?”

“At Mrs Rampy’s, w’ere I see’d a most hedifyin’ spectacle—granny tryin’ to bring Mrs Rampy an’ Mrs Blathers to a ’eavenly state of mind over a cup of tea, an’ them both resistin’ of ’er like one o’clock!”

“Ah! my boy,” said Susy, shaking her head and a finger at the urchin, “you’ve been eavesdropping again!”

“No, indeed, Susy, I ha’n’t,” returned the boy quite earnestly, “not since the time you nabbed me with my ear to the key-’ole of quarrelsome Tim’s door. I was a-sittin’ at Mrs Rampy’s open door quite openly like—though not quite in sight, I dessay—an’ they was pitchin’ into each other quite openly too, an’ granny a-tryin’ to pour ile on the troubled waters! It was as good as a play. But w’en Mrs Rampy takes up her cup to drink the ’ealth of Mrs B an’ says, with sitch a look, ‘Your ’ealth, Blathers,’ I could ’old on no longer. I split and bolted! That’s wot brought me ’ere a little sooner than I might ’ave bin.”

There was a tendency to laugh at this explanation, which Susy did not check, but after a few moments she held up a finger, which produced instant silence, while she drew a letter from her pocket.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you to-day, Tommy,” she said, handing him the letter, “but I must send you with this to my father. Mr Brentwood called with it not half an hour since, saying it was of importance to have it delivered soon, as it was connected with the case of Mr Laidlaw. So be off with it as fast as you can. You know where to find father—on board the Seacow.”

Tommy Splint was indeed disappointed at having to leave the garden class thus abruptly. He consoled himself, however, with the reflection that he was perhaps doing important service to his friend Da-a-a-vid Laidlaw. He further consoled himself, on reaching the court below, by uttering a shriek which sent a cat that chanced to be reposing there in rampant alarm into the depths of a convenient cellar. Thereafter he went into a contemplative frame of mind to the docks, and found Sam Blake as usual in his bunk.

“I say, Sam, d’ee spend all yer time—night and day—in yer bunk?”

“Not exactly, lad,” answered the seaman, with a smile, but without showing any intention to rise. “You see we sea-dogs have a hard time of it. What with bein’ liable to be routed out at all hours, an’ expected to work at any hour, we git into a way of making a grab at sleep when an where we gits the chance. I’m makin’ up lee-way just now. Bin to church in the forenoon though. I ain’t a heathen, Tommy.”

“You looks uncommon like one, anyhow—with your ’air an’ ’ead an’ beard an’ blankits mixed up together all of a mush. There’s a letter for ’ee, old man.”

Without a word the sailor took the epistle, read it slowly, while the boy watched him keenly, then thrust it under his pillow.

“You ain’t agoin’ to clear for action at once, then?” said the boy.

“No, not just yet.”

“Any message for me?” asked Tommy.

“None wotsomedever.”

Seeing that his friend did not intend to be communicative the boy wisely changed the subject.

“Now, Sam, about them pirits. W’ere was it they fust got ’old of you?”

“Down somewheres among the Philippine Islands,” replied Sam, drawing the blankets more comfortably round him, “but to tell you the truth, lad, after they’d taken our ship an’ made every man o’ the crew walk the plank except me an’ the skipper, they putt us in the hold, tied up hand an’ futt so as we could scarce move. Why they spared us was a puzzle to me at the time, but I afterwards found out it was because somehow they’d got it into their heads that the skipper an’ mate of our ship knew somethin’ about where some treasure that they were after had been buried. Hand me that there pipe, Tommy—not the noo one; the short black fellow wi’ the Turk’s head on the bowl. Thankee.”

“An’ did you know about the treasure?” asked Tommy, handing the pipe in question.

“Bless you, no,” returned the seaman, proceeding to render the confined air of the bunk still more unbearable; “we know’d of no treasure. If we had we’d have bin arter it ourselves, double quick. As it was, they burnt us wi’ hot irons an’ tortered us in various ways to make us confess, but we had nothin’ to confess, so had to grin an’ bear it—sometimes to yell an’ bear it! You see, lad, they mistook me for the mate, so that’s how I came to escape. He was a fine man was that mate,” continued the seaman in a lower tone, “a strong, handsome, kind young officer, an’ a great favourite. I’ve often wondered why he was taken an’ me spared.”

“P’raps it was for Susy’s sake!” suggested Tommy.

Sam looked at the boy—a quick half-surprised glance. “Not a bad notion that, my lad. I shouldn’t wonder if it was for Susy’s sake. I never thought o’ that before. Anyhow I comfort myself sometimes when I think o’ the poor mate that he was saved a deal o’ torterin’; which, let me tell you, ain’t easy to bear.”

“But go a’ead, Sam, with more about the pirits,” said Tommy.

“No, lad, no—not just now. I wants to snooze. So—you clap on all sail an’ you’ll be in time yet for the tail end o’ Susy’s lesson.”

Chapter Twelve.

Through Fire and Smoke to Felicity

Free once more, David Laidlaw naturally directed his steps towards Cherub Court.

His freedom was the result of Mr Dean’s labours, for with the information which he had ferreted out that sedate individual found no difficulty in proving the innocence of our Scotsman, and the guilt, in more matters than one, of Mr John Lockhart. The latter was, however, too wide-awake for our detective, for when a warrant was obtained for his apprehension, and Mr Dean went to effect the capture, it was found that the bird had flown with a considerable amount of clients’ property under his wing!

Although Laidlaw’s period of incarceration had been unusually brief, it had afforded ample time for meditation. David’s powers of meditation were strong—his powers of action even stronger. While in his cell he had opened his little Bible—the only book allowed him—and turned to the passage which states that, “it is not good that man should be alone.” Then he turned to that which asserts that, “a good wife is from the Lord,” after which he sat on his bench a long time with his eyes closed—it might be in meditation, perhaps in prayer. The only words that escaped him, however, were in a murmur.

“Ay, mither, ye’re right. Ye’ve been right iver since I kent ye. But ye’ll be sair putt aboot, woman, whan ye hear that she’s a waux doll! Doll, indeed! angel wad be mair like the truth. But haud ye there, David, ye’ve no gotten her yet.”

With some such thoughts in his brain, and a fixed resolve in his heart, he presented himself in the garden on the roof, where he found old Liz, Susy, and Sam Blake assembled. They all seemed as if oppressed by some disappointment, but their looks changed instantly on the entrance of the visitor. Susy, especially, sprang up with a bright smile, but observing the readiness and the look with which Laidlaw advanced to meet her, she checked herself, blushed, and looked as well as felt confused.

“My poor little girl is greatly put about” said Sam Blake in explanation, “because she’s just heard from Samson and Son that they’ve too many hands already, an’ don’t want her.”

“Don’t want her?” exclaimed the Scot; “they’re born eediots!”

The emphasis with which this was said caused Susy to laugh, and to discover that her skirt had been caught by a nail in one of the flower-boxes. At the same time a vague suspicion for the first time entered the head of old Liz, causing her to wobble the fang with vigour and look at Laidlaw with some anxiety.

At this critical moment feet were heard clattering and stumbling up the stair as if in tremendous haste. Next moment Tommy burst upon their vision in a full suit of superfine blue with brass buttons!

“Tommy!” exclaimed Susy in amazement.

“No, madam—no. Tummas, if you please,” said the boy with dignity, though almost bursting with suppressed excitement. “I’m man-servant to Colonel John Brentwood, Esquire, M.P., F.R.Z.Q.T., Feller of the Royal Society—an’ good society, an’ every other society. Salary not yet fixed; lodgin’, washin’, an’ wittles found. Parkisites warious.”

“But why didn’t you tell us of this before?” asked Liz, patting the urchin’s head and smiling benignantly.

“’Cause I wanted to screw you up vith surprise, an’ I’ve done it too! But I’ve on’y jest entered on my dooties, and ’ave bin sent immedingtly with a message that you an Susy are expected to pay us a wisit, which is now doo, an’ Mr Da-a-a-vid Laidlaw is to go there right away—vithout delay—as we say in the poetical vest end.”

“And when are Susy and I expected?” asked Liz.

“To-morrer.”

“But what are you, Tommy? What are you engaged to do?” asked Susy.

“Play wi’ the knives, amoose myself wi’ the boots and shoes of a mornin’, entertain wisitors at the door with brief conversations, take occasional strolls with messages, be a sorter companion to Miss Rosa, wots to be married in a veek or two, and, ginerally, to enjoy myself. I’m a tiger, I is, but I don’t growl—oh no! I only purr. My name is Tummas, an’ my ’ome is marble ’alls!”

Our Scotsman went off without delay in response to the message, and was thus prevented from carrying out his “fixed resolve” just then. However, he wouldn’t give in, not he! he would soon find a more convenient opportunity.

Meanwhile Tommy Splint having particularly requested and obtained leave to spend the night—his last night before going to service—with his “granny,” he and Sam set to work in the garden to rig up temporary sleeping arrangements à la Robinson Crusoe, for it was arranged that they should have a grand supper in the garret in honour of the rescue of Laidlaw—the returned convict, alias ticket-of-leave man, as Tommy called him—and that the males of the party should thereafter sleep in the garden.

Need we say that the supper-party was jovial? We think not. The “ticket-of-leave man” and the “tiger” were inimitable in their own lines, and Sam came out so strong on the “pirits” of the Philippine Islands that the tiger even declared himself to be satiated with blood! As for Susy—she would have been an amply sufficient audience for each of the party, had all the others been away, and the fang of old Liz became riotously demonstrative, though she herself remained silent gazing from one face to another with her glittering black eyes.

Finally the ladies retired to rest in the garret, and the gentlemen went to sleep in the garden.

Ah! how very old, yet ever new, is the word that man “knows not what an hour may bring forth!” Forces unseen, unthought of, are ever at work around us, from the effects of which, it may be, human strength is powerless to deliver.

That night, late—or rather, about the early hours of morning—a spark, which earlier in the night had fallen from the pipe of a drunkard in the public-house below, began to work its deadly way through the boarding of the floor. For a long time there was little smoke and no flame. Gradually, however, the spark grew to a burning mass, which created the draught of air that fanned it.

It chanced that night that, under the influence of some irresistible impulse or antagonistic affinity like a musical discord, Mrs Rampy and Mrs Blathers were discussing their friends and neighbours in the abode of the former, without the softening influence of the teapot and old Liz.

“I smells a smell!” exclaimed Mrs Rampy, sniffing.

“Wery likely,” remarked Mrs Blathers; “your ’ouse ain’t over-clean.”

But the insinuation was lost on Mrs Rampy, who was naturally keen of scent. She rose, ran to the window, opened it, thrust out her dishevelled head, and exclaimed “Fire!”

“No, it ain’t,” said her friend; “it’s on’y smoke.”

Unfortunately the two women wondered for a few precious minutes and ran out to the court, into which, from a back window of the public-house, smoke was slowly streaming. Just then a slight glimmer was seen in the same window.

“Fire! fire!” yelled Mrs Rampy, now thoroughly alarmed.

“Smoke! smo-o-o-oke!” shrieked Mrs Blathers. The two women were gifted with eminently persuasive lungs. All the surrounding courts and streets were roused in a few minutes, and poured into the lanes and alleys which led to Cherub Court.

That extremely vigilant body, the London Fire Brigade, had their nearest engines out in two minutes. Many of the more distant men were roused by telegraph. Though in bed, partially clad and asleep, at one moment, the next moment they were leaping into boots and pantaloons which stood agape for them. Brass-helmeted, and like comets with a stream of fire behind them, they were flying to the rescue five minutes after the yell and shriek of “Fi-i-ire!” and “Smo-o-o-oke!”

Owing to the great elevation of the garden, and its being surrounded by stacks of chimneys, it was some minutes before the sleepers there were aroused. Then, like giants refreshed, David and Sam leapt from their bunks, and, like Jack-in-the-box, Tommy Splint shot from his kennel. There was no occasion to dress. In the circumstances the three had turned in, as Sam expressed it, “all standing.”

They rushed at the door of the garret, but it was bolted on the inside. Susy, who had been awake, had heard the alarm and drawn the bolt so as to give time for hastily throwing on a few garments. The men thundered violently and tried to force the door, but the door was strong, and an instinctive feeling of delicacy restrained them for a few seconds from bursting it open.

“Susy! Susy!” roared the father; “open! Quick! Fire!”

“One moment, father. I’m dressing granny, and—”

A loud shriek terminated the sentence, for the flames, gathering headway with wild rapidity, had burst-up some part of the liquor den at the basement and went roaring up the staircase, sending dense clouds of smoke in advance.

This was enough. Laidlaw threw his heavy bulk against the door, burst lock and hinge, and sent it flat on the garret floor. Blinding smoke met and almost choked him as he fell, and Sam, tumbling over him, caught up the first person his hands touched and bore her out. It was old Liz—half dressed, and wrapped in a blanket! Susy, also half dressed, and with a shawl wrapped round her shoulders, was carried out by Laidlaw. Both were unhurt, though half stifled by smoke, and greatly alarmed.

“Ye ken the hoose, Tammy; hoo shall we gang?”

“There’s no way to escape!” cried the poor boy, with a distracted look.

One glance at the staircase convinced Laidlaw that escape in that direction was impossible. Plunging into the garret again he seized the door and jammed it into its place, thus stopping the gush of black smoke, and giving them a few minutes breathing space.

“Is there a rope in the garret?” asked Sam eagerly.

“No—nothink o’ the kind,” gasped Tommy.

“No sheets,—blankets?” asked the Scot.

“Only two or three,” replied Susan, who supported Liz in the rustic chair. “They’re much worn, and not enough to reach near the ground.”

It was no time for useless talk. The two men said no more, but sprang on the parapet outside the garden, to find, if possible, a way of escape by the roofs of the neighbouring houses. The sight they beheld was sufficiently appalling. The fire which raged below them cast a noonday glare over the wilderness of chimney-stacks around, revealing the awful nature of their position, and, in one direction, thousands of upturned faces. The men were observed as they ran along the parapet, and a deep hoarse cry from the sympathetic multitude rose for a few moments above the roaring of the flames.

On two sides the walls of the building went sheer down, sixty feet or more, without a break, into a yard which bristled with broken wood and old lumber. Evidently death faced them in that direction. The third side was the gable-end of the garret. On the fourth side there was a descent of twelve feet or so on to the roof of the next block, which happened to be lower—but that block was already in flames.