Chapter 11
JENNY Wren. One day a great many years ago, a gentleman ran up the steps of a tall house in the neighborhood of St. Mary-Axe. The gentleman knocked and rang several times before any one came, but at last an old man opened the door. "'What were you up to that you did not hear me?' said Mr. Fledgby, irritably.
"'I was taking the air at the top of the house, sir,' said the old man meekly, it being a holiday. "'What might you please to want, sir?' "'Hmph! Holiday indeed,' grumbled his master, who was a toy merchant amongst other things. He then seated himself and gave the old man, a Jew and Rhea by name, directions about the dressing of some dolls, and as he rose to go, exclaimed,
By the by, how do you take the air? Do you stick your head out of a chimney-pot? No, sir, I have made a little garden on the roof. Let's look at it, said Mr. Fledgby. Sir, I have company there, returned Rhea, hesitating. But will you please come up and see them? Mr. Fledgby nodded, and the old man led the way up flight after flight of stairs, till they arrived at the housetop. Seated on a carpet and
leaning against a chimney stack were two girls bending over books. Some creepers were trained round the chimney pots, and evergreens were placed near the roof, and a few more books, a basket of gaily-colored scraps and bits of tinsel, lay near. One of the girls rose on seeing that Rhea had brought a visitor, but the other remarked, I'm the person of the house downstairs, but I can't get up, whoever you are, because my back is bad and my legs are queer.
This is my master, said Rhea, speaking to the two girls, and this, he added, turning to Mr. Fledgby, is Miss Jenny Wren. She lives in this house and is a clever little dressmaker for little people. Her friend, Lizzie, continued Rhea, introducing the second girl. They are good girls, both, and as busy as they are good. In spare moments they come up here and take to book learning. Humph, said Mr. Fledgby, looking round. Humph. He was so much surprised that apparently
he couldn't get beyond that word. Lizzy, the elder of these two girls, was strong and handsome, but the little Jenny Wren, whom she so loved and protected, was small and deformed, though she had a beautiful little face, and the longest and loveliest golden hair in the world, which fell about her like a cloak of shining curls, as though to hide the poor little misshapen figure. The Jew Rhea, as well as Lizzy, was always kind and gentle to Jenny Wren, who called him Godfather.
She had a father, who shared her poor little rooms, whom she called her child, for he was a bad, drunken, disreputable old man, and the poor girl had to care for him and earn money to keep them both. Sometimes the two girls—Jenny, helping herself along with a crutch—would go and walk about the fashionable streets. As they walked along, Jenny would tell her friend of the fancy she had when sitting alone at her work. I imagine birds till I can hear them sing, she said one day,
and flowers till I can smell them. And, oh, the beautiful children that come to me in the early mornings! They are quite different to other children, not like me, never cold or anxious or tired or hungry, never any pain. They come in numbers, in long, bright, slanting rows, all dressed in white, with shiny heads. Who is this in pain? they say, and they sweep around and about me, take me up in their arms, and I feel so light, and all the pain goes. I know they
are coming a long way off, by hearing them say, "'Who is this in pain?' and I answer, "'Oh, my blessed children, it's poor me. Have pity on me, and take me up and then the pain will go.' Lizzy sat stroking and brushing the beautiful hair, when they were at home again, and as she kissed her good-night a miserable old man stumbled into the room. "'How's my Jenny Wren, best of children?' he mumbled, as he shuffled unsteadily towards her. But Jenny pointed her small finger
towards him, exclaiming, "'Go along with you, you bad, wicked old child, you troublesome, wicked old thing. I know where you have been. Ain't you ashamed of yourself, you disgraceful boy?' "'Yes, my dear, yes,' stammered the tipsy old father, tumbling into a corner. One day when Jenny was on her way home with Ria, they came upon a small crowd of people. A tipsy man had been knocked down and badly hurt. "'Let us see what it is,' said Jenny.
The next moment she exclaimed, "'Oh, gentlemen, gentlemen, he is my child. He belongs to me, my poor bad old child. Your child belongs to you, repeated the man, who was about to lift the helpless figure onto a stretcher. Ay, it's old Dahls, tipsy old Dahls, cried someone in the crowd, for it was by this
name that they knew the old man. He's her father, sir, said Rhea in a low tone to the doctor who was now bending over the stretcher. So much the worse, answered the doctor, for the man is dead. Yes, Mr. Dahls was dead, and many were the dresses which the weary fingers of the sorrowful
little worker must make. in order to pay for his humble funeral and buy a black frock for herself. Often the tears rolled down on to her work. My poor child, she said to Rhea, my poor old child, and to think I scolded him so. You were always a good, brave, patient girl, returned Rhea, always good and patient, however
tired. And so the poor little person of the house was left alone, but for the faithful affection of the kind Jew and her friend Lizzy. Her room grew pretty comfortable, for she was in great request in her profession, as she called it. And there was now no one to spend and waste her earnings. But nothing could make her life otherwise than a suffering one till the happy morning, when her child-angels visited her for the last time and carried her away to the land
where all such pain as hers is healed forevermore.
