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In a wild effort to elude a demonstrative cabman near the corner of one of the main thoroughfares, the brown pony brought the wheels of the vehicle into collision with a lamp-post. That lamp-post went down before the shock like a tall head of grain before the sickle. The front wheels doubled up into a sudden embrace, broke loose, and went across the road, one into a greengrocer’s shop, the other into a chemist’s window. Thus diversely end many careers that begin on a footing of equality! The hind-wheels went careering along the road like a new species of bicycle, until brought up by a donkey-cart, while the basket chariot rolled itself violently round the lamp-post, like a shattered remnant, as if resolved, before perishing, to strangle the author of all the mischief. As to the pony, it stopped, and seemed surprised at first by the unexpected finale, but the look quickly changed—or appeared to change—to one of calm contentment as it surveyed the ruin.
But what of the fair little charioteer? Truly, in regard to her, a miracle, or something little short of one, had occurred. The doctrine that extremes meet contains much truth in it—truth which is illustrated and exemplified more frequently, we think, than is generally supposed. A tremendous accident is often much less damaging to the person who experiences it than a slight one. In little Diana’s case, the extremes had met, and the result was absolute safety. She was shot out of her basket carriage after the manner of a sky-rocket, but the impulse was so effective that, instead of causing her to fall on her head and break her pretty little neck, it made her perform a complete somersault, and alight upon her feet. Moreover, the spot on which she alighted was opportune, as well as admirably suited to the circumstances.
At the moment, ignorant of what was about to happen, police-constable Number 666—we are not quite sure of what division—in all the plenitude of power, and blue, and six-feet-two, approached the end of a street entering at right angles to the one down which our little heroine had flown. He was a superb specimen of humanity, this constable, with a chest and shoulders like Hercules, and the figure of Apollo. He turned the corner just as the child had completed her somersault, and received her two little feet fairly in the centre of his broad breast, driving him flat on his back more effectively than could have been done by the best prize-fighter in England!
Number 666 proved a most effectual buffer, for Di, after planting her blow on his chest, sat plump down on his stomach, off which she sprang in an agony of consternation, exclaiming—
“Oh! I have killed him! I’ve killed him!” and burst into tears.
“No, my little lady,” said Number 666, as he rose with one or two coughs and replaced his helmet, “you’ve not quite done for me, though you’ve come nearer the mark than any man has ever yet accomplished. Come, now, what can I do for you? You’re not hurt, I hope?”
This sally was received with a laugh, almost amounting to a cheer, by the half-horrified crowd which had quickly assembled to witness, as it expected, a fatal accident.
“Hurt? oh! no, I’m not hurt,” exclaimed Di, while tears still converted her eyes into blue lakelets as she looked anxiously up in the face of Number 666; “but I’m quite sure you must be hurt—awfully. I’m so sorry! Indeed I am, for I didn’t mean to knock you down.”
This also was received by the crowd with a hearty laugh, while Number 666 sought to comfort the child by earnestly assuring her that he was not hurt in the least—only a little stunned at first, but that was quite gone.
“Wot does she mean by knockin’ of ’im down?” asked a small butcher’s boy, who had come on the scene just too late, of a small baker’s boy who had, happily, been there from the beginning.
“She means wot she says,” replied the small baker’s boy with the dignified reticence of superior knowledge, “she knocked the constable down.”
“Wot! a leetle gurl knock a six-foot bobby down?—walk-er!”
“Very good; you’ve no call to b’lieve it unless you like,” replied the baker’s boy, with a look of pity at the unbelieving butcher, “but she did it, though—an’ that’s six month with ’ard labour, if it ain’t five year.”
At this point the crowd opened up to let a maniac enter. He was breathless, hatless, moist, and frantic.
“My child! my darling! my dear Di!” he gasped.
“Papa!” responded Diana, with a little scream, and, leaping into his arms, grasped him in a genuine hug.
“Oh! I say,” whispered the small butcher, “it’s a melly-drammy—all for nuffin!”
“My!” responded the small baker, with a solemn look, “won’t the Lord left-tenant be down on ’em for play-actin’ without a licence, just!”
“Is the pony killed?” inquired Sir Richard, recovering himself.
“Not in the least, sir. ’Ere ’e is, sir; all alive an’ kickin’,” answered the small butcher, delighted to have the chance of making himself offensively useful, “but the hinsurance offices wouldn’t ’ave the clo’se-baskit at no price. Shall I order up the remains of your carriage, sir?”
“Oh! I’m so glad he’s not dead,” said Diana, looking hastily up, “but this policeman was nearly killed, and I did it! He saved my life, papa.”
A chorus of voices here explained to Sir Richard how Number 666 had come up in the nick of time to receive the flying child upon his bosom.
“I am deeply grateful to you,” said the knight, turning to the constable, and extending his hand, which the latter shook modestly while disclaiming any merit for having merely performed his duty—he might say, involuntarily.
“Will you come to my house?” said Sir Richard. “Here is my card. I should like to see you again, and pray, see that some one looks after my pony and—”
“And the remains,” suggested the small butcher, seeing that Sir Richard hesitated.
“Be so good as to call a cab,” said Sir Richard in a general way to any one who chose to obey.
“Here you are, sir!” cried a peculiarly sharp cabby, who, correctly judging from the state of affairs that his services would be required, had drawn near to bide his time.
Sir Richard and his little daughter got in and were driven home, leaving Number 666 to look after the pony and the remains.
Thus curiously were introduced to each other some of the characters in our tale.
Need we remark that there was a great deal of embracing on the part of Di and her nurse when the former returned home? The child was an affectionate creature as well as passionate. The nurse, Mrs Screwbury, was also affectionate without being passionate. Poor Diana had never known a mother’s love or care; but good, steady, stout Mrs Screwbury did what in her lay to fill the place of mother.
Sir Richard filled the place of father pretty much as a lamp-post might have done had it owned a child. He illuminated her to some extent—explained things in general, stiffly, and shed a feeble ray around himself; but his light did not extend far. He was proud of her, however, and very fond of her—when good. When not good, he was—or rather had been—in the habit of dismissing her to the nursery.
Nevertheless, the child exercised very considerable and ever-increasing influence over her father; for, although stiff, the knight was by no means destitute of natural affection, and sometimes observed, with moist eyes, strong traces of resemblance to his lost wife in the beautiful child. Indeed, as years advanced, he became a more and more obedient father, and was obviously on the high road to abject slavery.
“Papa,” said Di, while they were at luncheon that day, not long after the accident, “I am so sorry for that poor policeman. It seems such a dreadful thing to have actually jumped upon him! and oh! you should have heard his poor head hit the pavement, and seen his pretty helmet go spinning along like a boy’s top, ever so far. I wonder it didn’t kill him. I’m so sorry.”
Di emphasised her sorrow by laughing, for she had a keen sense of the ludicrous, and the memory of the spinning helmet was strong upon her just then.
“It must indeed have been an unpleasant blow,” replied Sir Richard, gravely, “but then, dear, you couldn’t help it, you know—and I dare say he is none the worse for it now. Men like him are not easily injured. I fear we cannot say as much for the boy who was holding the pony.”
“Oh! I quite forgot about him,” exclaimed Di; “the naughty boy! he wouldn’t let go the pony’s reins when I bid him, but I saw he tumbled down when we set off.”
“Yes, he has been somewhat severely punished, I fear, for his disobedience. His leg had been broken. Is it not so, Balls?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the butler, “’e ’as ’ad ’is—”
Balls got no farther, for Diana, who had been struck dumb for the moment by the news, recovered herself.
“His leg broken!” she exclaimed with a look of consternation; “Oh! the poor, poor boy!—the dear boy! and it was me did that too, as well as knocking down the poor policeman!”
There is no saying to what lengths the remorseful child would have gone in the way of self-condemnation if her father had not turned her thoughts from herself by asking what had been done for the boy.
“We sent ’im ’ome, sir, in a cab.”
“I’m afraid that was a little too prompt,” returned the knight thoughtfully. “A broken leg requires careful treatment, I suppose. You should have had him into the house, and sent for a doctor.”
Balls coughed. He was slightly chagrined to find that the violation of his own humane feelings had been needless, and that his attempt to do as he thought his master would have wished was in vain.
“I thought, Sir Richard, that you didn’t like the lower orders to go about the ’ouse more—”
Again little Di interrupted the butler by asking excitedly where the boy’s home was.
“In the neighbour’ood of W’itechapel, Miss Di.”
“Then, papa, we will go straight off to see him,” said the child, in the tone of one whose mind is fully made up. “You and I shall go together—won’t we? good papa!”
“That will do, Balls, you may go. No, my dear Di, I think we had better not. I will write to one of the city missionaries whom I know, and ask him to—”
“No, but, papa—dear papa, we must go. The city missionary could never say how very, very sorry I am that he should have broken his leg while helping me. And then I should so like to sit by him and tell him stories, and give him his soup and gruel, and read to him. Poor, poor boy, we must go, papa, won’t you?”
“Not to-day, dear. It is impossible to go to-day. There, now, don’t begin to cry. Perhaps—perhaps to-morrow—but think, my love; you have no idea how dirty—how very nasty—the places are in which our lower orders live.”
“Oh! yes I have,” said Di eagerly. “Haven’t I seen our nursery on cleaning days?”
A faint flicker of a smile passed over the knight’s countenance.
“True, darling, but the places are far, far dirtier than that. Then the smells. Oh! they are very dreadful—”
“What—worse than we have when there’s cabbage for dinner?”
“Yes, much worse than that.”
“I don’t care, papa. We must go to see the boy—the poor, poor boy, in spite of dirt and smells. And then, you know—let me up on your knee and I’ll tell you all about it. There! Well, then, you know, I’d tidy the room
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