The Flower of the Flock, Volume 1 (of 3)Egan, Pierce
General
The Flower of the Flock, Volume 1 (of 3)
Egan, Pierce
Fiction
A truckle bed, a table, a chair, comprised the furniture; a soiled and
ragged curtain at the diamond-paned window comprehended all the room
possessed in the shape of drapery or hangings; the walls were bare,
and washed with the odious salmon-hued distemper colour so prevalent in
debtors’ prisons and apartments in poor neighbourhoods; the floor-boards
with wide interstices between them, and large knot-holes here and there,
where mice looked up, and unspareable halfpence sometimes rolled
down, had not even a show of comfort in the way of a small bit of old
stair-carpet by the bedside. All within and around bespoke poverty of
the grimmest school.
The girl, who lay upon the bed moaning in a disturbed slumber, with
flushed cheeks, and pale and transparent lips, was no other than Lotte
Clinton.
Upon the night of the fire, when landed safely by the conductor of the
fire-escape, she found herself in her thin night-dress, exposed to the
cold night air, which struck chill to her unprotected bosom, while
her naked tender feet were upon the hard stones, ankle deep in rushing
water.
The shock she had experienced on being awakened out of a deep slumber
by the startling, horrifying cry of fire, the terror which all but
paralysed her when, half-blinded and nearly suffocated, she discovered
her room filled with smoke, the excitement which followed the rushing
from her chamber, the roaring of the flames, the crackling and
sputtering of the burning wood, the hoarse cries of the mob, the
perilous descent to the ground, the sudden exposure to the eager gaze
of a multitude of faces, red in the glaring, unnatural light, the whirl,
the turmoil, mingled with a species of hysterical joy and gratefulness
at her deliverance, created a combination of emotions beyond her
physical powers of endurance.
It is not wonderful that--affrighted, unknowing where to turn, whither
to go, what to do, chilled to the marrow by the piercing coldness of the
water rushing over her unprotected, delicate feet, utterly overwhelmed
by what had happened, by the incidents surrounding her, and in which
she was yet an actor--she should succumb; and find, that as some person
hastily and roughly seized her about the waist, she should have a dim
consciousness that the whole scene was fading from her as some expiring
terrible vision, and that, when it disappeared from her eyes, she should
be lifeless in the arms of the person who had caught hold of her.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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