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Title: The old house in the city
Or, not forsaken
Author: Agnes Giberne
Release date: May 11, 2024 [eBook #73596]
Language: English
Original publication: London: John F. Shaw and Co, 1890
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLD HOUSE IN THE CITY ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: He found Lettie seated on a corner of the wall.]
The Old House in the City
OR,
Not Forsaken
BY
AGNES GIBERNE
AUTHOR OF
"WON AT LAST," "LIFE TANGLES," "EARLS OF THE VILLAGE," ETC.
New Edition
LONDON:
JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.
48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E. C.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
I. THE OLD MANSION
II. UP THE STAIRS
III. AILIE'S CELLAR-HOME
IV. WHAT TO DO WITH AILIE?
V. STARVING
VI. JOSIE'S HOME
VII. OLD JOB KIPPIS
VIII. AILIE FINDING HERSELF USEFUL
IX. JOHN'S ADVICE
X. SUNDAY IN THE GARRET
XI. JOSIE'S EXCURSION
XII. WHAT HOR WANTED
XIII. WAITING
XIV. JOB'S DUTY
XV. CLOUDED
XVI. MET AGAIN
XVII. LEVESON'S SECRET
XVIII. LETTIE'S FRIGHT
XIX. LITTLE VI
XX. THE SEARCH ENDED
XXI. LETTIE'S RECOLLECTIONS
XXII. BROUGHT HOME
XXIII. PICTURES
XXIV. VISITORS
XXV. THROUGH THE WATERS
XXVI. THE LAST OF THE OLD GARRET
XXVII. A NEW HOME
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE OLD HOUSE IN THE CITY
OR,
NOT FORSAKEN.
CHAPTER I.
THE OLD MANSION.
IT was an old old house, situated somewhere near the central parts
of London. The street was narrow and gloomy, branching off at right
angles from a frequented thoroughfare, and the lofty uppermost stories,
rising tier above tier, and closing in overhead, left but a narrow
strip of heaven's blue visible to those below, even on the brightest
and sunniest of days. It was neither bright nor sunny now, for twilight
shrouded the giant city, and already its myriad lights twinkled through
the gloom, in preparation for the coming hours of darkness. Dull indeed
was this confined alley, with its old-fashioned buildings on either
side, in the midst of which, on the right hand, at the farthest corner,
stood the aged house already mentioned.
It had not always been so old. Once, in long past days, it had been
a stately mansion of no small pretensions, forming the home of some
wealthy city merchant, or, a little farther back, it may be, even of a
nobleman himself. But that was over now. Noblemen and city merchants
had alike been swept away in the hurrying tide westward, and the old
mansion had sunk many grades in the scale of society.
A great change had taken place since those far-off days, one or two
hundred years before! No delicately-nurtured ladies now, in silk and
velvet, in paint and patches, went daintily up and down its broad oaken
staircase. No gaily-attired young gallants, with tossing plumes and
clinking swords, passed to and fro through its outer door. That massive
portal was never closed now, for the old house was no longer a home,
but only a mass of tightly-packed dwellings. No heavy coaches, drawn
by fashionable Flemish mares, lumbered in stately grandeur through the
narrow street. Far back in a distant horizon lay such dignities.
Ladies and gallants, velvets and plumes, Flemish mares and gorgeous
splendour—who could dream of such terms in connection with this squalid
neighbourhood? Who could look on those dirt-begrimed ceilings, and
imagine brilliant candelabra suspended from their centres? Who could
view the discoloured walls, and realize that they were once crowded
with works of art? Who could glance at the bare unwashed rooms, and
listen without an incredulous smile to the tale of velvet furniture and
priceless decorations, which once graced those very apartments?
Gone for ever were those days of wealth and luxury. The old mansion had
sunk into a mere tenement-house, crowded with carpenters, shoemakers,
tailors, and porters, too often in the lowest depths of wretchedness.
It was a close summer's evening, and heavy oppression pervaded the
atmosphere, though the sun had sunk below the horizon, and the last
gleams of red light, finding their way through the dull mist overhead,
had faded at length from the tallest chimney-tops. But no sweet
breath of country freshness could penetrate so far through the city.
No cooling breeze ever crept between the massive walls of the houses
forming Ansty Court.
Work was over for the day—such work as was to be had, for too many in
the old mansion and its neighbourhood were suffering the miseries of
long-enforced idleness. Work was slack, and bread was hard—oh, hard to
find!
Up and down the uneven staircase, with its shattered banisters and
greasy walls, passed footsteps from time to time. No wonder! For over
half a hundred human beings found shelter within the walls of this one
house. Each room was a separate home. And such a home! The old familiar
English tune, true of many a "sweet sweet home," could scarcely here
have met with any response.
It was growing dark, and none of the passers-by, going slowly up or
down with rounded shoulders and weary feet, noticed a small figure
crouching in the most shady corner of the second landing. A mere bundle
of ragged clothes it might be, but for a slight movement now and
then, or a broken sob at intervals when no one was near. Looking more
closely, it would have been seen that one bare arm was passed tightly
over the other with a distressed pressure, while the little dusky
fingers clutched firmly at the rags which scarcely sufficed to cover
her. But there was no other sign of life, and an approaching footstep
was the signal for a closer cowering against the wall, and a more
absolute stillness, in evident dread of detection.
Footsteps were growing fewer now. Children had been called in from the
dirty courtyard where they played all day, and had been consigned to
the respective heaps of rags or straw which formed their beds. Many men
yet lingered at the public-house, not far distant, striving to drown
care and misery for a while, by a means which sunk themselves and their
families day by day into yet deeper degradation. Others had already
retired to such rest as might be obtained in crowded rooms, with
half-famished children crying themselves to sleep for want of food.
For a while no one passed. Then again came another step, heavily
mounting the old staircase. A woman's figure, dimly seen in the
uncertain light, drew near, staggering a little, as if hardly able to
maintain her footing. She was supporting herself against the wall, and
the child in the corner cowered down more closely with renewed fear.
In vain this time. Following the course of the wall, the woman came
against the unexpected obstacle, nearly falling down, and then standing
still with the question—
"What's this? Who are you?"
Reassured by the voice, which showed that the unsteady walk was not,
at least, caused by a visit to the terrible gin-palace, the child rose
and came a step forward, still clenching her arms across her chest; but
there was no answer to the question.
"What are ye after here?" asked the woman again; and, though she spoke
in hard tones, as of one whose sympathies had been well-nigh dried up
by long trouble, yet she would not pass by the lonely child, as many a
richer man or woman might have done, like the Priest and the Levite of
old.
A quick sob, gasped out with heaving breath, answered her. The woman
leant against the wall, and laid a hand upon the arm of the little
wanderer.
"Tell me what's your name, child?"
"Ailie Carter," was the muttered reply, followed by the entreaty, "Oh,
don't ye send me back!"
"Ailie Carter. Then your father's Jem Carter, as came a while ago to
live in one of the cellars?"
"Yes, our house is down there. Oh, don't ye send me back!" came in
renewed entreaty.
"Where's your mother, child?"
"She's took up," and Ailie sobbed, though with her arms pressed yet
more tightly, as if fighting to conquer her tears. "And father's
dyin'—and it's awful to be with him all alone. I daren't—oh, don't make
me! I wants mother!" moaned Ailie.
"Jem Carter dyin'! Well, it's what we all come to," said the woman,
with despairing composure. She had spoken to Jem Carter and his wife
occasionally, and in daylight she would have known by sight the forlorn
child now cowering in front of her. But her home was near the top of
the house, and Ailie's at the bottom. And the Carters, like many in
their position, had known better days, and lived much to themselves in
their cellar.
"Jem Carter dyin'!" repeated the woman. "And where's your mother took,
child?"
Ailie shuddered visibly. "The p'lice," she whispered. "Mother said she
couldn't bear it no more—to see father dyin' and cravin' after food,
and not a sup nor a morsel in the house to give him. She were just
crazed with hearin' him moan and groan, all day an' night, an' she
walked right into a baker's shop, an' seized a loaf with one hand,—and
a lady's purse with lots o' beautiful gold was a-lyin' on the counter,
an' mother clutched it. They said she meant to steal that too, but
she didn't—she didn't," repeated Ailie, breaking into a wail, like an
animal in pain. "She were just crazed, an' snatched at it like, but
didn't never think what she were doing, and she only wanted the loaf
for father. He did moan so for some'at, an' he's wastin' away for want."
"Same as the rest on us," said the woman shortly. "I've eaten nought
to-day, and I'm like to drop. Well, if he's dyin', it'll soon be over
wi' him."
"Don't ye send me back," entreated the child, with sobbing catches
in her breath. "I'll only sit here, an' be ever so quiet. Oh, don't!
Father's never spoke a word since I telled him mother was took, an'
he clutches with his fingers, an' makes a groanin' noise down in his
throat, an' looks—an' looks—oh, I can't go back," sobbed Ailie. "I'd
sooner sleep in the street all night. If only mother was here!"
"It'll be long enough afore ye see anythin' of her again, I can promise
ye," muttered the woman. "Here, come along with me, child. Mary
Carter's done me a good turn afore now, mindin' the children when I
couldn't be with them, and I'll spare ye a crust of bread, if it's the
last we have left."
Slowly as before, she went up the broad staircase, the fringed edges of
her cotton gown dragging from step to step, where in olden days rich
trains of jewelled satin had been wont to sweep. Ailie kept alongside
with her, clinging close to the shelter of the blackened wall, but
asking no questions, and seemingly willing enough to follow wherever
she might be led. She would not have gone so readily down the stairs as
up them, perhaps.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
UP THE STAIRS.
A SMALL room in the top story but one of the house, was that to which
Ailie was led by her companion, with one long narrow window, the broken
diamond-shaped panes of glass being mended not untidily with rag. Being
so high up in the confined street, such daylight as yet remained found
freer entrance than below, and the darkness was some degrees less
advanced than on the staircase and landings. Other similar windows
might be seen in the building opposite, at a distance of some few
yards, with haggard faces in them here and there.
If the room looked crowded, it was not at least with the presence of
over much furniture. One broken bedstead stood in the corner, made to
turn up clumsily in the daytime. Out of its coverings peeped three
small heads, in various positions of careless repose. These were the
infants, varying from six to three in age.
A rickety table occupied the centre of the room, and a man sat beside
it on a chair, which had lost the upper half of its back. A large-built
man in appearance, yet sickly-looking, with a hopeless expression of
countenance, as he leant his head upon his hand, and gazed moodily on
the floor.
Two idle looms stood against the wall, taking up much space, and doing
little else, in this sad time of slack work. The only remaining chair
was used by a dwarfish high-shouldered boy of ten or eleven, whose
heavy head hung over the back, with dropping jaw, and half-opened eyes
gazing into vacancy. Near him, extended listlessly on the floor, was a
second boy, some two years older, tall, thin and feeble-looking, with
wasted limbs showing through his tattered clothing, and honest eyes
sparkling from beneath his brows. One of his knees, raised and crossing
the other, formed a resting-place for a little girl of about seven or
eight, whose large blue eyes, heavy with sleep, and delicate fairness
of complexion, formed a curious contrast to other members of the family.
There was a hungry glance from those two at Esther Forsyth, as she
entered the room, followed by a curious gaze at her companion. Such
a mere scrag of a child it was, standing in the doorway, with black
eyes, alike timid and eager, short black hair pushed behind her ears
in an attempt at neatness, and thin bare arms. She did not look more
than nine years old, but age is hard to guess among these stunted city
children.
"Well," John Forsyth said briefly. "Got any work, Esther? No need to
ask, I s'pose," and he sighed. "What's that child for?"
"John, did you know Jem Carter was a-dyin'?"
"Dyin'! No, I knowed he couldn't last long. What's to do about him?"
Esther slowly removed her ragged bonnet and shawl before answering.
"No, I've got no work," she said at length, in a calm tone, which was
far removed from indifference. "Seems to me there's none to be had. I
don't know what we'll come to. Have ye had your supper, all of ye?"
"I gave it the little ones—the crusts as was left for them," came in
soft tones from the blue-eyed child upon the floor. "Father wouldn't
take none, nor Hor wouldn't."
"Nor Lettie didn't want to, neither, but I made her," said the elder
boy,—adding abruptly, "Mother, there hasn't a crumb passed your lips
this day. D'ye think we'll eat up all, an' see you starve afore our
faces?"
Esther went to the little cupboard, and brought out a small plate of
crusts. "It's all there is," she said. "There ain't much left now as
is worth puttin' in pawn, and if work don't come—" Then after a pause,
"John, we'll spare the child a bit."
"Take it out your own children's mouths to put into a stranger's!" said
John, moodily.
"She's eaten nought to-day, have ye, Ailie?"
"No, nor since yesterday morning," responded Ailie, with longing eyes.
Esther cast an appealing look at her husband.
"Do as ye will," he said shortly. "I'm not the man to refuse a crust
when I can afford un."
Esther silently distributed the contents of the little blue plate.
Ailie grasped with famished eagerness at the dry bread held out to
her. She did not eat it quickly, however. The pleasure was too real
and delicious to be soon ended, so she bit off small pieces, and
constrained herself to munch them slowly, working her way across the
room while doing so, till she found herself within two paces of the
little girl, who thereupon beckoned her to come and sit down upon the
floor. Ailie obeyed the invitation immediately, and stared hard at her
and the boy.
"We're a queer couple, ain't we?" said the latter, with a twinkle of
amusement in his hollow eyes. "Leastways, you seems to think so. What's
wrong with us, eh?"
"What's your name?" asked Ailie, taking another bite.
"Mine's a jolly name, ain't it, Lettie? I'm Horatio Nelson Forsyth."
Ailie thought that grand indeed, and gazed with rounded fascinated eyes.
"Lettie calls me Hor, and so does most folks; but I like more
particular to be called Nelson. He was a real man, you see, as I was
named after—the biggest sailor ever lived, an' beat all his enemies to
nothin', an' I'd like to do the same."
"You couldn't," said Ailie, grieved to see how her crust was
diminishing.
"Maybe not; but I'd like it just—wouldn't I? I'll be a sailor some day,
an' live on the sea in a big ship."
"What's the sea like?" asked Ailie.
"Why, lots o' water. I haven't never seen it—more's the pity—but folks
say it's grand—all a-splashin' and a-dashin', with white spray flyin'
through the air."
"What's spray?" asked Ailie.
"Well, I don't know as I could say 'xactly, but I fancy it's a bit like
mother's soap-suds when she washes up," said Hor confidentially.
"Soap-suds ain't pretty a bit," said Ailie.
"Spray's pretty, if soap isn't—I know that. Lettie, here, don't care
for me to talk about the sea. It's the country she wants—eh, Lettie?"
"I'd like a lot o' green ever so much," said Lettie.
"See if I don't get you a real plant some o' these days, and a nice red
flower, all for yourself, Lettie."
"I'd a deal rather it should be white," murmured Lettie wistfully.
"Mayn't it, Hor?"
"I'd have it red, if I was you," said Ailie, with eager eyes—"ever such
a bright red—like—like—oh, like a man's coat."
"Like a soldier's coat," suggested Hor. "Lettie likes white flowers
best, ye see."
"Lettie, it's time ye should be off to bed," said Esther. "Don't ye
want any more, Ailie?"
Ailie looked from the two remaining inches of hard dry crust to Esther
Forsyth's face, and then back again.
"I just do," she said expressively. "But there's father."
A momentary look of softening came over Esther's lined hard
features—hard only outwardly, for there lay a tender woman's heart
beneath. Only, so much of its tenderness had been frozen by long years
of pressure, that it was not readily melted into expression. The growth
of dull reserve and impassive endurance, which had gathered closely
over her once open-hearted nature, was not easily broken through.
Still, for an instant her eyes wore a look of softness, as she said—
"Ailie's a good girl to think of her father, isn't she now, John?"
"Aye," responded John, shortly. "What be you a-going to do with her?"
Esther looked at Ailie, and Ailie cowered in renewed fear.
"Oh, don't ye—don't ye send me back," she entreated. "I'll let him have
my bread. I won't be in nobody's way. I'll sleep on the stairs, ever so
quiet. Oh, don't ye send me back."
"'Twould be cruel to send her alone," said Esther. "A bit of a child
like that—and he dyin'."
John's assent was a monosyllable. Poor, hopeless, weary, they might
be themselves; nevertheless, that they should help a neighbour in his
sorer trouble was but a thing of course.
"Mother, I'll take down Ailie, an' see what's wantin'," suggested
Horatio, sitting up. He had been wandering for hours through the
streets, poor boy, vainly seeking for employment, while barely
recovered from a severe attack of low fever, and subsisting on a mere
scrap of bread. Esther shook her head.
"Ye've been on the tramp all day, and you're fit for nothin' but sleep.
I'll go with Ailie myself."
"You've been nigh as long on the tramp yourself, mother."
"A boy's little use in a sick-room," said Esther. "Get to bed, Lettie
and Roger—an' you too, Hor. I'll be back when I can."
Taking the child's hand in her own, she left the room again, and Ailie
went submissively, though trembling. Down one flight of stairs after
another they made their way, Esther walking more steadily now, perhaps
strengthened by her little taste of supper. Perhaps the very act of
caring for others imparted vigour to herself.
Not that it was done with the highest motives. Not that Esther had any
thought of "serving the Lord." No such Heavenly light shone in upon
the Forsyth's dreary home as would have come from trust in a Heavenly
Father's watchful love. If the good seed had ever been sown in Esther's
heart, the pressing cares of poverty had long ago stifled its growth,
and smothered out the germ of life. She and her husband had struggled
long in past years to retain a respectable appearance, but of late a
cloud seemed to have settled down upon them all.
John was not an unsteady man in the main, but sometimes, in the mere
longing to escape from idleness, and its attendant train of miseries,
he fled to the public-house, and, once there, what wonder if he stayed
too long, and took too much? The crowded room which formed his home
could indeed offer small attractions.
Esther bore it all silently—bore it as she bore everything else,
with a kind of dogged patience. Down in her heart the canker-worm of
hopelessness was sapping the springs of energy. But for her children,
she could have lain down without a wish ever to rise again. For love
of them she strove on, sought work, denied herself, and lived a
life of silent endurance. But it was so long now since all regular
work had failed, that the old struggle for at least the appearance
of respectability was dying out. They were growing used to rags and
tatters, and scanty clothing—worse still, even to want of cleanliness.
What was the use of striving? When failing for lack of food, and
sinking with the long day's search for the means of livelihood, Esther
was in no state for "cleaning up," she would have said.
And yet the woman's heart of sympathy beat still beneath that soiled
cotton gown. She could not see Ailie Carter in distress, and not do the
little in her power to help.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
AILIE'S CELLAR-HOME.
DOWN flight after flight went Esther Forsyth and little Ailie Carter.
One or two rough men, returning from the public-house, staggered past
them, and Ailie crept closer to her protector's side. One or two
"women, dressed in unwomanly rags," came up the stairs, and exchanged a
word of greeting with Esther.
Still they went on—past the second story, past the first story, past
the ground-floor; past open doors, showing sleeping children huddled
in rags; past closed doors, from which came the wailing of hungry
infants; past other doors, whence issued sadder sounds of raised voices
and angry discord. Past all these, and down stone stairs, leading to
underground regions, where the air weighed heavy and dank. And then
they stopped at a door.
Esther Forsyth pushed it open and went in, the child creeping after.
A bare cellar lay before them. Furniture had been parted with, piece
by piece, in the long struggle for subsistence. Nothing of it was
left, save the thin flock-bed in one corner, and the single broken
chair in the middle. A tallow candle, in a candlestick, stood upon the
chair, casting a glow upon the damp walls, the small window, and the
sallow face of the sick man on his wretched couch. Nothing of sheet or
blanket was visible—only an old piece of dirty carpet drawn over the
sufferer. An old pipe and a tin saucepan stood side by side upon the
mantel-shelf; and that was all.
Jem Carter was not alone. An aged woman stood beside him, and she
turned her withered face towards the door when Esther entered.
"Be that Ailie Carter?" she demanded, in a hoarse whisper. "He be axin'
after her sore, an' no one could tell nought of where she was. An' she
a leavin' of her father to die alone, like a rat in a hole."
A cry broke from Ailie's lips.
"No, no—I didn't mean—" she gasped, with half-sobs of excitement and
fear. "O, father, I wouldn't ha' left you—if—if—"
"Poor Ailie!" he strove to say, and his helpless hand tried to reach
out towards her. "Who'll take care o' ye now, I wonder?"
"Father, don't go an' die," sobbed Ailie. "Mother's gone, too, and I'll
have nobody—"
Jem Carter gave a heavy groan.
"Ah! Me—I little thought ever wife o' mine 'ud be a thief,—locked up
in jail!" And a sob burst from the very heart of the dying man. "I'll
never see her again. Ailie, mind ye tell her from me—"
The labouring voice ceased, and they listened in vain. The old woman
had retired a few paces, but Esther Forsyth stood close beside the
flock-bed, for Ailie was there, and her grasp on Esther's tattered gown
was that of a vice.
"Tell her what?" asked Esther, after a minute of silence.
No reply came, and Ailie spoke timidly—
"Father, won't ye take a bit o' bread?"
"He's past eatin', child," said the old woman. "Let him die in peace,
an' don't ye go to disturb him, if he'll do it quiet."
Some echo of the words seemed to reach the failing ear. He opened his
eyes, and fixing them full on Esther, he muttered slowly—
"Die in peace! Die in peace! I'll never see Mary again. I'll be gone
afore she's free. An' where will I be gone?"
It was an awful question, dropping from the ashen lips of that dying
man, tottering upon the verge of a dark eternity. No answer came from
his hearers—from the old woman, or from Esther Forsyth, or from poor
little Ailie. What answer could they give? They hoped he would sink
again into stupor, and "die quiet." But the hollow eyes looked from one
to another in appeal.
"Where will I be gone?" repeated Jem. "I've nought to do with dyin' in
peace—not I. What's them lines I once learned, or somebody telled me?—
"'There is a dreadful hell,
With darkness, fire, an' chains.'
"What's the rest, Ailie?"
"Oh, father, don't ye—don't ye," sobbed Ailie, in distress.
"Come, don't ye be in a taking, Carter," said Esther, trying to cheer
him. "You've been a steady man enough, off an' on, and it's little o'
drink that's passed your lips o' late."
"Drink!" repeated Jem; and then a strange look passed over the face
looking up into hers. "Maybe I've not drunk as much as some. Maybe I've
wanted to live respectable, and couldn't manage it neither. Will that
take me to heaven, woman?"
The question came almost fiercely from between his parted lips, through
which the labouring breath passed to and fro.
"'Tis little we poor folks has to do with heaven," she said.
"It's little you know," responded Jem Carter. "Wasn't it the poor, an'
not the rich—somebody said. But I minds nothin' now. It's all gone. An'
there's no one to say a word—an' I'm dyin'."
"Can't ye tell him what he wants?" sobbed Ailie.
"Can't nobody tell?"
"Can't nobody tell?" echoed the dry failing lips. "Mrs. Forsyth, can ye
mind nothin' o' what I once heard?"
"I didn't know ye then," she said, with an effort to rack her memory
for some dim recollection of the "sweet story of old," with which in
childhood she had not been wholly unfamiliar. But it would not come.
"There's nobody here as knows nothin'."
Nobody! Not one to bring a ray of light into the deep darkness of that
poor benighted soul. Not one to hold the cup of life to those dying
lips.
Awhile they kept silence, broken only by the deep breathing from the
flock-bed. The old woman fidgeted about, and muttered to herself.
Esther stood still, with the child clinging to her dress.
"He'll die easy now," she whispered encouragingly, and she hoped it
might be so. But the closed eyes opened again, and wandered to and fro
distressfully; and the word "Parson" was whispered more than once.
"An' where be we to find a parson?" the old woman demanded in her
ignorance. "Likely a parson 'ud come to this hole, at this time o'
night. Tell ye what, Mrs. Forsyth, if ye'll stay here a bit, I'll go
an' settle off my old man, an' then come back an' stay, so as ye can
go. 'Tain't fair to leave him alone like this, and ye'll have enough to
do wi' your own six brats."
The proposition, though rough, was kindly. Esther made no objection,
but only stood, after the old woman's departure, looking down fixedly
as before upon the occupant of the flock-bed. There was a stirring of
old memories in her mind. They had not answered to the call when she
sought for them, but somehow they were working now. She hardly knew
what impulse made her say bluntly, as she marked the knitted brows—
"Why don't ye pray, if ye're so fearsome?"
"Who be I to pray to?" demanded Jem. "I tell you I knows nought of such
things."
"There was a thief as didn't know more," said Esther, uncertainly.
"I'm not a thief. I'm an honest man. I've prided myself all my life on
bein' an honest man." Jem broke off there, with a sigh, at the thought
of his wife. "'Tain't honesty as 'll take me to heaven, though; I knows
that plain enough. Tell about the thief; I'd like to hear."
"I've forgotten nigh all. 'Twas old granny as used to tell me, when
I was a slip of a child, an' she'd show me the pictures in her big
Bible, but it's 'most gone from me now. I only knows it was a thief,
an' he was a-dyin', an' he prayed—leastways he says a few words—'Lord,
remember me when Thou comest'—I don't remember no more. 'Comest'
somewhere; I've forgot."
"An' you can't remember it?" asked Jem despondingly. "Maybe I might say
the words, if I knowed 'em. But I ain't a thief; I never was. Who was
it he said the words to?"
"Why, Him as died same time, somehow," said Esther, with reluctance. "I
tell you I've forgot; only I know he said them words to Him—to Jesus,
as was nailed upon a Cross, wasn't He?"
Very doubtfully, and somewhat shamefacedly, too, she spoke; but like a
strain of sweet music fell the sound of that holy Name upon the ears of
the dying man. "Why," he said, with sudden energy, "'twas He, sure, as
said that about the poor an' not the rich, somebody once telled me. Go
on quick, woman."
Esther fidgeted with the edges of her tattered gown. "It's pretty nigh
all gone from me," she said; "only I know He somehow telled the thief
as he was to go straight to heaven that day."
"The thief was to?"
"Yes, the thief," repeated Esther. "And he hadn't done more than that
bit of a prayer, neither."
"Maybe I wouldn't be heard if I was to ask too," muttered Jem.
Esther looked round involuntarily round at the dark abode of misery.
This dreary cellar—was it possible that a dying prayer, uttered in such
a place, could by any possibility ascend upwards—could escape through
all the damp, and dirt, and oppression which weighed upon the very
air—could pass onwards, higher and higher, to the pure blue sky far
above the great city's wretchedness—could rise yet farther upwards till
it reached the throne of God Himself? Esther did not put the question
in words, but she felt something like it, and shook her head.
"Maybe not. We haven't much to do with prayin' hereabouts," she said
bitterly. "I've nigh forgotten the meanin' o' the word."
Seemingly passing into stupor, Jem Carter lay, his hand flung out on
the torn carpet which formed his covering. Presently the old woman came
back, and, seeing that there was nothing more to be done, Esther took
her departure. The old woman settled herself down on a little heap of
rags in one corner, and was soon nodding and rocking drowsily. Ailie
crept to her habitual resting-place at the foot of the flock-bed, and
there, wearied out, she dropped asleep.
Was it night when she awoke? She sat up, and rubbed her eyes. Yes,
darkness still, except for the fitful flashes of the half-expiring
candle, with its unsnuffed wick. The broken back of the chair, on which
it stood, was reflected in huge bars of shadow against the walls.
Ailie watched them as they moved to and fro, and then she glanced at
her father's face. How ghastly it looked, lying back on the bundle of
rags which served for a pillow, while one bony hand was folded over the
other. Ailie sat more upright.
"Father, father," she whispered. Was he living still?
She did not venture to speak aloud. The midnight silence was broken
sharply by the step and voice of a drunken man, reeling along outside
the window. Ailie shivered at the sound. She could see the old woman
across the cellar, not nodding now, but fast asleep, her gray head
leaning against the damp wall. Ailie dared not rouse her, but watched
her father's face in aching fear; and all at once, he opened his eyes.
Dull eyes they were, yet they recognized his little girl, and she
whispered "Father!"
"I ain't a thief, Ailie, but maybe He'd hear me," said Jem.
"I'd try," said Ailie.
Jem Carter looked up, glanced round, gazed at the bare floor, the bare
walls, the bare ceiling. "There's nobody to speak to," he said. "Ailie,
can't ye do it for me?"
Ailie did not need to ask his meaning; she understood it as well as he
did himself. She had never been taught to kneel and clasp her hands
in prayer, like so many happier little ones; but, after a moment's
hesitation, she folded her arms together, looked into the darkest
corner of the cellar, and said in a frightened undertone:
"Please remember father, like the thief. He wants it ever so much.
Please don't forget father. Please do remember him.
"Will that do, father?" asked Ailie.
"Please, Lord, remember me when Thou comest," muttered Jem Carter
after her. "There's nobody else to help. Please have mercy, Jesus,
that was nailed up on a Cross. I don't know nothin' more about it."
And once more Ailie chimed in earnestly, "Oh, please do remember
father.
"Don't you think He will now, father? 'Cause the thief didn't only
ask Him once, an' we've done it three times. Don't you think He
won't forget you now, father?"
Was there a smile on the dying face? Ailie thought so. But nothing more
was said, and he seemed to fall asleep. Ailie, too, sank off again, and
did not wake a second time till daylight was creeping in through the
window.
The old woman was the first to rouse herself. She shook her limbs,
grumbled at her hard couch, rose with difficulty, and walked across the
cellar.
There on the flock-bed lay Jem Carter—silent, motionless, with closed
eyes, and powerless hands. And there across his feet lay little Ailie,
with one arm thrown under her head, and a troubled look in her childish
face. Poor little fatherless Ailie!
Yes, he was dead! Untended and unwatched, he had passed away from his
cellar-home. But the one faint cry to the Saviour of the world, out
of the depths of his darkness, was surely not unheard, and poor Jem
Carter, in his last extremity, was surely not "forgotten."
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
WHAT TO DO WITH AILIE?
SOMEWHAT late the following evening, John Forsyth walked into his room,
and sat down at the table. Esther opened her lips to speak, but shut
them again hastily, as she noted his moody expression. He glanced at
the younger children, huddled in a heap upon the floor, and frowned
at the sight of Ailie Carter, curled up asleep in a corner, Lettie
being seated by her side, as if keeping guard over the forlorn little
stranger.
"What's that child here for?" he demanded.
"She's got nowhere else to go to," responded Esther.
"Got no supper for me, I s'pose," said John gruffly.
Esther went to the cupboard, and brought thence a hunch of bread and
a lump of cheese. John disposed of them both in silence, with the
expedition of a man who has not broken fast for many hours.
"How did you get it?" he asked shortly, pushing aside the cracked plate.
"Hor earned a shillin' with runnin' of errands and doing jobs. I've
give the children some, and there's some over for to-morrow. It won't
do to eat up all, John," as she detected a hungry gleam in his eyes.
"An' there be the rent as well," said John despondingly. "You've been
a-giving more to that there child, Esther."
"Would ye wish to see her starvin' afore our faces?" asked Esther.
"What of her mother?"
"Two months in jail," said John laconically. "Went to the station-house
myself, an' heard it all. There was a deal o' talk, an' one man he
wanted to make out as she was a hardened offender, but that wouldn't
stand. She hadn't never been in trouble before, she said, and they
found it was true, leastways they couldn't find no proof to the
contrary. She pleaded guilty to taking the loaf, but wouldn't agree
to the purse—she didn't know why she touched it at all, and she was
certain sure she had never meant to take it. There was a laugh at that,
an' 'twas easy to see no one believed the poor thing. She sobbed a bit,
when they first brought her up, but after that she stood quiet, an'
they said—one on 'em—that she was sullen, and he didn't believe as it
was her first offence."
"She were as honest as the day till then," said Esther.
"They couldn't tell that, an' they didn't know how she had been nigh
crazed by all she had borne. 'Twasn't done in her sober senses, I do
believe. There was a long tale made out o' the purse, an' the lady
wanted to prove as there was an accomplice as called off her attention,
so as Mrs. Carter might whisk it off the counter where it was laid; but
nobody hadn't seen no accomplice, unless 'twas little Ailie, an' when
some one spoke o' the child, the poor thing called out quite indignant,
an' seemed as if she couldn't bear the thought. They questioned her
more then, an' she answered steady and sensible, that she had never
thought what she was going to do, but she'd sold all she had, an'
walked about all day a-huntin' for work, and she and her child was
half-starved, an' her husband a-dyin'.
"'Aye, an' he's died in the night, has poor Jem Carter,' says I,
speakin' up loud, 'died for want o' the food which none o' you
gentlemen knows what it is to be without.'
"They did look shocked at that, all of 'em, an' Mrs. Carter, she gave a
little cry, an' turned white-like. They was sorry for her, all on 'em.
I could see that plain enough, and they didn't talk no more of puttin'
off her trial to the Quarter Sessions, which was the thing as she had
seemed to dread most. Some wouldn't have give her more than a month, I
fancy, but one old gentleman, he muttered out that people couldn't be
let steal, if they was starvin', and examples must be made.
"Mrs. Carter seemed like one nigh stupid, an' never lifted her head,
not even when they told her her punishment. And the lady, whose purse
it was she took, came near to crying, and said she wished the poor
thing could ha' been let off altogether—she was so sorry for her, left
a widow alone like that."
"An' how ye could go and tell her all of a sudden!" said Esther,
reproachfully.
"I didn't think when I spoke, and it did good too, for they'd ha' given
her longer imprisonment but for that. 'Twas her being caught, ye see,
with the loaf in one hand, an' the purse in the other, which made so
much o' the matter, an' she wouldn't plead guilty to the purse—she
didn't scarce know she had touched it, she said, an' others declared
she was a-carryin' it off. An' what do they know of the home and the
misery as drove her to it?" said John bitterly. "I've felt nigh bein'
driv to something desperate myself, before now of late. Anyway she's
caged up now for two months, till fourth o' November. That child ain't
going to stay here, Esther."
"Where be she to go?" asked Esther in a compassionate tone.
"She ain't a-going to stay here," repeated John, doggedly. "I've give
way once, as ye know, to takin' in other folks' children—no need to
go into that now. I never grumbles at what's done, and I loves her
now like to my own; but I ain't a-going to do it a second time. We've
enough an' to spare of our own."
"What'll we do with her?" asked Esther.
"There's the work'us," said John. "I'll take her there myself
to-morrow. Ye needn't say a word against it."
"And her poor mother, as prided herself on never takin' a grain of help
from the parish," said Esther.
"She must take the consequence o' her own deed," said John, somewhat
less indulgent towards her himself, than he had perhaps expected the
magistrates to be. "Starvin' or no starvin', 'twas stealin', and she
must put up with the consequence. There's no one left as belongs to the
child, an' to the work'us she'll go."
Ailie never moved or spoke, but she was not asleep. Every word had
fallen on her ears like a blow. Mother in prison for two months—two
whole months. O what a long time it seemed to poor little Ailie!
She could scarcely have felt more hopeless at the prospect of two
years' separation. And then to be sent away herself—away to the
workhouse—away, all alone; among utter strangers. She had been brought
up with such a horror of the workhouse; prison itself sounded hardly
worse to her. Not that she knew anything about what kind of a place
it was, except that her mother's one great dread for months past, and
her father's too, had been that of "coming to the workhouse." What
would mother think of her being there? Poor Ailie forgot or did not
understand that the lesser disgrace of dependence on the parish would
be swallowed up in the far deeper disgrace of trial and imprisonment
for theft.
Worst of all to Ailie was the thought of her mother coming home at the
far-off end of those two months, and finding her child gone. What if
she didn't know where to go, and never found Ailie, and Ailie never saw
her again! Ailie cried silently at the thought. She could not, could
not go. She must wait here for mother; she would be a trouble to no
one, and eat so little, and sleep anywhere, and creep into corners—only
she couldn't go away.
How to avoid it, Ailie did not know. At first she thought she would beg
John Forsyth to change his mind, but when she opened her eyes softly
and peeped at him, he looked so moody that she dared not speak. Then
she thought that she would slip off, and hide herself in some dark
secret place, until—oh, until there was hope that they might change
their minds. She knew of many a hole and corner in the old rambling
house, but to escape at present, without remark, was impossible, and
she determined to bide her time.
What was to be done with her this night she did not know; neither did
Esther. There was certainly no vacant space for her in the overcrowded
apartment. A young widow living in the next room, with only three small
children of her own, offered to take in Ailie, much to the relief of
all parties. She slept there quietly on her heap of straw, and shared
the children's scanty breakfast; but, after that, she watched for
the first opportunity to slip unobserved out of the room, and to run
down-stairs.
What she meant to do with herself Ailie had no very clear idea. Her
one aim was to escape from John Forsyth, in dread of being walked off
to the workhouse. A house of terror it was to her, in truth, and her
greatest terror of all was the childish dread that if she once went
away her mother would never find her again. Her one wish now was to be
where John Forsyth could not discover her. The old court at the back of
the house would not do. He would naturally look for her there, among
the crowd of neglected little ones who spent hours every day in playing
and quarrelling together over the mud, stones, and old oyster-shells
there to be found. She dared not be seen on the staircase or in the
passages. He might walk down any one of them. She would not loiter
about in the street, for he would be sure to pass there.
Creeping at length into a dark corner, under the pile of lumber,
refuse, and ruin which blocked up the empty space under the staircase,
she settled herself into as easy a position as possible, and there
decided to remain. They were not likely to seek for her in such a spot.
She congratulated herself not a little on her hiding-place, half an
hour later, when she heard a heavy step coming down over her head, and
John Forsyth's voice demanding, in evident annoyance—
"I say, can any o' you tell me what's become o' Carter's little girl?"
"Ailie Carter," croaked the old woman who had kept watch by her dying
father's side. "No, not I. Where have she been all night?"
"Sleepin' with Mrs. Crane. If I catch her, she shan't forget the
trouble she's a-giving us—running away and a-hindering like this! But I
can't wait in no longer. If she thinks she's going to live on us, she's
mistaken."
He went away grumbling, and Ailie did not breathe freely till he was
out of hearing. She dared not let herself be seen even then, though
aware that he would now be absent for hours on the search for work. If
found, she would doubtless be watched till he returned, and then taken
off to the workhouse. Ailie had set her whole heart upon not going
there. She sat on resolutely in her dark close corner—hungry, cramped,
and miserable, but enduring all, hour after hour, with a steadfast
patience, unknown to more tenderly-nurtured children. It was nothing
unusual to her to fast during a whole day.
But time passed slowly, and Ailie grew wretched and forlorn, as the
hours went on. She slept a good deal, and listened to what went on
overhead, and sometimes cried quietly; but she never thought of giving
way, and coming out. She would do or bear anything in her power to
escape going to the workhouse. She must wait for mother—poor mother,
away in jail! Ailie longed so to see her again.
And poor father, too—not twenty-four hours dead. Ailie's little
heart swelled and ached at the thought of him, and of that short
midnight waking, which seemed now so very far away. How she wondered
if the story told by Esther had come true, and if he had been
remembered—by—Ailie did not exactly know whom. She had been brought up
in such utter ignorance, that she knew scarcely more than the Name of
God. She had never heard the Name of Jesus till it fell from the lips
of Esther in her hearing.
Still, she knew her father had feared something, had wanted something,
had asked to be remembered by some one, and she wondered much if he
had had his wish, and how he could have had it. Ailie wished some one
would remember her. Not the Forsyths; she only wanted to keep out of
their way. But some rich kind person—if such a person would come and
look after poor little Ailie, and give her plenty to eat, and let her
stay where she was till mother came back, and give her a clean frock,
instead of these rags—oh, how nice it would be!
Not much hope of all that, but it soothed Ailie to sit and fancy it.
It made her forget her hunger and thirst for a while. And, in the
middle of her fancying, she fell asleep, and dreamt that little Lettie
came running up, and took her by the hand to lead her away. Ailie was
frightened at first, and tried to draw back, but Lettie pulled her
forward, and then took her a long walk, through many streets, till
Ailie was footsore and weary, and wanted to rest. But all at once they
stood before a door, which somebody opened, and Ailie found herself in
a bright room, with nicely-dressed ladies smiling on her, and a long
table covered with tea and bread and butter and cake. And then, just as
a great plateful was set before Ailie, and she was going to begin to
eat, the table and the ladies and the room faded away, and Ailie woke
to find herself in her dark dusty corner, more hungry than ever.
How bitterly poor Ailie sobbed to herself, and how she did wish that
she had slept a little longer, so that she might at least have dreamt
that her hunger was satisfied!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER V.
STARVING.
"HOR," said little Lettie meditatively, on the afternoon of the
following day, "don't you wonder what's become of Ailie?"
Hor had just returned from his daily ramble in search of employment.
Little hope had he now of finding regular work—he had tried so long
in vain; but still he contrived to earn a few pence in various ways,
and those who had once employed him did not soon forget his honest
look. To-day he had returned earlier than usual, and, after depositing
his earnings with his mother, went out into the yard. There he found
Lettie, seated on a corner of the broken-down wall, overlooking the
three little ones, who made high glee with a mud puddle near at hand.
"Mother says nothin' more ain't been seen of her," said Hor. "Queerest
thing I ever heard of. Seems as if some'at wrong must have happened to
the poor little lass."
"Father was askin' about her this mornin'," said Lettie. "He says he
can't do no more. Mother thinks some one must ha' taken her off."
"Don't seem much sense in that, neither," said Hor. "She hadn't on a
scrap o' clothes as would fetch sixpence. More likely—well, I don't
know—but maybe it's a fancy o' the little thing herself. P'raps she's
gone off, thinkin' she'll find her mother. I shouldn't wonder."
"Hor," said Lettie deliberately, "Ailie wasn't asleep, but only
pretendin', when father talked o' the work'us for her."
"Wasn't she?" cried Hor.
"I'm sure I see her open one eye, an' shut it up again tight; an' she
was cryin' after, when you all thought she was a-sleepin'."
"Why didn't you tell us?" asked Hor.
"I didn't like. Poor Ailie! Hor, I wouldn't like the work'us," said
Lettie. "Isn't it a dreadful cruel place?"
Hor whistled. "Not as I knows on. Folks say we'd ought to think
ourselves well off, to have it to go to. But 'tain't pleasant to be
a-livin' on charity."
"What's charity?" asked Lettie, with wondering eyes. "Is it some sort
o' nasty victuals?"
"Victuals—no. Livin' on charity means—means—why, it's same thing as
being a beggar."
"You ain't a beggar, nor Ailie wasn't, neither."
"She's one now, poor little lass, if I ain't much mistaken," said Hor.
"'Tain't likely she'll get much to eat by any other means, except
a-begging, wherever she be."
"Is mother a beggar?" asked Lettie.
"Mother! No!" cried Hor. "What's put into your head to ask such a
question?"
"Nor father, neither?" inquired Lettie.
"No, nor none of us, nor never will be, so long as father 'n I have an
arm to work."
"Nor isn't I a beggar?" asked Lettie, reaching the climax towards which
she had been ascending.
"No more than the rest on us," said Hor.
Lettie nestled up a little closer to Hor's ragged jacket. "Hor," she
whispered softly, "didn't ye hear what father said yesterday—?"
"Well?" said Horatio.
"About other folks' children," said Lettie, with an effort. "If father
got tired o' me, an' wasn't to want to have me no longer, I'd have to
be a beggar, then, wouldn't I?"
"Likely he'll get tired o' you!" cried Hor. "I'd work for ye then! He
didn't say nought o' the kind, though."
"He did say some'at about never doin' it again, an' he said he'd give
way to mother once, but he wasn't goin' to twice," said Lettie. It was
strange to hear that tiny fair-haired child discussing the matter so
calmly. "An' he did say once, when mother gave a bit to Ailie, that
'twas taken out o' his own children's mouths."
"You're one of us. 'Tain't like Ailie. She's a stranger, an' you're
every inch our sister. Don't think o' that again! Father didn't mean
nothing; he's only bothered an' worried, an' don't hardly know what
he's about. I say, that ain't Ailie, sure!"
A little figure, crouching in the shadow of the wall, attracted his
attention, and he made a sudden bound forward, but before he could
reach the spot, it had vanished, and after-searching proved useless. He
gave up at length, and almost ascribed the whole to fancy.
Yet it was Ailie herself that he had seen—Ailie, after a second long
day of concealment and fasting, venturing at length to creep out in
search of food. She felt very weak and craving, but she had not dared
to appear earlier, lest John Forsyth should find her and take her off
to the workhouse that night. The more feeble grew her little frame, the
stronger waxed her dread of going thither—unreasoning childish dread,
but none the less real for that.
Hearing Horatio's exclamation, and seeing him run towards her, she had
fled with all speed, and rushed round the side of the house, and into
the street, before he saw the direction she had taken.
There, without delaying a moment, though with shaking limbs and heaving
breath, she hurried along, and never stopped till she found herself at
the entrance of the broad neighbouring thoroughfare, with its handsome
shops; its plate glass windows, full of dresses, bonnets, and ribbons;
its bakers and confectioners, more tempting still; its strings of cabs
and carriages; and its crowds of well-dressed foot-passengers on the
pavement.
Ailie had never yet known what it was to beg. But now she felt so
hungry and weak and faint, that she longed to ask the passers-by to
give her something, as she stood in a little sheltered corner, close
to a shop-window. Sometimes she tried to begin to say, "Please give
me a penny," but each time the words seemed to stick and swell in her
throat, and no sound came.
If only she could rest somewhere; she was so tired—oh, so tired and
thirsty. There was a drinking-fountain not far distant, and she dragged
her failing limbs there, and drank some of the fresh water out of the
tin cup, but that made her feel more hungry than ever. If poor mother
could but come to help her! Ailie felt so utterly alone. Nobody in
all the world to care for her, except mother, away for two months in
jail—nobody else except the Forsyths, and she dared not go near them,
for they would only send her to the workhouse. Ailie was so desolate
that she wanted to cry, but somehow tears would not come, and the dry
sobs which she could not check made her feel worse and worse.
A baker's shop stood just across the way with such tempting beautiful
wonderful loaves in the window Ailie thought that to have one of those
loaves would be perfect happiness. She would care for nothing else
in all the world then. Such an unhappy-looking child passed at that
moment, dressed in white muslin, and with two great buns in her hand.
How could she look unhappy when she had two whole buns of her own?
Ailie did wonder at the sight. Not that she wanted buns herself. She
only wanted some bread—ever so dry, ever so hard, ever so little—just
to check this burning terrible hunger. And, leaning against the wall,
Ailie sobbed again tearless sobs of anguish.
"What's the matter?" asked a voice, and Ailie looked up. A little
girl of about her own age stood in front of her, dressed in a pretty
pink frock, with a straw hat and one long black feather across it,
and delicately-gloved hands, which were folded over a tiny terrier
lying asleep in her arms. She gazed wonderingly at Ailie. "What's the
matter?" she repeated. "Have you had a beating?"
"No," said Ailie.
"Or have you spilt some milk, or broken a jug? That's like the poor
little girls in story-books," added the child to herself.
"I'm so hungry," whispered Ailie, hanging her head.
"Why don't you go home to tea?" asked the little girl.
"I've nowhere to go," said Ailie, in a choked voice.
"Why, where do you live?"
"I've been under the stairs all night, an' they wants to send me to the
work'us—and, oh! I don't want to go," sobbed Ailie, with catches in her
breath.
"Won't they give you anything to eat?" asked the other child, gravely.
"There's nobody. Father's dead, an' mother—an' mother—"
"Is your mother dead too?"
"They've put her in jail."
"Jail! Is that prison? Why she must be very wicked if they put her
there," said the little girl. "What did she do?"
The shame of her mother's disgrace came over Ailie, as she noted the
little girl's dainty boots draw back a pace.
"Mother was starvin', an' father dyin' for want; an' she took-she took
a loaf," said Ailie.
"That was stealing," said the little girl decisively. "It's very wicked
indeed to steal, and I don't wonder they put her in jail. Everybody's
punished that steals, you know. But who takes care of you?"
[Illustration: "What's the matter?" she repeated. "Have you had a
beating?"]
"Miss Josie! Now I never!" exclaimed a respectably-dressed attendant,
coming up, hot and breathless, from a gossip with an acquaintance. "As
sure as I turn my eyes, you're in mischief. Talking to a dirty little
street girl, coming from no one knows where."
"She's starving, nurse," said Josie.
"They're every man, woman, and child of them starving all the year
round, if you'll believe them," said nurse contemptuously. "Miss Josie,
come on this minute."
"I wish I had my penny," sighed Josie. "I do wish I hadn't bought that
doll. Nurse, couldn't the little girl come home for my other penny—and
wouldn't that buy her a roll, and keep her from starving?"
"No, indeed," said nurse wrathfully. "Telling strange beggar-children
to come to our house, indeed! How d'ye know she isn't just getting over
the scarlet fever, or small-pox, or anything else?"
"Are you, little girl?" asked Josie, in straightforward style.
"I ain't been ill—I'm only a-starving," said Ailie.
"Then you'd better go home and get your parents to feed you," said
nurse. "Miss Josie, come on this minute."
"She hasn't got any parents—at least, one's dead and her mother's in
prison," cried Josie, getting into a passion. "Nurse, do lend me a
penny."
"I'm not going to encourage them beggars," said nurse resolutely.
"Mother in prison! I dare say she is, and the child's likely enough to
follow her there. Miss Josie, if you don't come on this moment—"
A strong hand on Josie's wrist spoke more forcibly than words could do.
Sobbing and struggling, the little girl was drawn away, and Ailie saw
her last hope disappear.
She gave up after that, and leant against the wall, watching the
passers-by, as in a dream, no longer looking for help. And presently,
as the dusk gathered round her, she turned homewards, staggering feebly
in the gray shadows close to the walls, and thus escaping observation.
She had formed no plans where to go, and she was past all power of
thought. Only in her suffering she shrank from the lonely misery of her
retreat under the staircase, and when she entered the house, she went
slowly upward, step by step, until she reached the landing where Esther
Forsyth had discovered her three nights before. There again, in the
same spot, she crouched down, sheltered as before from observation by
the increasing darkness.
No one would be likely to remark her presence in passing. But, whether
discovered or not, Ailie knew nothing of it, for she sank into
insensibility, and lay there—a mere little heap of rags, covering a
small bony form—in the corner of the landing.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VI.
JOSIE'S HOME.
NOT very far from the aged mansion in Ansty Court, where Ailie Carter's
home had been so long, another old-fashioned house stood, in another
old-fashioned street—narrow, but clean, fresh, and airy. This, too, was
a large building, with numberless small windows, but each was furnished
with white curtains or blinds, and on the lower window-ledges were long
wooden boxes, filled with summer flowers.
All up the wide stairs lay Brussels carpeting, and the oil-cloth in
the hall, of alternate dark-brown and red diamonds, had a pleasant
effect. At about six o'clock Josie stood there, waiting for the
sound of the tea-bell, which was usually rung to summon her from
the play-room. She whiled away the time by stepping slowly from one
diamond-shape to another, with all possible care to avoid treading on
the light brown ground intervening. With a grave face, and hands folded
loosely together, she went through her self-appointed exercise, pacing
cautiously across the hall and back again, while her tiny terrier
pattered daintily in her rear. Evidently Snap thought his mistress must
be about some very important occupation, by the exceeding pains he took
not to hinder her.
Then a side-door opened, and a gentleman, coming out, remarked in
a pleasant voice—well matched by the pleasant face to which it
belonged—"Josie, I did not know you were here."
"I'm waiting for the tea-bell."
"Five minutes since it rang, and mother and I have been looking out for
you ever since."
"Why, Leveson, I never heard it."
"Absent state of mind, I am afraid! Come along, dear."
Josie went in with a rush, and seated herself at the oval table,
upon which was a bunch of flowers in a tall white vase, a blue glass
snake being twisted round it. At the head of the table sat a lady in
a widow's cap, with a very sweet sad face. She had not passed middle
life, but trouble had drawn lines upon her brow, and set a stamp of
mournful resignation upon the lips.
"Mother, only think, I never heard the bell," said Josie.
"What were you thinking about, I wonder?"
"Ever so many things. Oh, what beauties of flowers. Did Leveson get
them for you? Ah, I thought so. Oh, what beauties!"
Josie buried nose and eyes in the bunch, and then sat up to feast the
latter on white moss rose-buds, pink tea-roses, fragrant heliotropes,
variegated geraniums, and drooping fuchsias, while busied with a slice
of bread and butter.
"Are they not lovely, mother? If only we had a garden, and I could have
some flowers like those growing."
Mrs. Therlock sighed, but merely said: "Did you have a nice walk
to-day?"
"I suppose it was," said Josie. "I'm tired of the streets. I do wish
we could be in the country. Oh, I saw such a poor ragged little girl
to-day."
"Where was she?" asked Leveson, thinking what numbers of such little
ones were to be seen in all directions.
"Among the shops," said Josie vaguely. "And she was starving."
"How do you know, dear?" asked Mrs. Therlock.
"Why, she told me! I had run on from nurse, and she told me."
"But, my dear Josie, I cannot have you leave nurse when you are out
walking in the streets," said Mrs. Therlock, with a nervous flush. "You
don't know what might happen to you. I must speak to nurse. What could
she have been thinking of?"
"She was quite near," said Josie. "But I saw the little girl crying,
and I asked her what was the matter, and she said she was starving, and
I'm sure she looked, oh, so hungry! Her frock was all rags, and not at
all clean, and her arms were as thin—as thin as sticks."
"What was she like?" asked Mrs. Therlock, seeming anxious still.
"Why, she was like that, mamma—as thin as thin could be, and not a
bit of colour in her face, and such great black eyes, they almost
frightened me. She told me her father was dead, and her mother was in
prison—jail, I mean, but that's the same thing, isn't it?—was in jail
for stealing a loaf. She had stolen it because she was hungry, but I
told the little girl how wicked it was to steal, and she did look so
ashamed, you can't think. I am sure she wouldn't steal, though nurse
was so unkind, and said right before her that she would follow her
mother to jail. I'm sure the little girl won't, for she looked as
honest as honest could be; and I hadn't a penny in my pocket, and I
wanted her to come here for my other penny, but nurse said she wasn't
to come. Should you have minded, mother?"
"I like you to help those in trouble, dear, but of course you must do
as nurse tells you. Only I will say to her, that if you see the little
girl again, you may give her something, or send her here for some
bread."
"Where does she live, Josie?" asked Leveson.
"Somewhere about, I suppose," said Josie. "I wish I had asked her. I
never thought of that. You couldn't find her out, could you?"
"What is her name?"
"I didn't ask. She was just my size."
"I am afraid I might find hundreds of half-starved little girls about
your size, without falling in with the right one."
"I wish I had remembered," said Josie. "If only I knew her name, or
where she lives. I liked the poor little girl's face so much. I am sure
it would be quite pretty if it were clean,—but she did look so very
very miserable. Oh, now I remember, she said she had no home, and she
had slept under the stairs last night, but she didn't say what stairs.
Leveson, wasn't it very wicked of her mother to steal? Are people
always put in prison when they steal?"
"When they are found out, and it can be proved against them."
"And isn't it very wicked?"
"Yes. Very wrong," said Leveson, resting his arm on the back of Josie's
chair. "It is wrong to steal, and wrong to tell lies, and wrong to
covet, and wrong to give way to temper. None of us are perfect."
"But it isn't so bad to get into a passion, as it would be to steal,"
said Josie, with a guilty look up from under her eyelashes.
"How do you feel when you are in a passion?"
"What do you mean?"
"Do you feel loving and affectionate to all the world—especially the
person who has offended you?"
"I know what you want me to say, and what you will tell me after, so I
won't say it," responded Josie.
"What do I want you to say?" asked Leveson.
"Why, that I hate everybody at those times," said Josie unguardedly.
"And is it true?"
"Of course. Now, Leveson, you've made me say it after all."
"And what was I going to say in answer?"
"You may say it if you like."
"I would rather you should."
"'He that hateth his brother is a murderer,'" said Josie. "But nurse
isn't my brother, so when I hated her this afternoon, because she
wouldn't let me help the little girl, it wasn't like that."
"I fancy the term may be taken generally, and all mankind are brethren
in a sense. But do you never hate any one except nurse?"
"N—o," said Josie.
"Not me, for instance?"
"Leveson, I wish you wouldn't ask. I did once last week for half an
hour, when you shut me up in my room alone one day. It wasn't that,
though," said Josie, bursting into tears. "I wasn't a murderer at all."
Leveson leant forward, and kissed away the tears affectionately. "You
know what the Bible says, Josie, so I won't press that point. Of course
it means in spirit, not in deed. I only wanted you to see that we may
commit sins ourselves, quite as black in the sight of God, as those
which may seem worst in the eyes of men. I'm not excusing the sin of
stealing—don't think that. Sin is sin, in whatever shape it comes, only
I sometimes think that our little failings, as we call them, and our
careless yielding to slight temptation, may wear as dark a dye in God's
sight as the sudden desperate act of a poor half-famished creature, who
is driven to it by utter want and misery."
"And wasn't it right to put her in prison?" asked Josie.
"Perfectly right. Crime must be punished; but we must not be like
the Pharisee, Josie—'I thank Thee that I am not as other men are.'
Better one and all of us to say humbly before God—'Be merciful to me a
sinner.'"
Josie sat thoughtfully for a minute, and then finished her bread and
preserve without a word.
"I know what," she said, getting up after tea. "I'll get nurse to take
me that very same walk every day for a week, and look out for the
little girl."
"A good plan," said Leveson, and he heard no more till Mrs. Therlock
had left the room, when Josie came to his side.
"I wish—I do wish we could go to the sea or to the country."
"I wish you could, dear."
"It would be good for mother too. Why don't you persuade her?"
"I have tried in vain. You know as well as I do why she cannot bear to
be away from London."
"And I suppose she means to stay here all her life, and I'll never see
anything but dirty London streets," said Josie pettishly. "I didn't
mean to be cross, Leveson, so don't look grave, but I do so want a
change, and I'm tired of always going the old old round, and never
having anything fresh."
"It is hard for you, Josie, but you must try to bear it patiently, for
mother's sake."
"It doesn't do her any good. I wouldn't mind if it did. She only keeps
just as melancholy. It isn't as if we could do any good—to Vi, I
mean—by staying."
"Mother lives upon hope, Josie, and we must not try to destroy that
hope, however small its foundation. Come, be a brave little woman, and
make the best of things. I'll take you a run down the river to Margate
one of these days."
"Oh, do. I shouldn't mind anything if you were always at home. If only
you were curate here, or if we could go and live where you are, I
wouldn't mind, then, being in London all the year round; or even if you
weren't so busy, and could come and see me often."
"Or if you could have any single thing that you have not now," said
Leveson, shaking his head. "No, no, Josie, that isn't being brave and
contented. Your business is to be poor mother's little comforter, and
it ought to be your happiness as well."
"And so it is," murmured Josie. "Only—only—if—"
"Only you want a little dash of river and sea-water to freshen you
up. You shall manage it some day soon, or I will manage it for you. A
sprinkling of spray is a capital remedy for discontent, and I'll take
care that you try it before long. Will that do?"
"Oh, you are such a nice kind Leveson," said Josie.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VII.
OLD JOB KIPPIS.
THE floor on which the Forsyths lived was immediately below the
garrets, and they too were inhabited. One sheltered a father, mother,
and six children. In another a sickly shoemaker lived with his four
little ones. The third was rented by old Job Kippis.
It was a small room, and it had not been his home long, for he had
only moved into this locality a week or two earlier, so as to be near
a fresh opening in the way of work. But already it had a home-like
appearance. Not that Job Kippis was otherwise than poor—very poor. The
room contained but a scanty supply of furniture. There was an old iron
bedstead in one corner, with a patched coverlid laid over it; a square
table, standing against the wall; a chair, supported rather insecurely
upon three legs; and the board in the window, upon which Job Kippis did
his tailoring work. But the floor had been well scrubbed, and the walls
were clean, though bare; the small window-panes were free from cobwebs,
and the table and chair showed signs of many a rubbing. A couple of
common china ornaments stood upon the narrow mantel-shelf, and over
it was pinned up a large "Illustrated News" likeness of the Duke of
Wellington.
Seated in the window, close under the sloping roof, sat Job Kippis,
striving to catch the last beams of departing daylight. Judging from
his appearance, he must have been close upon seventy—a tall man in
past years, though age and long stooping over his work had rounded
his shoulders and diminished his height. His clothes, albeit old and
threadbare, were clean and carefully mended. And the man himself,
with his broad deeply-furrowed forehead, and thoughtful eyes, and
thick silvery hair, had something about him of calm purpose and trust
and peace combined, not often to be seen among the unhappy crowds of
neglected beings who peopled this district.
Increasing darkness at length compelled him to cease his toil, and
to lay aside the red cloth, the brilliant colouring of which formed
such a contrast to his own faded clothing. He took a look across at
the opposite garret-windows, where two or three consumptive-looking
men, hitherto engaged in the same occupation as himself, were likewise
laying it aside, or resuming their stitching by the dim light of tallow
candles.
Job Kippis folded up his work carefully, then went to a square closet,
almost as large as a tiny room, whence he brought some bread and
cheese. These occupied him for some time. After that he went opposite
the fireplace, and took a good look at the likeness.
"He was a man, was the Duke," muttered Job. "I'll never see his like
again, nor England won't neither, I fancy. I'd give a deal to see him
once more—just to look on his face. Well, there's many a thing I'd
like, maybe, but I've got no reason to complain. Good eyesight, and
steady hands, free from rheumatiz, is a thing to be thankful for at my
age. I'm getting old now, and I can't expect not to be a-breaking down
some day. Well, if that day comes, I've my savings, and when they're
gone—"
Job paused, looked towards the strip of blue sky visible through a mist
of smoke, and a smile broke over his face.
"Why, then I've a Father as 'll take care o' me, to be sure. Maybe
He'll let me go to workhouse. I hopes not, sure enough. But maybe
it'll be good for old Job's pride. Then I'll have to go cheerful, an'
bear it without grumblin', if so be 'tis His will. Sure the Lord's as
present in the workhouse as He is up here this minute. Isn't He just
everywhere?"
Smiling still, and rubbing his brown firm hands together, Job gazed up
for a moment, then moved towards the door.
"Think I'll get a taste o' fresh air this evening. I must begin to
save my old eyes now, and let 'em rest at times. Why, just to look at
those poor fellows over the way, and this side too—four children, five
children, six children, all a-growing, and needing clothes and food.
However they keep soul and body together, I don't know. But there's One
as sees the sparrows fall. He knows it all—don't He, now?"
Down the old creaking stairs passed Job, keeping close to the wall.
And, as Esther Forsyth had done, he came upon a small bundle, in the
corner of the landing. But no movement answered his exclamation—
"Hallo, who is it? A child, I do believe. Poor little 'un! Asleep!"
Job gave her a slight push, and she fell helplessly upon the ground,
the thin arms trailing by her side. Job bent down and felt her.
"Why, she be cold as ice—poor little 'un,—nothing left of her but skin
and bone. Who'll she belong to, I wonder?" Job raised a shout—"Ho!
Hallo! Here's a child ill, or somethin' wrong with her."
Several faces appeared through several opening doors at this appeal,
and two or three women came forward—Esther Forsyth among them, having
been in the act of coming up-stairs at that moment. The little figure
was lifted from the dark corner where it lay, and the moment it was
possible to obtain a view of the face, Esther exclaimed—
"'Tis little Ailie herself."
"Sure, so it be," echoed one or two others. "Wherever can she ha' been
all this while?"
"What, poor Carter's little girl, as I was asked about yesterday, and
nobody knowed where she was gone?" inquired old Job, with interest.
"Yes, 'tis Ailie Carter," repeated Esther. "An' I'm glad enough the
little thing is found, too. She's half-starved, by the look of her."
"Poor little 'un!" said Job compassionately, and lifting the light
weight in his arms—strong arms still, despite his seventy years—he bore
her upward towards his own room, followed by Esther. But as they passed
the door of her room, Job's burden attracted attention, and Hor and
Lettie ran out.
"Mother, it's Ailie! It's Ailie! I'm so glad!" cried Lettie.
"Where did you find her?" asked Hor, much interested.
"Down on the stairs, lyin' curled up in a corner," said Job.
"Oh, is she dead?" asked Lettie fearfully, as she looked at the sunken
face, lying across Job Kippis's arm.
But Ailie opened her eyes.
"Not she,—and ain't going to die, please God," said Job reverently.
"It's something to eat she wants, an' I've plenty up in my house. Come
along, and see her feed, if ye like."
Not Esther alone, but Hor and Lettie too accepted this invitation. Job
went up, taking the lead, till he reached his room, when he sat down on
the three-legged chair, the place of the absent leg being supplied by
the corner of the bedstead.
"Now we'll give her some bread, to rouse her up," said Job, glancing at
the loaf on the table. "That's it—a mouthful at a time. Why I thought
she'd eat it, so I did," went on the old man encouragingly, as the
black eyes brightened and begged for more. "Not too fast, deary—it's
bad, after fastin', to eat too much an' too quick. Poor little 'un! No
one to look after her, was there?"
"I wonder where she's been?" said Hor, and his mother took up the
inquiry, while putting another piece of bread between the parched lips—
"Where did ye make away wi' yourself, Ailie?"
"I was down under the stairs for ever so long," said Ailie feebly,
letting her head drop on Job Kippis's arm. "An' I was so hungry—and I
went out in the streets—"
"And nobody gave you nothin'?" asked Lettie, pityingly.
"Nobody—nothin'," echoed Ailie.
"What made ye hide?" asked Hor.
Ailie looked confused, then suddenly sat up, tears filling her eyes.
"It was the work'us. Oh, don't take me to the work'us! Oh, please don't
let them!" And, turning towards Job, as if for protection, she clung to
him with all her strength, catching her breath in helpless sobs. "Oh,
don't, please. I don't want to go to the work'us."
"Nobody 'll take ye nowhere to-night, deary," said Job, delighted at
the confidence she showed in him.
"And not to-morrow neither!" entreated Ailie, squeezing his hand with
both hers in terror. "Oh, don't! Mother 'll come back, an' I don't want
to go away! Oh, please!"
"Well, well, we'll do all we can," said Job, completely melted; "poor
little starved morsel as ye are. Maybe I can make up a bed for you
to-night in my closet yonder, and ye'll sleep there as snug as a bird
in a nest—eh? Will that do?"
Ailie's head went back on his arm, and Job would not put her down.
"Poor little deary! Little wanderin' lamb!" he muttered once or twice,
as he looked about the room, and then with his disengaged hand pulled
the coverlid from his own bed.
Esther, following his directions, opened the cupboard door, cleared
a vacant space on the floor, and, with the slight materials at her
disposal, made as good a bed as was possible under the circumstances.
Job watched the operation gravely.
"Maybe it's hard," he said. "I'd give her a better place if I could,
but I hasn't a better. Why, if she ain't asleep already! Well, 'twill
be better for her there than down on the stairs landin'. Will ye take
off the bit of a ragged frock from the poor lamb, Mrs. Forsyth?"
Esther willingly lifted the child from his arms, and carried her to the
tiny closet, where there was just room for the small improvised bed,
and one person to stand beside it. In a minute or two she opened the
door again, and beckoned Job.
"There! She'll sleep as peaceful as peaceful can be," said Esther.
"It's a kind man ye are to help the poor little thing, Mr. Kippis. We
haven't a corner ourselves to offer her, or we'd do it."
"Sure enough you would, but you've all them children, and I not a chick
o' my own," Job said. "Aye, she'll sleep sound enough. Don't she look
happy?"
"I'm so glad it was you as found her," murmured Lettie. "Ain't you,
Hor?"
"Ain't I just?" responded Hor. "To think of her starvin' under the
stairs all that while. What 'll ye do with her to-morrow, Mr. Kippis?"
"Come 'n ask me that question on the morrow, boy," responded Job. "I'll
be glad to see any of ye. I'm sleepy now myself. Thank ye for your
help, Mrs. Forsyth."
They took the hint and withdrew.
Job had one more look at the placid face of the sleeper, and then
prepared to go to bed himself; but he lay awake a good while, thinking
over the question proposed by Hor.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VIII.
AILIE FINDING HERSELF USEFUL.
AILIE woke up slowly, wondering at first where she could be. Under the
stairs was her first impression, but then she felt the quilt wrapped
round her, and the little bundle under her head, and she saw the light
coming through the half-open door. She jumped up in a great hurry,
pulled on her ragged frock, and peeped out.
There sat old Job Kippis near the window, with a worn volume upon his
knee, from which he was slowly reading aloud. Ailie hesitated until he
looked up; then, as a smile broke over his face, she came towards him.
"Had a good night, little deary?" asked Job.
"I've slept ever so sound," said Ailie.
"And ever so hungry this mornin', eh?" inquired Job.
Ailie nodded.
"Have some breakfast d'rectly, won't ye? I've a little cleanin' up to
do first, but 'twon't take long. And—well, I'd like to see you doin'
the same thing, Ailie," added Job, with a glance at Ailie's dusky face
and fingers. "I'll give you some water, an' a piece of soap."
"Mother liked me to wash," said Ailie, and Job carried the old tin
basin to her closet, well pleased at her answer. There he left her,
and thence she emerged in a few minutes, a very different-looking
child, with fresh skin, and hair smoothed back as neatly as was
possible without the aid of a brush. Ailie had tried the effect of
water instead, which gave it a plastered appearance, but added to its
smoothness.
"That's a deal better," said Job. "And now we'll come to breakfast."
He propped up the broken chair with a piece of wood kept on purpose,
and balanced himself upon it, while Ailie took her seat on the foot
of the bedstead, and the table stood between them. There was a stale
half-loaf upon it, and a tiny piece of butter, and a small battered
teapot containing some weak tea. Ailie was sure she had never tasted so
delicious a meal in all her life, and Job would not stint her, though
he took less than usual himself, to make up for her ravenous appetite.
She asked for nothing, and would have left off uncomplainingly, but the
hungry eyes were too much for his fortitude, and he gave her as much as
he thought good for her.
"Mayn't I wash up?" asked Ailie, seeing him begin to do so. "Mother
used to let me help her, ever so long ago—afore we had to pawn
everything."
"Why, ye don't know how," said Job, looking down at the child.
"I'd soon learn," responded Ailie, and Job Kippis nodded his head.
"So ye shall, deary, sure enough. Never does nobody no harm to learn.
I'm all for learnin', ain't I, when we've means to do it? So there now,
I'll get to my work, an' you'll tidy up the room for me, like as useful
a maid as ever I see."
Ailie smiled acquiescence, and Job Kippis settled himself to his
tailoring, casting an occasional side-glance at the little maid's
movements. She did not seem at a loss. First the chair was pulled back
against the wall, and the table was with some difficulty restored to
its usual place. Then Ailie set to work to re-make the bed. Job had
made it already that morning, but he said nothing to disturb Ailie's
pleasure in being useful; he only gave one or two furtive looks, a
smile twitching his lips.
The bed-making—such as it was—being accomplished, Ailie brought out the
tin basin, and filled it with fresh water from the old tin can, which
had been wont to stand in the closet till displaced by her presence.
With careful fingers she washed the two little blue plates, and the two
little white mugs, in imitation of her mother's custom in earlier days,
before misery and want had broken in upon such habits. Then arranging
them and the teapot upon the mantel-shelf—not their usual place, but
Ailie asked no questions, and Job would not interfere—she finally hid
away the tin basin in a corner, rubbed her fingers clean, pushed back
her hair, and went to Job.
Job gave her a little nod, with the words—"Thank'ee, deary," and
continued his work. Ailie watched intently, feasting her eyes on the
bright red cloth, and once in a way looking out of the window at the
roofs opposite, and the blue sky over them.
"It's ever so much better up here than down below," she said at length.
"Down whereabouts?" asked Job.
"Down in the cellar," said Ailie.
"Ah, 'twas there ye lived, wasn't it?"
Ailie nodded.
"And you likes this best?"
Another nod, and after it came the abrupt question, "What be you goin'
to do with me?"
Job looked up at the eager face, then worked on steadily. "Why, that's
the very question I was askin' myself last night. What's to be done
with ye, poor little 'un, till your mother's back? Two months, ain't
it?"
"Oh, not the work'us, please, please!" entreated Ailie, with passionate
earnestness.
"Why, ye wouldn't be so badly off there," said Job, soothingly. "Maybe
I'll come to it myself some day, I was a-thinkin' only yesterday."
"Oh, not the work'us, please!" was all Ailie could reiterate.
"What's to be done with ye, then?" asked Job, putting the puzzling
question in his turn.
A pause followed, during which Ailie looked round the room, towards the
closet, and back again into the kind hearty face, with its silver locks
drooping over the forehead.
"I wish ever so much I was your little girl," sighed Ailie.
"Why, do ye like the old man?" asked Job, thinking how her arms had
clung to him the night before.
"Lots!" said Ailie emphatically. "I'd like to be mother's still, 'cause
I love her, you see, but I wish you was my—my—gran'father," concluded
Ailie, with a great stretch of imagination, "so's I could get up on
your knee, like as I did on father's, afore he was ill."
"Father was good to ye, wasn't he, eh?" asked Job.
Ailie nodded in her quick way.
"An' ye like a-sittin' on somebody's knee, like as you did on mine
yesterday; but you was half asleep, and maybe you don't remember."
"Oh, but I do, too, an' it was as nice as nice!" repeated Ailie, with
shining eyes. "And I did feel so certain sure you was a-takin' care o'
me, I didn't feel afraid—not o' the work'us, even."
"Pretty, ain't it?" muttered old Job softly. "Maybe I'll learn a lesson
from that, couldn't I, now? Lyin' in my arms, and never seen me before,
and not feelin' a bit o' fear, 'cause she knowed I'd take care o' her!
Why, how did she know it, 'cept that I picked her up, when she was
a-lyin' all helpless, an' gave her food, an' cuddled her in my arms?
Sure that's what the Good Shepherd does—not as I'm likenin' myself, a
poor sinful old man—but, sure enough, He does pick up the poor stray
lambs, and feeds 'em, an' they feels His arms round 'em, and sees His
face, and trusts Him, and has no fear. Ain't that a beautiful thought
now?" added Job, looking up brightly, in his usual fashion of putting
questions to himself.
Ailie had listened to the indistinct soliloquy, but understood little
of it. "What's a shepherd?" she asked.
"A man as takes care of the sheep," said Job. "And there's One—the Good
Shepherd, Ailie, and maybe ye know who He is."
Ailie shook her head. "I've seen a shepherd," she said. "There was a
lot o' sheep goin' through a street one day, and a man a-drivin' of
them with a stick, an' a dog barkin' at them. Was he a good shepherd,
'cause he wouldn't let the carts run over 'em?"
"Ah, deary, the Good Shepherd ain't like that nohow. He don't drive His
sheep, but He walks along in front, an' they loves Him so much they
walks after Him. And don't He lead 'em to nice cool waters and green
grass?" added Job, smiling.
"'Tain't in London, then," said Ailie shrewdly. "We've got no green
grass here, 'cept it's away in them park places, as mother said she'd
been to once."
"I'd like to tell ye a deal about it," said Job. "I'd like to see ye
one o' His lambs, Ailie."
"I ain't a lamb—I'm a girl," said Ailie.
"I'd like to see ye one o' his lambs," repeated Job. "I'm one of the
old sheep o' the flock, Ailie."
"You ain't a sheep neither," said Ailie.
And Job shook his head rather despondingly, wondering how he was to
make her understand.
But at this moment there was a tap at the door, and John Forsyth came
in.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IX.
JOHN'S ADVICE.
AILIE gave a sharp cry, and slipped down on the ground close to Job
Kippis, clinging to his coat, as if for protection.
"Good mornin'," said Job, nodding. "Got the little gal here, you see,
all right."
"What are ye thinkin' of doin' with her?" asked John, putting the oft
asked and, as yet, unanswered question.
A twitch of Job's coat spoke plainly enough as to Ailie's state of
mind, even without the imploring:
"Oh, please—"
"What d'ye advise?" asked Job.
"Work'us," said John.
"Please," sobbed Ailie, with another stronger twitch.
"There, there, wait a bit, deary," said Job soothingly; and, returning
to his stitching, he remarked, "She don't seem over-willin' to go."
"A scrap of a child like that! Don't know nothin' about it," said John
tersely. "Send her off, and she'll do, never fear."
"Poor little deary!" murmured Job. "It's hard, ain't it, for her?"
"Look ye here," said Forsyth. "I've a wife an' five children o' my own,
an' one not my own, as I took up an' 'dopted five years since, when I
wasn't in my present circumstances. So long as I've a crumb to spare, I
ain't a-going to cast her off. But I ain't a-going to 'dopt a second, I
can tell ye. Six is enough for a man, who's been nigh upon three months
out o' work."
"Out o' work still?" asked Job.
"I've found a job as 'll last a week; just serve to keep us on where we
be. It'll pay up some o' the back rent, an' do little enough beside."
"'Tis hard lines for ye," said Job compassionately. "Don't ye think I
was a-wishin' you to do anythin'. No, no I you've enough, as you say,
wi' your own."
John Forsyth nodded, and said, "She can't look to live on the
neighbours, neither. There's nothin' left but the work'us."
Another sob from Ailie.
"Poor little un," said Job. "And it's two months to when her mother
comes out?"
"Two months nigh. And she with nothin' to live on then, neither, comin'
out a widow, an' the little she had left gone to pay her rent."
"Poor thing—yes," said Job.
"So you'd best let me take the child off to the work'us this mornin',"
pursued John. "I'll go to work this afternoon, an' 'twill be some days,
likely, afore I'll be free again to walk so far."
"Don't think I'll be in such a hurry," said Job.
"You're not thinkin' o' keepin' the child yourself!"
"Maybe, for two or three days," said Job cautiously, adjusting his
work. "There's a many things I'd like to say to her."
"Ye'll be drawn into doin' more. Tell ye, it won't answer. She'll mind
goin' then more than now."
"Maybe I'll mind partin' with her too!"
"And you'll let me take her off!"
"Thank'ee—not such a hurry."
"'Tain't as if you was a young man," expostulated Forsyth. "It's only
fair you should think o' yourself afore others."
But this remark worked differently from the way in which John intended
that it should.
"It wasn't the Master's way, somehow, to think o' Himself afore
others," said Job.
"Eh?" said John.
"'Twasn't the Master's way," repeated Job, laying two folds of scarlet
cloth together. "I think He'd maybe have me help the poor stray lamb,
as nobody else can help—maybe He'd wish I should do it for His sake."
"Don't know nothin' about that," said John. "A man must act with common
prudence, I says."
"So says I," responded Job. "There ain't a more prudent transaction, I
can tell ye, than that o' lendin' to the Master. It's hundred per cent
interest that He gives back."
"You're gettin' out o' my depth," said John, with some impatience.
"Poor folks like us, livin' from hand to mouth, haven't no time for
religion—and livin' in dirty holes, with a crowd o' yelling children
round, ain't the way to practise it, neither."
"Ain't a man in the world that needs religion more than such a one,"
said Job quietly. "Don't ye want help in gettin' your daily bread, and
in takin' care o' your children?"
"I wants a deal o' things I'll never get," said John curtly. "What'll
ye do about the child?"
"Keep her a bit. She'll sleep in my closet—an' maybe—"
"Hope you won't have cause to repent it," said John, getting up, with
some annoyance at the rejection of his advice. "Good mornin' t' ye."
Ailie never moved till he was gone, and then, standing up, she asked,
with dilated eyes—
"Ain't I going, really?"
"No, deary, not to-day."
"Nor to-morrow?" asked Ailie.
"Nor to-morrow, deary."
"Nor next day?"
"Maybe not next day, neither."
"Nor till mother comes?"
"We'll see," said Job soothingly. "I'll keep ye on a while, if I can."
"I won't be hungry," said Ailie. "I'll eat ever so little—an' I'll be
so useful—and—and—I do like you ever so much."
"I'd like you to love me," said Job. "Maybe ye'll call me
gran'father—eh?"
Ailie's face brightened yet more at this suggestion, and she gave vent
to her feelings in a wild gambol round the room, which rather startled
Job at the moment, though he took it placidly.
"She's so happy she don't know what to do," he murmured. "It'll be
cheery for me, too, won't it? So long since I've had a little 'un about
me."
"I'd like to go an' tell Lettie, gran'father," said Ailie, luxuriating
in the new title, but before she had time to decide on going down, the
door opened slightly, and Lettie's small voice said—
"Please may I come in?"
"Come in, deary," said Job. "Why it's quite lively, it is, to hear the
little voices," muttered the old man, as he stitched away. "I've been
lonesome at times, an' it's mighty pleasant."
"Lettie, ain't it beautiful?" cried Ailie. "I've been a-sleepin'
in the cupboard, under the beautifullest thick coverin', an' had a
breakfast o' real tea an' bread an' butter. And he says I'm to call him
gran'father, and I means to do it always, 'cause he's as good as a real
gran'father; an' I'm not going to the work'us to-morrow, nor next day,
nor p'raps not at all."
This was jumping at conclusions more readily than Job Kippis had
calculated upon; but he could not resolve to check her happy words, and
he quieted himself with the remembrance that he had made no promises.
Lettie's pleasure almost equalled Ailie's own. And in a few minutes,
the latter's excitement cooled down so far as to allow her to climb
up into the window-seat with Lettie, where they sat watching Job, and
wondering much at the steady progress of his work.
"Ain't it a bright red?" said Lettie.
"I'd sooner it wasn't so bright, for the sake o' my old eyes," said
Job. "But I loves the old colour too."
"What old colour, gran'father?" asked Ailie.
"Why the old scarlet, deary—same as I once wore when I was a soldier,
d'ye see?"
"Was you a soldier?" asked Lettie. "I'll tell Hor that, 'cause he wants
to be a sailor, an' that's sumthin' like, isn't it?"
"Sailors wears blue, and soldiers red," said Ailie, doubtful of her own
information, though she spoke confidently.
"An' they both fights for the country," said Job. "One on land, and
t'other on water. That's pretty nigh all the likeness betwixt 'em. Yes,
I was a soldier once, but 'twas long ago. I was wounded in a battle,
fought long afore you was born—battle of Waterloo," and Job looked
round proudly at the picture over the mantel-shelf, with a movement of
his hand to his head, a half-salute in memory of old days. "Fought it
under him, ye know."
"Do 'ee make him tell Hor all about it," whispered Lettie to Ailie.
"'Cause Hor's out after work now, and can't hear."
"So I will, too," said Job, overhearing her, and nodding his head.
"And, maybe, I'll want ye all to be soldiers."
"Hor's goin' to be a sailor, he says, an' we can't be soldiers," said
Ailie. "Can we, gran'father?"
"Not wearin' a red coat an' carrying a musket nor rifle," said Job
Kippis. "Different sort o' soldiers, deary. There's a deal we all have
to fight with; but I've got to make ye understand all that. Maybe
that's why you was sent to me—because the Master wanted you to learn
it," added Job, thoughtfully.
"I shouldn't wonder—I shouldn't."
"There's a deal o' fightin' down in the court," said Ailie.
"Ah! 'Tisn't that sort o' fightin', neither," said Job, with a
half-sigh. "Fightin' for their own way—different sort o' thing that
from fightin' in the Master's Service. But I'll tell ye all about it
some time."
[Illustration]
CHAPTER X.
SUNDAY IN THE GARRET.
"SUNDAY mornin' to-day," said Job Kippis, as they sat down to
breakfast, after Ailie's second night in her new home.
"Shops all shut, ain't they?" said Ailie, that being her chief
association with the Day of Rest. "I don't like Sunday, gran'father."
"Don't ye, deary?"
"No, 'cause lots o' men don't go to work, an' fight an' frighten me."
"And ye've never been to Church, likely?"
Ailie made a gesture of dissent.
"Them big houses with steeples, ain't they?" she asked.
"Houses for to worship God in," said Job reverently.
"I don't know nothin' about it," said Ailie. "Nobody don't here."
"I've a deal to teach you, haven't I?" said Job. "Don't you know
nothin' about God, Ailie?"
"Up in the sky, ain't He?" asked Ailie.
"Up in the sky, an' down upon earth too. He's just everywhere. There
ain't a place nor a spot where God don't be."
"Down among the houses?" asked Ailie.
"Sure enough, down among 'em all."
"And where there's grass, an' trees, an' flowers?"
"Yes, among 'em all, and God made 'em too."
"He didn't make the houses," said Ailie. "Father was a mason, and he
built some of 'em—leastways he helped."
"What was they built of, deary?"
"Stones an' bricks," said Ailie.
"And how did he get the bricks?"
"Why, they was all made, gran'father, 'cause once father took me ever
so long a walk, and there was all the rows and piles o' bricks, an' men
a-making of them as fast as they could."
"An' who made the stones, deary, an' who made the clay the bricks was
made of?"
Ailie looked at him without speaking.
"Yes, 'twas God did all that," said Job. "He made the earth, an' the
stars, and the sun, an' moon, and the trees, an' grass, and the birds,
an' beasts, and men, an' women, an' children, an' old Job Kippis, an'
little Ailie. He made everything, an' He's everywhere."
"How did He make 'em?" asked Ailie.
"Why He made them out o' nothing," said Job. "That's just what men
can't do. Give me a bit of red cloth an' I'll make a coat; but tell me
to make it out of nothing, and ye might as well tell me to fly like a
bird. But God can, ye see, Ailie. He says, 'Let there be light,' an'
light comes; an' He says, 'Let things be made,' an' they're made."
Ailie looked wonderingly at Job, and then recurred to his former remark—
"He ain't everywhere. He ain't here."
"He's in this room this very minute," said Job solemnly.
"He ain't though," said Ailie, half frightened.
"He's here all the time," repeated Job. "He's a-listenin' to every word
we speak, an' more than that, He knows every bit of what old Job an'
little Ailie are thinking."
"I wasn't thinkin' any harm," said Ailie. "Will He be angry?"
"Such a deal to tell her," murmured Job. "Dear, dear, how will I ever
make her understand? Sure, deary, God is only angry with sin, and with
nothing else at all."
"What's that?" inquired Ailie.
"Just whatever's wrong," said Job. "Tellin' lies, an' stealin', and
quarrellin', and not lovin' Him, and all such things."
"I wasn't thinkin' any harm," repeated Ailie. "I only wanted to know
what He was like. Will He be angry with that, gran'father?"
"Not a bit, deary. Sure He likes you to want to know about Him. I'll
tell you one thing He's like—He's just a kind gentle Father, who loves
little children, an' wants 'em all to be happy."
"But if we was to see Him," explained Ailie softly, "what'd He be like?"
"'No man hath seen Him at any time,'" said Job, half unconsciously
quoting from the Bible. "He's too glorious for that, Ailie. We'd have
to lie down an' die that minute, if we could see God. We couldn't bear
the sight."
"I don't know what 'glorious' means," said Ailie.
"Ain't the sun glorious when it shines so bright, an' dazzles your eyes
if you try to look?"
Ailie's "yes" was emphatic.
"That's what it is; but the glory o' the sun is nothin' by His glory,
deary—'twould look as dark as a piece o' black cloth in the sunlight."
"I'd like to see it," said Ailie.
"Nobody's seen Him—God, the Father, I mean," said Job reverently; "but
He sent His Son into the world, and men saw Him, an' He was the Image
of God."
Ailie did not understand—it was not likely she should.
Job thought he would stop there for a while, and let her think over
what he had said, but all at once she asked:
"Gran'father, do you think father was remembered?"
"Don't ye remember him, eh, deary?"
"'Tain't that I mean. He wanted to be remembered."
"And sure you wouldn't go to forget him, Ailie?"
"'Tain't that," repeated Ailie. "'Twas a story Mrs. Forsyth told him,
of a thief as wanted to be remembered; an' father, he wanted it too,
an' he asked—"
"Asked who?" inquired Job, anxious to draw her out.
"And he made me ask too, he did."
"Ask who, deary?"
"Why,—I don't exactly know. Somebody as was nailed up, he said."
"And so He was," said Job. "Nailed up on a Cross, for you an' me,
Ailie. Why, He's the very same Good Shepherd I was tellin' ye of
yesterday."
"Is he?" said Ailie.
"An' the same I call the Master. That's one o' His Names. He's the Son
of God, who came down from heaven to die for the world. Didn't your
father know nought 'o that?"
"Maybe he knowed more than me," said Ailie. "What was it the thief
said?"
"He said, 'Lord, remember me when Thou comest into Thy kingdom.'"
"That's it," said Ailie. "Only Mrs. Forsyth had forgot the end. An' was
he remembered?"
"The thief? Didn't the Lord say to him, 'To-day shalt thou be with Me
in Paradise'? That's heaven."
"No, but I means father," said Ailie. "Maybe he wasn't remembered?"
"Nobody knocks an' doesn't get a answer," said Job. "What was it he
did, deary?"
"He wanted to be remembered," said Ailie. "An' we didn't know how
to ask, an' there was no one to tell. But father told me, an' I
said, 'Please remember father'; an' father, he asked too,—and we
thought—maybe—"
"Sure the Lord heard him, Ailie. Ain't we told, 'Look unto Him and be
ye saved?' and didn't He say, 'Come unto Me, and I will give you rest'?
There's a many came to Him, and some didn't know much about Him, nor
how to speak to Him, but I never heard as He turned one away. He always
hears an' answers."
Job rose from the table as he spoke, but he took out no work that day.
He let Ailie wash up, and then he called her to his side, and read
aloud the story of the Crucifixion, adding brief explanations as he
went along. Ailie listened for a while, and, when she grew restless,
Job broke off.
"That'll do now, I reckon," he said. "Don't ye go an' forget, little
un'. It's time to think o' Church."
"Church!" repeated Ailie, in astonishment.
"Sure enough, Church is for everybody to worship God in," said Job.
"I'd be main sorry to stay away. Will ye come with me, Ailie?"
"I ain't fit," said Ailie, looking down at her soiled and ragged frock.
"To—be—sure," said Job slowly. "Why didn't I think o' that afore
now, an' get ye all washed and patched? 'Tisn't as my own clothes is
anythin' much, but they be well mended, an' as clean as clean! Good
thing I'm a tailor, an' independent o' the woman-kind, havin' none
belongin' to me."
"I ain't clean," said Ailie.
"Seems I had best leave ye at home to-day, an get ye all in shape afore
next Sunday," said Job. "Eh, deary?"
Ailie had no objection. She rather wanted to stretch her limbs after
sitting so long. So she sought out Lettie, and indulged herself in a
wild scamper through the back-yard, while Job Kippis made his way to
the nearest City Church, with its scanty congregation and quiet Service.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XI.
JOSIE'S EXCURSION.
"LEVESON, it's such a time since you came home last," said Josie, one
bright October day.
"A whole fortnight," said Leveson Therlock, stooping to kiss his little
sister. Though only her half-brother, he loved her as much as ever
brother loved little sister of his own.
"A fortnight is a dreadfully long time," said Josie. "Mother has been
wanting you nearly as much as I have—haven't you, mother?"
"If not more," said Mrs. Therlock.
"O no, it couldn't be more, because I have wanted Leveson as much as
could be. Do you know I cried for you in bed one night, Leveson?"
"I heard of a little child once who cried for the moon," said Leveson.
"That was a stupid thing to do," said Josie, "because he couldn't have
the moon, but I can have you."
"You mean he was stupid to cry, because crying wouldn't bring the moon
to him."
"No, I don't mean that," said Josie, not choosing to be caught in a
trap. "You want me to say that I was just as stupid to cry for you,
because crying wouldn't bring you either. But if I cried so as to make
myself ill—wouldn't you come then?"
"I think I should send the doctor," said Leveson. He sat down and took
Josie within his arm. "I have been very busy, Josie; still I have not
forgotten my promise to my pet."
"You always are busy," said Josie. "I don't see why all the poor
children in London are always to come before me."
"Which stands in the most need of help?"
"I think I do," said Josie decidedly, "because I haven't one single
little girl to play games with me, and the poor children have hundreds."
"And not having a single little girl, you want a big brother instead."
"I'd rather have you than all the little girls in the world," said
Josie. "But you see now, Leveson, I really do want you very much. It
isn't only fancy."
"No, I see,—it is a question of health," said Leveson.
"Now, you needn't laugh at me."
"Was I laughing?"
"Yes, you know you were, down in your thoughts."
Leveson laughed now, at all events.
"But I don't know what promise you meant a minute ago," said Josie.
"Did I not once say I would take a certain little girl for a trip down
the river?"
"Oh, you don't mean that!"
"You shall go to-day if you like. Perhaps it would be chilly on the
water, but you shall take your choice. Down the river, or else over the
Tower, or else off to Hampton Court."
Josie gave a little shriek at the third proposal, which showed what she
thought of it.
"What, you would prefer the last?"
"Hampton Court! A real palace! I should think so!"
"Better than the river or the Tower?"
"I've been on the river before, and the Tower is in London. I want to
get away. Does the Queen live at Hampton Court?"
"No, the last king that lived there was the Queen's
great-great-grandfather, King George the Second."
"At all events, it's a real palace, because my history-book says so,"
observed Josie. "You don't really mean we are going?"
[Illustration: "You always are busy," said Josie.]
"Directly. Run away and dress. If we don't start at once, we shall miss
our train. It would not be worth while going later, for the place is
closed to visitors at four."
"But, mother," said Josie, making a spring towards the door, "won't you
come too?"
Mrs. Therlock shook her head.
"I cannot stand sight-seeing, darling," she said gently. "Go and enjoy
yourself as much as possible. I shall love to think how happy you are."
"Only it seems too bad to take Leveson from you."
"Leveson will sleep here to-night, so I shall see him all the evening.
Run and dress, Josie."
"Make haste, or we shall be too late," said Leveson; and Josie flew off
in overpowering excitement.
She would have flung on anything that came to hand, in her dread of
being too late; but nurse had her own ideas as to propriety, and
undertook the task of dressing her eager little charge. It was of no
use for Josie to fume and struggle. She had to submit to being brushed
and smoothed, arranged and patted, till frock, ribbons, hair, and
feathers were all in proper order. Then, and not till then, Josie was
released, almost in tears with repressed impatience. However, the final
rush down-stairs dissipated all annoyance, and Leveson, who was engaged
in a conversation with Mrs. Therlock, apparently sorrowful in its
nature, rose at once.
"Come, we have no time to lose."
A hansom cab was Josie's special delight, so one was procured near at
hand, and off they went at full speed—Josie's brown hair tossing to and
fro in the wind, and her hand clasping Leveson's in grateful ecstasy.
"Oh, it is so delicious—so very delicious!" she said. "How good you are
to take me." Then, after a minute or two,—"Do you know, Leveson, it
was just there I saw that poor little starving girl—the very day you
promised to take me on the river."
"Poor little girl," said Leveson.
"I wonder if she did starve?" remarked Josie. "I made nurse bring me a
great many times along here, until I was tired of the walk; but I never
saw her again. I am so afraid she must have starved to death."
"I trust not. It would be a terrible thing."
"Yes, it must be very dreadful to be so hungry. How fast we are going!"
"You were rather long dressing, little woman, so we have barely time to
catch our train."
"Oh!—Oh, Leveson! There she is!" cried Josie. "The little girl that was
starved—at least, starving. O dear!"
Leveson looked back, and caught a glimpse of a small figure on the
pavement.
"We can stop, and ask her where she lives, if you like," he said. "Only
I fear we shall lose our train."
"Oh, I don't want to miss the train," said Josie, and they went on. But
she said uneasily the next moment—"Do you think we ought?"
"I cannot decide for you. I have been to Hampton Court before, so it
would not be the same disappointment to me as to you to miss it. Do as
you wish."
"You see she isn't starved," said Josie.
"No, so I perceive."
"Perhaps she was trying to take me in that day, after all," said Josie,
anxious to feel herself in the right.
"You did not think so at the time."
"But she told me she was starving—and she's alive now," said Josie,
inclined for an argument.
"No doubt some one gave her food."
"I dare say I shall see her again some day," said Josie. "I'll walk
there every morning for some days, and then I'm pretty nearly sure to
do it."
"Very well, dear."
"And it may not have been the same little girl, after all," said Josie.
"Her frock looked cleaner."
"But how about her face?"
"That was cleaner too," said Josie.
"Yes, but was it the same face?"
"Why, I thought so; but then you know I only had the littlest bit of a
glimpse, so how could I tell? And fancy if I had missed Hampton Court
for nothing."
"So we will decide that it was not the little girl after all," said
Leveson.
"I can't, because—I suppose it was," said Josie, with a cloudy look.
"Leveson, I know you think I ought to have wanted to stop to speak to
her. But it would be so very very hard to bear, if I couldn't go to
Hampton Court. And I hardly ever get any pleasure. It is very unkind of
you."
Leveson put a kind hand under her chin, and made her look up into his
face.
"My dear little woman, that is all fancy. You have talked so much of
the poor child, that I thought you had a very particular interest in
her—"
"And so I have,—but she isn't Hampton Court," murmured Josie.
"So that was why I put the question about speaking to her. But I dare
say you will meet her again some day, as she seems to frequent that
road. No doubt her home is near."
"She hasn't any home," said Josie.
"She had not, perhaps; but probably she has found friends of some
description—or her mother may be out of jail before now.
"Why, so she may," said Josie, brightening. "I didn't think of that.
And you don't think I was very wrong to want to go on?"
Josie's tender conscience was not easily set at rest, but Leveson was
anxious that her day should be one of thorough pleasure, and he exerted
himself to draw her attention to other matters. They soon reached the
station, and, by the time she was seated in the train, her spirits had
arisen to their usual pitch.
It was a very happy time that Josie spent. She walked through the
galleries of beautiful paintings, wondering much why Leveson admired so
many which she thought ugly, and why he spoke so slightingly of those
which she thought lovely.
"Wait till you are older," he said, smiling, when she asked an
explanation. "Your taste in pictures has to be trained and taught, like
every other part of your mind. It seldom comes naturally."
Josie had no objection to waiting, though secretly she felt sure that
some of his favourites she should esteem frightful all her life long.
After the pictures, they went into the garden, and Josie raced about
the terraces, and lost herself in the maze so completely, that Leveson
had to follow her in and lead her out. Then she admired the great vine,
belonging to the Queen, and wondered at the thought of its two thousand
bunches of grapes, borne every year.
After that, Leveson took her into a refreshment-house for some lunch,
and a long ramble in Bushey Park followed. How Josie skipped, and
danced, and rushed about under the fine chestnut and lime trees,
wearing their autumn tints. And, finally, a military band gave them
some lively tunes, in the garden.
Josie was tired by this time, and sat listening on a bench by her
brother's side, with the country breeze playing round her, and the
sunlight kissing her round cheeks, and catching a reflection in her
happy eyes. It was delightful to sit there and listen to the band, her
feet pattering softly on the greensward in time with the tunes, while
merry groups of children played near, and the lofty walls of the fine
old palace rose behind.
Only it was all over too soon; and sadly Josie said, when Leveson
intimated that they must think of returning—
"So it's done now—and, oh! Dear, dear, I shall have to go on with the
old round again, in those dismal old streets. And all the while we
might be living in the dear beautiful country. I do think it is very
hard."
"Do you think this discontent is right?" asked Leveson, as he rose to
take her away.
"No," said Josie.
"I have done what I can to make a happy day for you. Cannot you let
mother and me have a bright face in return?"
"I didn't mean to be nasty and ungrateful," whispered Josie.
"I am sure you did not, and you will not be."
"Only you don't know how tired I do get of London, and having nobody to
play with," said Josie.
"You have had no one to play with to-day."
"I've had you."
Leveson was silent a moment.
"Josie," he said at length, "many a poor little child in the streets of
London cannot obtain such a sweet glimpse of beauty and freshness as
you have had now to carry away with you."
"They don't know what country is, so they don't miss it," said Josie.
"I think that makes the matter only more grievous."
"But I have lived in the country, and I don't forget, though it was so
long ago," said Josie.
"Many a poor little one may remember it too, without a hope of even a
glimpse of it again," said Leveson.
And Josie knew from the sound of his saddened voice what was the
subject of his thoughts just then.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XII.
WHAT HOR WANTED.
THAT same afternoon, the last ray of the setting sun, which shone
brightly on Josie Therlock during her happy homeward journey, crept
lazily, half-veiled by smoke, through the window of Job Kippis' garret.
It fell upon Job himself first, lending a sparkle to his silver hair,
and a light to his steady eyes. It cast his shadow behind on the bare
wall, and crept over the aquiline face of the Duke's portrait over
the fireplace. And just as it was taking itself away from Job Kippis'
hands, busied with some tough army-cloth, the door opened, and Ailie
bounded in.
"Gran'father, I've brought Hor an' Lettie to see you," she cried.
For though the middle of October had come, there was no more talk of
the workhouse for Ailie. She was domesticated in Job's garret.
"Welcome, both o' them," responded Job. "How're ye gettin' on, lad?"
Hor sat down on the foot of the bed, and leant his chin on his hand,
without replying, while Lettie crept to the window, settling herself
there in her quiet precise fashion, while her little fair head caught
the last gleam of sunlight.
"Eh?" repeated Job.
"I'm not gettin' on at all," said Hor. "Ain't like to, neither."
"Why not?" demanded Job.
"Two places lost lately, as I might ha' had with a decent jacket to my
back," said Hor gloomily. "They'd have took me for errand-boy at a shop
this mornin' if I could have dressed up respectable. It ain't no use.
I've tried an' tried, an' now I'll give up."
"Give up what?"
"Give up tryin'."
"Tryin' what?"
"To work, an' be respectable. 'Tain't no use. I'll give up, an' go
along with the rest o' the boys. Mother's made a deal o' fuss about
keepin' me honest, an' where's the good? I'll give up."
"An' begin to drink, an' steal, an' swear?" asked Job.
"Not steal," said Hor.
"T'other two, then?"
Hor's answer was a gruff: "Dunno."
"Just as well steal as swear, when you're about it," said Job. "One's
breakin' of the fourth commandment, an' one's breakin' of the eighth."
"I tell ye I mean to give up tryin' to keep steady, an' to be
respectable."
"Supposin' ye do," said Job, "what'll ye gain by it?"
Hor did not know what to answer.
"Think it'll make ye happier?"
Hor could not answer in the affirmative.
"Think it'll make ye more respectable?"
Hor shook his head.
"Think it'll bring money into your pocket—leastways without you takes
to stealin' too?"
"I don't think nothin' about it, save that I'm tired o' tryin' to no
purpose," said Hor listlessly.
Job paused a moment in his work, to glance at the boy's thin face and
hollow eyes.
"Poor lad!" he muttered. "I'd like to be able to help ye."
"Nobody can't—save them as won't," said Hon
"How old are ye, boy?"
"Thirteen—nigh upon fourteen."
"An' your name? Horatio Nelson, ain't it? Lived same time as the Duke
himself, didn't he? An' a brave sailor he was too. Never turned his
back on an enemy! If I was you, lad, I wouldn't go for to disgrace a
name like that!"
"If I'd a chance to go to sea, I wouldn't mind nought else," said Hor.
"Seems to me ye want a many things," said Job Kippis.
"Just think I do," said Hor.
"Gran'father," remarked Ailie in the pause following, "d'ye know I saw
that little lady as wanted to give me a penny—an' she was drivin' past
with a gentleman, an' laughin' an' talkin' as happy as happy, an' she
looked at me too."
"Maybe she knowed you again," said little Lettie.
"Maybe she didn't," said Hor. "Catch a fine young lady a-knowin' a
little ragged girl like you agin. Likely that."
"Why wouldn't she then?" asked Job.
"Rich folks don't care for poor uns," said Hor.
"You're out there, boy. There's many do."
"I ain't seen 'em then."
"Maybe not. There's many things you haven't seen. I've one rich Friend."
"He don't do much for ye then," said Hor, glancing round the bare
apartment.
"Don't He? That's all you knows about the matter. Just all my joy an'
happiness in life comes from Him."
Hor made no answer.
Job went on after a minute—
"There's many things ye wants, lad. Ye say ye've worked an' tried in
vain, an' you're like to give up tryin'. I'll put one question to ye.
Have ye ever asked for 'em?"
"Asked over an' over again," said Hor. "There ain't a man as 'll employ
me."
"Then I'd stop askin' men, an' go higher."
"Go where, gran'father?" asked Ailie.
Job lifted one hand.
"Up there, deary."
"Like as father asked to be remembered?" asked Ailie.
"Aye, an' like as I make ye kneel down night an' morning, an' pray to
'Our Father, which art in Heaven.'"
"D'ye mean to say, if I went an' prayed for work, it'd come?" inquired
Hor, with a low incredulous laugh. For thanks to old Job, the name and
meaning of prayer was not unknown among those three children, as it had
been but a short time back.
Job thought seriously, then said—
"No, I don't, lad."
"Then where's the good o' prayin'?" asked Hor.
Job put down his work, and opened his Bible, bending over it in the
twilight.
"Look here, lad—there's many an' many a promise of answers to prayers.
Will ye hear one or two?
"'If ye abide in Me, and My words abide in you, ye shall ask what
ye will, and it shall be done unto you.' *
"See that, boy—'If ye abide in Me.' That's the Lord Himself. If ye
abide in Him, trust Him, obey Him, love Him, He'll do what ye ask Him.
'Tisn't to them as don't love Him as He says that. An' here again—
"'And whatsoever we ask we receive of Him, because we keep His
commandments, and do those things that are pleasing in His sight.' †
"D'you keep the commandments o' the holy Jesus, boy? D'you set
yourself, heart an' soul, to do all ye can to please Him, eh? An' here
again—
"'He will fulfil the desire of them that fear Him; He also will hear
their cry and will save them.' ‡
"Are ye one o' them that fears Him? If ye are, He'll fulfil your
desire, lad. Are ye, eh?"
"Don't see any good in prayin' at all, then," muttered Hor.
* John xv. 7. † 1 John iii. 22. ‡ Psalm cxlv. 19.
"No good! Why, if you're one that fears Him, ye may ask what ye will,
an' if ye ain't making some foolish request, like to poison for your
soul, He'll give it ye. Don't He love to make us happy? Don't it grieve
Him at His heart when He sees one o' His poor sheep bleaten' an'
sorrowful, and don't He love to smile an' comfort un? Eh, lad?"
"I don't know nothin' about that," said Hor. "I only knows He lets us
live like pigs."
"Have ye ever asked Him to make it different?"
"What's the good? Don't ye say He won't answer?" demanded Hor.
"I don't say He won't, but only He's not promised He will. That's
to say, lad, He's not promised to ye, 'whatsoever ye ask, ye shall
receive.' He's promised to forgive your sins, an' to save ye, an' to
make ye different, soon 's ever ye'll ask Him, but the 'whatsoever'
promises don't belong to ye, till ye begins to serve Him. See my
meanin', lad—eh?"
Hor did not answer, and Ailie said:
"He's the Shepherd, ain't He, gran'father?"
"Sure He is. The Shepherd, an' the Master, an' the Lord, an' the King,
an' the Friend. Ever so many Names He's got,—picturs of Him like, so's
we may understand Him better. There'll be a day, little deary—" and his
firm brown hand stroked Lettie's head,—"there'll be a day when He'll
have one Name, 'cause the Bible says so. 'There shall be one Lord,
and His Name one.' He's one Lord now, but He's a many names. We won't
need a Shepherd nor a Guide then, for we'll be at Home. Sometimes I
wonders what Name He'll choose, among so many. One time I thinks it'll
be Master, 'cause we'll all serve Him. Another time I thinks it'll be
Father, 'cause we'll all be one family in Heaven, an' sure the Bible
calls Him the Everlasting Father. Another time, I think maybe it'll
be Love, 'cause the Lord is love, all love, nothin' but love. Any way
it'll be beautiful—right beautiful," and the smile that shone on Job's
face had a dim reflection of that far-off heavenly beauty.
"If He be all love, why don't He give us a nice place to live in?"
asked Hor, though less doggedly than before.
"How many more times will I have to say it, lad—Have ye ever asked Him
to make it different?"
"If I did, what then?" demanded Hor. "Don't ye be the same?"
"No," said Job decidedly. "You says ye lives like pigs, but 'tain't
no pig-sty this home o' mine. It's where my Master has put me, an' I
loves it for His sake. Why, lad, I tell ye, He'd put me in a palace
straight,—not as I'd be happy there partic'larly,—but He'd put me
there, if 'twas for my good. That's all as matters. I wouldn't ask Him
to change. All I wants is,—
"'Guide me with Thy counsel, an' afterward receive me to glory.'
"Why, what matters a garret an' a scrap o' dry bread a little longer?
There's Heaven waitin' for me, an' angels' food. Maybe if I'd more,
I'd love this world too much. I don't love it now. It's Heaven I wants.
Maybe then it'd be earth I'd want."
"It's some'at nice on earth I want," said Hor.
"An' ye might have it, if ye'd take it. Some'at nice! What's nicer than
to have the Lord smilin' down on ye from heaven, an' helping you with
His strong arm, an' givin' ye peace an' joy in your heart? How's it all
to be got, Ailie?"
Ailie thought a moment, and said—"Ain't it by believin' Him,
gran'father?"
"Sure enough, deary. Believin' and obeyin' the Lord who died for us on
the Cross. He loved ye, lad—loved ye so as to die a bitter and painful
death for your sake. An' He tells ye to seek Him, an' call to Him, an'
do His commands, an' while ye won't do that, an' haven't a thought
o' gratitude in your heart for all He's done for ye, ye'll sit there
grumblin' because He don't give ye everything ye'd like. Do ye deserve
to have it, boy?"
The solemn question met with no response from Hor. Little as he knew
of himself, he at least knew so much that he could not answer in the
affirmative.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XIII.
WAITING.
THE two months' imprisonment was over at last, and Ailie knew that on
the evening of this frosty November day, with its slippery pavements
and misty air, she might expect to meet her mother once more.
She had divided feelings on the subject. She wanted to see her mother
again, but she did not want to leave her adopted grandfather. The one
would bring about the other, and whether to be most glad or most sorry
was a puzzle to Ailie. She wavered to and fro between the two feelings,
but as evening drew near the sorrow rather predominated. It was very
cold, and Job Kippis had lighted a good fire. Little Lettie had crept
up there for warmth, knowing herself to be welcome, for the Forsyths
had almost no fire that day, and as Ailie crouched down by the small
grate with her tiny companion, she wondered much, in the thoughtful
fashion of a child who has seen little of careless childhood, where she
would be at that time on the morrow, for "mother" would be penniless
and friendless, without work and without a home. What was to become of
them she did not know.
"'Tis a bitter night for her, ain't it?" said old Job presently,
breaking a long silence. He was working hard by the waning light, and
a candle stood beside him ready for use when necessary, for Ailie's
presence had indented on his little savings, and made needful harder
toil than usual on his part. "The frost in the streets is that bad, ye
can't hardly get along. We'll give her supper, an' warm her up, Ailie?"
"Where'll she sleep, gran'father?" asked Ailie.
"Mother said somebody 'd lend her a bed for one night," said Lettie.
"Don't you think she'll live here, Ailie?"
"I dunno one bit," said Ailie; "'cause mother hadn't no work for ever
so long, an' she'd ha' moved, she said, if father hadn't been too ill.
Dunno where she'll go, though."
"All big London afore her, an' ne'er a home for her, poor thing,"
sighed Job. "It's a great babel of a place, ain't it? To think o'
thousands o' houses, an' not a spot as she can call her own. Ah me, if
she had but a Home above, it'd matter little then."
"Gran'father, I'll tell to mother all you've teached me," said Ailie,
looking up at him, "an' I'll say my texes every day, an' 'Our Father'
too, an' 'Please wash away my sins for Jesus Christ's sake.' Will that
do?"
"Sure, deary, if you says it from your heart," said Job, wiping his
sleeve across his eyes. "It's sorely I'll miss ye; but sure I'm glad I
didn't send ye off to the work'us."
"'Cause you wouldn't ha' been my gran'father then," said Ailie. "An'
mother 'd ha' come, an' found nobody waitin' for her. Will she go to
the old place first, gran'father, down in the cellar?"
"Maybe not. More like she'd know well enough ye couldn't have lived on
alone, an' she'd ask what's become of ye, an' the neighbours 'd tell,
'Up with old Job Kippis,' an' she'd come an' tap an' walk in. Sure
isn't that a noise outside now?"
Ailie sprang to open it, but a rush of cold air was all that entered,
and she shut it again.
"'Tisn't nobody, gran'father. I wonders when she'll come."
"What'll I tell ye, to make the time go faster?" asked Job. "I'll have
to stop work soon; my old eyes don't stand it by this light, as if they
was young."
"Tell us about when you used to wear a coat all o' scarlet," said
Ailie. "Was it ever so bright a red, gran'father?"
"That it was, deary, just this colour."
"An' did ye like wearing it?" asked Ailie.
"Just think I did!" said old Job emphatically. "Didn't I march along
wi' my comrades, as proud as proud could be, an' the band a-playin'
away in front."
"I'd like to hear it," said Ailie. "And how did ye get hurt,
gran'father."
"'Twas a musket-ball wounded me, in the middle o' the battle. The
French and English was fightin', deary, 'cause there was a man as we
called Boney-party, who wanted for to rule all over Europe like, an'
nobody wasn't to do nothin' without his leave. A reg'lar tyrant he was,
an' the English couldn't let that be at all, so the Duke goes to meet
him, an' 'twas a long battle. But we got the day, for sure the Duke
never knowed what it was to turn his back, nor his men didn't neither.
That's the sort o' soldier I'd have you be, Ailie, under the great
Captain; never to know what 'tis to be beaten, nor runnin' away, but
always a' lookin' at your Captain, an' obeyin' His orders."
"Did you used to be lookin' at the Duke, gran'father?" asked Ailie.
"Sure an' I did, deary, an' if anybody was a bit down, or afraid, only
let the Duke come ridin' up, with his face as brave an' quiet as if he
was sittin' in his chair in his home, an' we was all up in a moment,
an' ready for anythin'. Afraid when the Duke was by! Never such a thing
for a moment."
"An' when he wasn't by?" asked Ailie.
"Why, then we all knowed he wasn't far, an' we was obeyin' his orders,
an' we knowed he was seein' or hearin' all as went on. He was certain
sure to come just when he was most wanted."
Job smiled to himself as he made mental application of these ideas to
another warfare and another Captain.
"An' 'twas enough to see his face. We didn't want nothin' else, to make
us feel like as if no power on earth 'd be able to conquer us. All we
needed, deary, was just to know we was obeyin' his orders, an' doin'
what'd please him, an' then 'twas sure to be right. I wasn't but only
a young soldier then, an' hadn't but just listed six months afore;
but there was some old soldiers as had gone through all the war with
him, and if you'd seen what they thought o' him! It wasn't no wonder I
caught it from them, an' felt the same. As for bein' beaten under the
Duke, wouldn't they have called 'un a coward, only to speak o' such a
thing?"
"Was he like that picture?" asked Lettie, and old Job made his
involuntary salute, with raised hand, in memory of his chief.
"Sure enough, deary, so he was, when he was old, ye know. I see him
once ridin' through the streets, an' everybody a-lookin' after him. He
didn't know me, poor old Job Kippis livin' up in a garret, but I knowed
him, an' it did my heart good to look on him too, it just did."
"I do wonder mother don't come," said Ailie.
"So do I, deary; but mayhap she's loitered somewhere, an' it's a good
way she has to walk, an' there's the fog hinderin' of her. It'll be
hard to pick her way through it."
The twilight deepened, and the evening waned, and Ailie's mother did
not come. No tap at the door; no sound of approaching footsteps, save
those passing to other rooms. Ailie wondered and waited, and waited and
wondered, and grew somewhat sad in her suspense; for that forlorn and
tempted woman had been a tender mother to her in the past.
"Maybe she's ashamed to show her face," murmured Job. "Fresh out of
jail—no wonder. I'll go an' take a look for her."
Telling the children to remain where they were, he went down the
staircase, and out into the street. It was almost deserted. Job peered
about through the darkness, walked up and down the pavement once or
twice, and made inquiries as to whether aught had been seen or heard of
Mrs. Carter; but it was all in vain. He went up-stairs again, and told
Ailie her mother had not come, nor was she likely now to do so before
next day.
"Maybe some'at has hindered her," said Ailie hopefully. "I dare say
we'll see her in the mornin'."
The morning was fine, and wonderfully clear for November; but no mother
came. All through the long day Ailie watched, and waited, and vainly
hoped; but still no Mrs. Carter made her appearance.
They could not think what might be the reason. Job in his anxiety went
to the Forsyths,' and John Forsyth, having a day unhappily free from
work, as was too often the case now, went off to the prison itself,
undertaking the long walk out of simple kindness. He learnt there that
she had been set free at the time expected, and one person, who had
spoken some kind words to her on her leaving, believed she had talked
of returning to her old quarters, to inquire after the whereabouts of
her child. Beyond that, John Forsyth failed to meet with any traces of
the poor woman's movements.
All the next day they did not give up hope; but that day passed, and
the next also, and others after, and she did not come. Job Kippis and
John Forsyth ceased to hope for news of her. Whatever was the cause of
her absence, and whether it were through choice or compulsion, they
had no means of learning any more. To all intents and purposes, little
Ailie was an orphan, cast adrift upon the wide world, utterly dependent
upon charity.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XIV.
JOB'S DUTY.
"LOOK ye here," said John Forsyth, having found his way into Job
Kippis' garret, "it's ten days gone by, an' nothin' heard o' Mrs.
Carter. Now I don't want to be interferin', nor givin' of unwelcome
advice, an' ye wouldn't take the last I offered ye—worse for yerself,
it may be—but I've a mind to speak to ye again on the subject."
Job nodded.
"About that there child," said John.
"Just so," responded Job.
"What be you goin' to do with her?"
"Question I've asked myself many a time. I don't see my way clear."
"It's clear enough, if ye'll open yer eyes," said John. "Send her to
the work'us."
Ailie was absent from the room, or this suggestion would hardly have
been received in such silence.
"Well, I don't know," said Job slowly at length. "Seems to me that
don't make the way clear at all."
"I tell ye there's nothin' else to be done. You ain't young no longer,
an' for you to burden yourself with a great growin' girl—it'll mayhap
bring you to the work'us one day."
"Mayhap," said Job.
"You're not thinkin' in earnest of doin' it, eh?"
"Can't just tell," said Job.
"You've kept her nigh a fortnight on, in hopes o' her mother's comin'
back. 'Tain't likely we'll see her now. If she haven't met with foul
play o' some kind, it's like her heart failed her, an' she was 'shamed
to face the neighbours, just out o' jail. She prided herself a deal on
her good name. But if she don't choose to come an' take charge of her
own child, what's left to Ailie but the work'us?"
"True," said Job.
"An' ye'll send her there?"
"I'll think first," said Job.
"You'll think yerself into a mighty unprudent action, if you don't look
sharp," said John.
"Soon's I'm sure o' my duty, I'll act upon it," said Job.
"Your duty's to do what's prudent an' in common sense, I take it," said
John.
"Maybe I've a higher rule than that," responded Job. "Maybe I've a wish
to please my Master first, an' then to think o' prudence."
"You're not a-going to let any wild notions o' religion lead you to
'dopt that little 'un as your own?" expostulated John.
"No wild notions at all, I can tell ye. Simply I've a Master, an' I'm
His servant, an' ye knows well enough a servant ain't free to do his
own will, but only accordin' to his master's will."
"But I say ye must be practical," said John.
"Just as I means to be," responded Job. "I'm awaitin' to know my
Master's will. Maybe I'll mistake it at first, an' then no fear but
He'll set me right in time. Once afore 'twas you as helped me to a
clearer understandin', an' I thought ye might once again too."
"I don't know nothin' about it," said John testily. "Hope I'm a honest
man, an' tries to do my duty. Don't want to go beyond that."
"Beyond doin' your duty. Why, it's a wonderful man ye'd be to do that,"
said Job, smiling. "Don't the Bible say how the best of us is only
'unprofitable servants,' doin' never a bit more than we're told to do?
An' don't it say, 'Fear God, an' keep His commandments, for this is the
whole duty of man'?"
John was silent—a little uneasy. The duty he had set himself hardly
reached so far.
"That's duty, ain't it?" said Job, looking at him with pleasant eyes.
"Maybe ye haven't feared God yet as ye might ha' done, nor kept all His
commandments neither."
"Never stole in my life," said John.
"Nor never took God's Holy Name in vain neither?"
"Well, I ain't never been a downright swearer as many be," said John.
"If ye've done it once, John Forsyth, the Lord 'll not hold ye
guiltless," said Job.
John fidgeted.
"Maybe ye haven't never felt any envy for your richer neighbours," said
Job. "Them as drives about a carriage, an' wears silk, an' jingles
their money."
"Don't know why I shouldn't have as good," said John shortly.
"Then ye broke the tenth commandment too. Ye've come short o' your
whole duty before God, an' no doubt about it."
"Dare say you've done the same, for all you're so hard a-condemning of
me," said John.
"Sure enough—as if I didn't know that. Come short o' His commandments!
Don't I come short o' them every hour o' my life? Don't I kneel down
in church on Sunday, every week, an' pray the Lord to have mercy on a
miserable sinner? An He's had mercy too, an' I've His promised pardon;
but for all that I goes on sinning yet, for isn't my very nature full
o' sin, an' will be till I go to heaven? Do my whole duty? Why, man,
there's nobody ever lived on earth as did it yet, save one, an' that's
the Master Himself."
"Don't see the good of expectin' of it then," said John.
"Just so," responded Job. "An' God don't expect it neither, 'cause He
knows better than we ourselves, that 'tain't in our power. But He does
expect one thing, an' that is that we'll give our hearts to Him. He 've
given His Son to die for us, an' He wants our love back again, you see.
That's it. He commands us to come to Him, an' pray, an' trust Him, an'
serve Him; an' ye can't do your duty without you obeys these commands!
There ain't no other way, for He commands us to be saved, an' there's
no way to be saved but through the blood o' the Lamb; and so long's we
neglect that, we're not a-doin' our duty. Ye'll find one day that all
your duty-doin' apart from Him 'll serve ye little at the last."
"I didn't come here for a sermon," said John curtly, "but only to give
ye some friendly advice."
"An' I've give ye some o' the same in return. Hope you'll follow it
better than I'm like to follow yours to me."
"About that child—" said John.
"Aye, I'm thinkin' over matters. Seems to me as the Master has put her
in my way, an' telled me to take her up an' do for her, poor little
stray lamb as she be."
"Never saw such madness in all my life, I didn't," said John.
"Sure, no ye didn't," said Job, with a twinkle in his eye, "when ye
took up a poor little orphan yourself!"
"I wasn't a man past seventy years, nor so poor as now by a long way,"
said John.
"Nor I haven't five children o' my own to begin with," responded Job,
and the other laughed.
"Well, ye beat me there, I don't deny. But 'twasn't prudent—I sees it
now."
"Maybe ye didn't do it for the Master's sake," said Job. "That'd make a
mighty difference. I've a mind now to put it this way. I don't make no
promises. Maybe I'll send her by and by to the work'us, an' maybe not.
Maybe it's the Master's will as I should keep her. Sure, then, He'll
give me the means. I'll keep the little deary so long's I've the power,
an' when I haven't—why then, sure enough, I'll let her go."
"Doubt but ye won't," muttered John. "Ye've a strong will o' your own."
However, he saw that argument only tended to confirm the old man in his
resolution, and he gave it up. Soon after his departure from the room,
Ailie came bounding in, with a face of anxiety and suspense, amounting
to terror.
"Gran'father, Lettie telled me Mr. Forsyth was come for a talk with
you, 'cause he was a-sayin' I ought to be sent to the work'us. Oh,
gran'father, please—" and Ailie's black eyes looked unutterably
entreating.
"Do ye want for to go, deary?" asked Job.
"I don't want it!" cried Ailie. "Only to wait here till mother comes,
an' to keep with you. Won't she come, gran'father?"
"Please God, one day," said Job. "We don't know nought about her. D'ye
think I'll get along without my little lamb, an' be happy to think o'
her away in the work'us?"
"I think ye'd want me," said Ailie wistfully. "'Cause I do cleanin' up,
an'—an'—oh, gran'father, don't ye think—"
"Well, deary?"
Ailie began to cry in good earnest, and Job could not stand that.
"There now, little one, don't ye be feared. I'll keep ye so long's I've
a crust to spare ye. 'Tain't much I have o' my own, but ye shall share
it, sure enough. We'll wait awhile an' see. I don't make no promises,
but we'll just see."
"An' maybe mother 'll come back," said Ailie. "I do love you ever so
much. I don't want never to go."
There was no more talk of Ailie leaving. Quietly as before she lived on
in old Job's room, sleeping in the closet at night, playing about the
house and courtyard during the day. Many a half-hour would Job Kippis
win her away from her ragged little playmates, to sit by him as he
worked, and learn more and more of the "sweet story of old."
Lettie, too, used to creep in and listen with silent interest to the
wondrous tale. Sometimes Job taught them both a short text, but this
was hard work to both teacher and scholars, and the Bible stories were
preferred. Ailie was always the first to grow restless. Quiet Lettie,
with her shrinking from rough and boisterous games, and her love of
retired corners, would often sit on and listen when Ailie had rushed
away. A silent useful little maiden she was, unlike the children around
her, and the one comfort of her careworn adopted mother.
Time passed thus, but nothing more was seen or heard of Mary Carter.
November came to an end, and December dragged its slow length along,
and still Ailie was motherless. She had almost ceased by this time to
expect or hope for any change.
But a change of another kind was threatening, and a cloud was drawing
near. The winter was severe, and the frost was sharp, and employment of
all kinds was slack. Many men were out of work. John Forsyth's failed,
or was only to be obtained by fitful snatches. Job Kippis' wavered,
grew uncertain, and finally came to an end.
He could obtain no more. There Was none to be had, seemingly. He was
old, and younger men were preferred. His sight had begun to fail of
late, perhaps from over-toil on Ailie's account. The little stock
of savings, already deeply dipped into, melted away, and want—stern
want—stared them in the face.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XV.
CLOUDED.
THE last crust was eaten; the last farthing was expended; the last
piece of firing was burnt; and Job Kippis sat, with his sinewy hands
lying idle upon his knees, and his eyes gazing into the empty grate.
It was a cold day—bitterly cold. The wind wailed and howled round the
old building, sending piercing gusts through every cranny. Snow had
been falling off and on for hours, in small flakes, and every housetop
bore a white covering. What a contrast between it and the grimy walls
around!
Old Job Kippis was alone. He did not know what had become of Ailie
during the last hour, but he was glad she was not present to see him in
his despair. For a tide of woe and mistrust had crept over Job, and in
very heart he was alone. A cloud had veiled his Heavenly Father's face.
Heaven itself seemed far away. He only felt utter desolation.
So hard as he had worked and striven, to come to this! Was it his own
fault? Had he indeed acted with weak imprudence in sheltering the
homeless orphan beneath his roof? John Forsyth had warned him that one
day he would rue it—that she might even bring him to the workhouse. It
seemed so now.
Did he regret doing it? Hardly. He loved his little Ailie—this
tender-hearted old man. But he was sorely bowed down and perplexed. So
strange it seemed to him. He had brought the little one into his home
to please his Master, and his Master showed no pleasure. He had trusted
in his Lord, and his Lord had forsaken him.
"Leastways, I can't see Him now," said Job, lifting his gaze to the
little window, where falling snowflakes and low clouds blotted out all
of heaven's blue. "I can't see Him, nor feel Him, nor hear Him. Don't
seem as if I could pray to Him. Ain't that bein' forsaken?"
Yes, surely he thought his Lord had forsaken him. He was entirely
alone. He had no strong Arm to depend upon, or he could feel none. He
had no loving Eye to guide him, or he could see none. His means were
at an end. He had no more money. He had no more food. He had no more
work. He was weak with fasting and weary with searching, and his limbs
had refused to carry him further. He had pawned already such trifling
articles as could be spared from among his scanty possessions.
"It'll come to nothin' but the work'us," said Job, in low tones. "An'
I did hope the Lord 'ud keep me out o' that, for the little o' my life
that's left. I'll have to send the child, an' go myself too."
Stooping more heavily forwards, he sat with his hands together, and his
eyes bent on the ground. He could almost have broken forth with little
Ailie's cry, "Oh, I don't want to go to the work'us—I don't want to
go!" But there was no one to hear him, and he only drooped in silence
beneath the dread of what he saw ahead.
So respectable and independent as he had been all his life, to come
to this in his old age! It was a sore trial. Yet Job thought he could
have borne it, but for the cloud of distrust which had gathered over
him. Was it all in love? Had his Master indeed marked the deed done to
please Him? Would the "cup of cold water" given to Ailie meet with a
reward?
"Not as I did it for a reward," muttered Job; "but I did think He'd ha'
helped me to get along. An' He hasn't. Ever since, I've been just goin'
down an' down, an' now the money's all used. There's nothin' left."
Mechanically he drew his Bible towards him, and with trembling hands
turned over a page or two.
But his eyes were dim, and his heart was heavy. The words of life that
he read seemed to drop like lead, one by one, as if they had no hope,
no meaning in them. He shut the volume at length with a groan.
"It's all over, an' I can't do nothin' more. I did think He wouldn't
ha' forsaken me in my old age. But sure my Lord knows best."
Those last words came to him unbidden, following upon the others by
mere force of habit. He had so often said them before from a full
and joyful heart. Job said them now without design; but somehow they
returned upon himself with singular force. "Sure He knows best. Why,
don't He now? Don't He always know best? Wouldn't He show me His Face
an' His glory this minute, if 'twas good for me?"
It was a little opening in the cloud, resulting from the mechanical
utterance of those few words, "My Lord knows best." Job felt certain
that it must be so. Down in his heart he knew it. But still the cloud
did not vanish.
He took up his Bible again, and turned slowly to the story of his
namesake in the early ages of the world,—of another Job bowed down
beneath God's chastening hand. He had often pondered in his simple
fashion over Job's conflicting faith in God, and confidence in self;
over his mingled strength and weakness; over his friends' harsh yet
perhaps not altogether untrue judgments passed upon him; and over God's
gracious teaching and condescension at the close.
He did not read on steadily now, but turned from one page to another,
gathering a verse here and there.
"'Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, and life unto
the bitter in soul?' * * *
"'For the thing which I greatly feared is come upon me, and that
which I was afraid of is come unto me. I was not in safety, neither
had I rest, neither was I quiet, yet trouble came.'
"So it has," said Job. "Nor I wasn't safe nor quiet neither, but I did
trust the Lord 'ud keep me.
"'Behold, happy is the man whom God correcteth: therefore despise not
thou the chastening of the Almighty.'"
Job shook his head. "It don't seem to make me happy. Ain't I wrong
there? Seems like as if I must be. I'll see how it goes on.
"'For He maketh sore and bindeth up. He woundeth and His hands make
whole. He shall deliver thee in six troubles, yea, in seven there shall
no evil touch thee.'
"'He shall deliver thee!'
"That's sayin' a deal," commented Job, falling into his usual habit.
"Sure, there's a true promise. An' no evil shall touch me! No evil at
all? Ain't it evil to be driven to the work'us? Why, no; not if 'tis
His will. Don't the Lord know best? Don't all things work together for
good, if I loves Him? Sure, there's no evil in that."
He was growing calmer now, though heavy-hearted still. The next verse
that caught his eye struck to his conscience.
"'Know, therefore, that God exacteth of thee less than thine iniquity
deserveth.'
"An' that's true, too, though 'twas one o' Job's three friends as said
it, an' they was none o' the wisest; but 'tis true. Who be I, a poor
sinful old man, to dare to complain o' the Lord Almighty's dealin's
with me?"
The next came very near his feelings, and caused a throbbing in his
heart. * * *
"'He hath stripped me of my glory and taken the crown from my head.'
"'Have pity upon me, have pity upon me, O ye my friends; for the hand
of God hath touched me.'
"Seems to me Job had forgot there about bein' happy when God
correcteth. No—'twasn't him as said that, neither, 'twas one o' his
friends—but tis true, for the Bible puts just the same in other parts
too, don't it? Where it says:
"'The Lord is very pitiful, and of tender mercy.'
"Ain't that the place? Well, I'll look on here, now, an' see how soon
Job gets up again from bein' in the depths. Why, sure!—
"'I know that my Redeemer liveth.'"
Job stopped short. Coming almost immediately after that desponding
appeal for pity, it struck straight to his heart, with a glow of
triumphant confidence.
"Why, I knows it too, don't I? I knows He lives. Poor weak old man that
I be, a-doubting of His love. I knows He liveth, an' He loveth too, and
'll do the best as can be for me. I knows it all. Job Kippis, ye're an
old fool, to go doubtin' your Lord, 'cause He's hid His Face from you,
an' given you a taste o' trouble. What if He do? What if I goes to the
work'us? Ain't there a heaven an' glory awaitin' me? I know my Redeemer
liveth, that I do.
"'And that He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth.'"
Job read so far, and paused again, turning quickly to the twenty-fifth
chapter of Matthew.
"Aye, there it all be. He'll stand on the earth, an' He'll sit on His
throne too, and I'll stand before Him. And wouldn't I like to hear Him
say to me, 'I was an hungered and ye gave Me meat; I was thirsty and
ye gave Me drink; I was a stranger and ye took Me in.' An' if I falls
down at sight of His glory, an' asks when, He'll say as how I did it
unto Him, in doin' it for His sake to little Ailie. Sure I couldn't
have been wrong in helpin' the poor stray lamb. Sure the Lord 'll not
forsake old Job."
The light had come back now. Truly Job had found the Bible "a lamp
unto his path." Hungry, fasting, friendless, he might be still, but
the light of heaven's peace had returned, and Job smiled brightly once
more, for in the depths of his heart he could say, "I KNOW that my
Redeemer liveth."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XVI.
MET AGAIN.
ONE fine frosty morning, a few days later, Josie Therlock sat sewing by
her mother's side, in the morning-room, with its blazing fire.
"Mother," said Josie.
"Yes, dear."
"I don't think there's anybody in all the whole world so good as
Leveson."
"At all events there is no one more dear to us, except—"
"Yes, I know," said Josie hastily, having a great dread of allusions
which might end in weeping. "But I don't mean that. I mean that he is
so very good—don't you think he is almost a little too good sometimes?
He has been wanting to get himself a microscope for ever so long, so
that he could show me things in it. He said it would make a cheese-mite
look ever so big, and a needle like a great spear. And now he has gone
and spent the money on beggars."
"Not beggars, I suspect. Leveson likes to hunt out the poor and needy
who do not beg."
"But you know what I mean. O dear, this seam is dreadfully long."
"Poor Josie—always in some trouble."
"I don't think there's any trouble so bad as a great long seam without
any end."
"If it really had no end, I half think I could agree with you."
"Well, this hasn't—hardly," said Josie. "I can't see any as I work, and
my back aches, and my fingers are so cold."
"Nurse will take you out for a walk presently."
"I like that, only nurse won't take me where I wish. She is so fond of
seeing all the shops, and I don't care for them unless I have something
to buy. But I haven't a penny left."
"Shall I send you to the toy-shop as a little treat, if you finish your
seam nicely?"
"The toy-shop?"
"Yes, to spend a shilling for me, on something that a certain little
girl would like to have for her own."
"O mother! You darling!" And Josie gave her an enthusiastic hug,
returning to the seam vigorously. "I'm going to work ever so hard now,
and I shall soon finish."
"I should like to see you doing as much to please me, Josie, as you
will do for the sake of a shilling."
"Oh, but indeed, it isn't that I don't want to please you, only—only—"
Josie paused, in perplexity how to wind up,—"only it is so hard. But,
mother, do you think Leveson needed to do that—about his microscope?"
"I can't judge for Leveson."
"Because he gives ever so much away. And I wanted to see the
microscope."
"That is a reason which I suspect weighed more with Leveson than any
wish to have it himself. But I suppose he thought his poor people
needed help, even more than you needed to see a magnified needle or
cheese-mite."
Josie made no answer, and worked steadily for a while. Suddenly she
sprang up with a shout—
"It's done—quite done. Isn't that good? And now may I—?"
Mrs. Therlock pulled out her purse; and Josie flew off with the
shilling in her hand.
No long time passed before she found herself in the shop with nurse.
Such an array of toys lay before her, that it was no easy matter to
choose. There were dolls in abundance, but she had plenty at home.
There were boxes of toys, but Josie considered herself rather beyond
them. And after all a shilling would not do very much. Josie inquired
the price of half the things she saw, at first in high spirits, which
grew slightly irritable, as she found how little she could purchase.
However, she satisfied herself at last with a neat white basket, which
she told nurse "would just hold her smallest doll's best frocks, which
were tumbling about among all the bigger things. And mother likes me to
be tidy even with my toys," added Josie, anxious to prove the wisdom of
her choice.
It was a keen day, though sunshiny. The frost had lasted long, and
while most of the snow had disappeared, it still lay in thick patches
on the roofs, and in sheltered corners. Nurse was lingering at a
shop-window, to admire the remains of some Christmas decorations, and
Josie had walked on a few yards, admiring her basket as she went. She
remembered all at once that it was just about here she had seen the
poor little starving girl some months back, and raising her eyes at the
recollection, they unexpectedly encountered the same child. The very
same—Josie had no doubt about that. Face and hands indeed were cleaner,
and the ragged frock had been carefully patched; but she was just as
thin, just as hollow-checked, just as miserable, just as much a picture
of want, as when Josie had last come across her.
"Why," Josie exclaimed involuntarily, "you're the very same little girl
that was starving that day,—ever so long ago."
"I'm starvin' now," said Ailie, speaking feebly, though with a gleam of
recognition.
"But if you are always starving, how is it that you never get quite
starved?" asked Josie.
"I haven't been since that day. Gran'father's kept me, an' I've had
enough. But he's out o' work now, and we've sold nigh everythin', an'
the money's gone," said Ailie.
"I did not know you had a grandfather," said Josie. "You told me you
had no home."
"Nor I hadn't," said Ailie. "An' he only makes me call him gran'father,
'cause he's so good to me. Old Job Kippis is his name. He's give me a
home all these months past."
"A home where?" asked Josie.
"Up in his garret. Top of a house, down a back street nigh to here,"
said Ailie.
"Up in a garret! How very dreadful," said Josie. "Why doesn't your
grandfather get more work?"
"He can't. He's tried. An' he says we'll have to go to the work'us."
"Why, that's just what you were afraid of last time," said Josie,
dubiously. "And yet you have never been. Where's your mother?"
"I dunno," said Ailie, gulping down a sob.
"How do you mean,—don't know?"
"She's never come. They set her loose out o' jail, an' she set off for
to come back, an' she never come. Nobody don't know where she is."
"I wonder if you are really telling me the truth now," said Josie
thoughtfully. "I do wish Leveson were here, for he would be sure to
know, and I am sure I don't."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XVII.
LEVESON'S SECRET.
THEY stood looking each at the other,—the little daintily-dressed
girl, in her warm winter clothing, with furs, and muff, and sheltering
jacket; and the poor child, with wasted frame, and hollow eyes, and
threadbare rags, through which every gust of wind swept piercingly.
"Now, Miss Josie!"
"Yes, I know, nurse," said Josie, turning in self-defence at the sound
of reproof. "But this is the same little girl I saw once before, and
you know what mother said."
"Don't believe it is the same," said nurse shortly.
"O yes, it is, because I know her face. She has been living with her
grandfather ever since,—at least she says so,—and he isn't her real
grandfather, but he gave her a home when she was starving. Wasn't that
it, little girl?"
Ailie nodded. "An' gran'father grows weaker an' weaker, an' there ain't
a morsel to give him," she said passionately. "An' it's all along of my
livin' with him, that he's come to this."
"It is very dreadful," said Josie. "I wish I had my shilling back.
Nurse, couldn't you lend me a penny? I'll pay you back when I have my
allowance."
"'Tisn't any way to encourage beggars," said nurse decidedly. "I wash
my hands of the whole concern, Miss Josie. If you go and catch a mortal
fever, and get the house broken into and burned down, and all of us
shot and smothered alive, like them Fenians do in Ireland, 'tain't my
fault."
"I am sure this little girl wouldn't burn anybody," said Josie. "I
haven't anything to give you now, little girl, but you must come to our
house this evening,—no, not this evening, because I am going out with
mother to tea,—but you must come to-morrow morning. Now mind."
"Thank ye, Miss," said Ailie.
"You don't know where we live though," said Josie, and with some
difficulty she made the matter clear to Ailie. "Now mind you don't
forget. Number Sixteen, and you are to ask for Miss Therlock." Josie
looked dignified as she spoke. "If we find out that you have told me
the exact truth, we will give you help."
"An' grandfather?" whispered Ailie.
"Yes, and your old grandfather too, of course. But mother likes to help
little girls best, because—"
Josie paused, and looked grave, before continuing, "Yes, I know she
will help you. It always makes her so unhappy to see any little girl
hungry. That is the only reason I don't like you to come to the house.
But you must come, and we'll give you something to eat before she sees
you, and then you won't look so pinched. I wish I had a penny here, but
I haven't."
"Nor I neither, so it's no good looking at me," said nurse. "Shows how
much you think of your mamma's feelings, Miss Josie,—taking to her a
child like that. When you know it'll make her think of Miss Vi, and
she'll cry."
"I do think of her feelings," said Josie indignantly. "But I can't
leave the little girl to starve. That isn't what mother would like.
Mind you come, little girl, for I shall tell my mother all about you,
and it would make her very unhappy, if you didn't. So mind you come."
And with a little parting nod, she marched off, followed by nurse.
Suddenly remembering that Leveson had promised to look in on them that
afternoon, she quickened her steps. All the way home her mind was
full of the hungry child; but on reaching the house, that subject was
banished by the sight of Leveson in the passage.
"Oh, how nice! I was so afraid you wouldn't come," and she flung
herself into his arms.
"I was afraid too that I could not manage it, but having told you to
expect me, I thought I must spare a couple of hours."
"Is mother in?" asked Josie, clinging to him, and leading him into the
dining-room. "She meant to be back early from her walk."
"No, I hear she was delayed in going out by a visitor, so she has not
returned yet. You and I must be content with each other's company for a
while."
"And now tell me all sorts of things, and ask me a hundred questions,"
said Josie, establishing herself on the sofa arm, with her hand on his
shoulder. "Do!"
But Leveson was provokingly absent. He smiled and talked, but his
questions were few, and his answers wide of the mark.
"What are you thinking about?" she said at length.
"Not of what you were saying, I am afraid," said Leveson, rousing
himself. "I beg your pardon, Josie."
"But what is it?" asked Josie.
"Never mind now. I am afraid your tongue runs a little too fast, my
small woman, for you to be trusted with secrets."
"Now, Leveson—when I kept that secret about mother's birthday present
for a whole six weeks!"
"Ah, that was a different thing. And hints and conscious looks will not
do here."
"I am sure I shall look conscious now," said Josie. "And mother will
ask me why, and I shall tell her I don't know, so she had better ask
you."
"Not if I ask you to tell her no such thing!"
"Oh, but do tell me your secret, Leveson. Indeed you may trust me. Oh,
do."
Leveson shook his head, and looked out of the window.
"What is it about?" asked Josie. "Nothing bad, I suppose. No, I can see
that in your face. Is it very good?"
"Almost too good to be true—if true," muttered Leveson. "I hardly dare
to hope, and yet—it seems more than probable—"
"Leveson! It's about Vi," exclaimed Josie, starting up with a shriek.
"Hush, hush, Josie. I am very unwise to say so much."
"Oh, won't you—oh, do tell me," implored Josie. "Have you heard the
least little bit of anything about Vi?"
"It is just possible; I can say no more than that. A friend of mine
has come across a child who might be—may be—but it is all uncertain.
To-morrow I shall search out all particulars, and go to see her."
"And won't you tell mother?"
"On no account. The uncertainty, and the possible disappointment after
all, would half kill her. Josie, for her sake, you must allow no sign
of this to escape you in her presence,—not even an allusion to what you
have heard."
"No, I won't—I won't," promised Josie. "But how soon shall we know?"
"You may depend upon me to look in to-morrow evening, whether I have
anything certain or not to tell you."
"Is it near here that the little girl lives? Fancy, if she is Vi!"
cried Josie.
"No, far away, quite in another part of London. She lives with an old
charwoman."
"Vi herself! Think of that! Won't it be a change for her to come home?
Don't you think it must be Vi?"
"I can't say. It may be, but that is all, though I certainly have
hopes."
"Do you think she will remember us?" asked Josie.
"Hardly possible. A little creature only two and a half years old,—but
her face was not one likely to change much, and she was the very image
of your mother. Do you recollect her?"
"Not much. You see I was so small—only four or five; but I remember us
two playing with our dolls, together. And then the day she was lost—I
haven't forgotten that. Nurse had dressed her out in that lovely worked
frock, which her godmamma gave her. I know that, because nurse told
me I didn't look one quarter so nice in mine, and that made me angry
with Vi. We were going to tea somewhere, weren't we?—And on the way, I
remember a great crowd of people, and I was frightened, and clung to
nurse ever so tight, and then nurse missed Vi. And I remember how wild
she was, when she hunted and couldn't find her, and no one seemed to
have noticed her. And then mother's crying—oh, how dreadfully she used
to cry—and nurse's illness and going away, and the new nurse coming,
and mother's saying she could never leave London again till Vi was
found, and how I used to long for the green fields again. I remember
all quite well. Oh, if you really have found her—only think!—won't it
be great, great happiness?"
"We shall never be able to thank God enough, if it is so," said
Leveson. "But I hardly venture yet to hope, after all this vain
searching for years."
"And then we should go into the country, shouldn't we?" said Josie. "I
wish I knew. I wish you had seen the little girl."
"Only a few hours to wait, I trust. It was not till I was in the act of
starting to come here, that my friend told me about her, and he could
not go with me to-night, but to-morrow—early—"
"O Leveson!"
"Hush, that is my mother's step."
And hard as they both found it, they talked naturally and quietly, so
that she saw nothing unusual in their faces or voices—nothing to make
her suspect what was going on.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XVIII.
LETTIE'S FRIGHT.
AILIE walked home slowly after her interview with Josie
Therlock,—slowly, and with failing limbs, though her heart felt
lightened and more hopeful. Only a few more hours, and then—
Job was lying on the bed when she went in. The little garret looked
desolate, stripped of all its belongings, save the one bed, the one
chair, and the carefully kept print over the fireplace. Everything
else had gone in the struggle for subsistence. And though unruffled in
expression, Job had a shrunken appearance.
Ailie did not bound into the room as she had once been wont to do. She
came in with a dragging step, and sat down on the floor, saying merely—
"I think we'll have some'at to eat to-morrow."
"So do I, deary,—at the work'us. It's come to that now, an' nothin'
else."
"Not the work'us, gran'father. I've seen the little lady again, as
spoke to me once before, an' she's telled me to go to her in the
mornin',—an' she'll help us, if I've told her truth."
Job's smile was pleasant to see.
"Didn't I say the Lord 'ud not forsake us?"
"Only it's hard to wait so long," whispered sinking her voice. "I feels
so bad."
"Ah, it's hard to bear,—hunger—ain't it?" said Job pityingly. "Poor
little dear! Wish I'd anythin' to give ye, I do."
"There ain't nothin'—" and Ailie sobbed as she leant against the wall.
"Poor little 'un,—an' I can't get up to help ye. Get yer coverlid, an'
wrap it round ye, Ailie, an' have some sleep. It'll make the mornin'
come faster."
Ailie brought it slowly, and coiled herself up on the floor, like a
little dormouse. She did not feel inclined yet to go to her closet, and
once settled down on the floor, she did not move again. They kept their
clothes on for warmth, both of them, these bitter nights, and Job lay
patiently on his straw mattress, beneath the scanty covering.
"If 'twasn't for the thought o' the mornin', I'd be fain to give up,
an' get some'un to apply to the work'us for us. Can ye hold out, Ailie?"
"I'll hold out," said Ailie, with an attempt at cheeriness.
"It's very cold," said Job, for something worse than the chill of
winter's cold was upon him. Ailie did not know how he had denied
himself day after day all but the barest pittance of food, that he
might have more to give her. "It's very cold," he murmured. "'Lord,
give us this day our daily bread.' But the day 'll soon be over."
"Yes," said Ailie, with a sob. "An' it's the second day we ain't had no
daily bread."
"He'd give it us sure, if 'twas good for us. I did think maybe He
was a-thinkin' of calling me Home in that way,—but the little lady's
promised to help us now, eh?"
"Yes, gran'father," said Ailie.
"Poor little deary maybe I've done wrong in consentin' to wait so
long," said Job anxiously. "It's nigh too much for us both. But I can't
do nothin' more to-night. Wall have to wait till mornin'."
The garret room grew still after that. They did not move or speak
again for a while,—a long while. Darkness came on slowly, and they
had no light, no fire. Utter darkness crept into the little garret.
Yet upon one heart there, a ray of heaven's brightness was streaming,
unseen by mortal eye,—unseen by little Ailie, as she crouched, weak and
shivering, near the foot of the bed.
Morning broke at last, and as the light began to show through the
room, there came a tap at the door. No answer was returned, and the
tap was repeated, but with the same result. Then it creaked slightly,
and Lettie's little face appeared inside, having vainly awaited an
invitation to enter. After one glance, Lettie's eyes opened wide with
fear, and she vanished. Two minutes later she reappeared, following
Esther Forsyth.
"Why, I say, Mr. Kippis—are ye ill, both of ye?"
No answer came from Job when she bent over him, save a mutter, and the
dim eyes were fixed. Ailie moaned, when Esther touched her.
"They're downright starved, both of 'em. An' I haven't a morsel left.
Last scraps we had was eaten up last night. What'll we do?"
"I can't walk," said Ailie, rousing herself so far as to speak. "An'
the little lady said she'd help us."
"What little lady? Sure the child's wanderin' in her head," said Esther.
"I ain't. 'Twas the little lady as spoke to me before; an' she telled
me to go this mornin' an' she'd give me food, an' help us."
Ailie attempted to stand up, but in vain. "It's no manner o' use your
tryin' to walk without victuals," said Esther. "I'll go an' beg a scrap
from some o' the neighbours."
She went off, and soon came back with a good lump of dry bread, which
Ailie attacked eagerly, while Mrs. Forsyth endeavoured to force a
little through the closed teeth of the old man. It was a vain attempt.
She desisted, and shook her head. "I doubt me but it's too late."
"No, no, he ain't goin' to die," cried Ailie. "O I wish I could get off
an' tell the little lady."
Again she started up, but fell back like an infant, and she began to
sob.
"Maybe I'd do," said Lettie. "Would I be frightened to go an' speak for
ye, Ailie?"
"No, no, there ain't nothin' to frighten ye," said Ailie. "She's ever
so kind, is the little lady, an' she'll give ye lots to eat. Only do
save a bit for gran'father."
Lettie evidently thought that entreaty superfluous, but she listened
to Ailie's instructions, as to where she should go, and how she should
act. Mrs. Forsyth proposed that Hor should undertake the errand; but
Ailie scouted the idea. "It was little girls as the lady liked to
help—it wasn't boys—and Hor wasn't a girl."
So Lettie went off alone, starting at once. The chill air pierced the
scanty rags which formed her dress, and her little chilblained hands
and feet were painful. But Lettie never cried about pain. She only went
on steadily, growing more timid and also more hungry every pace of her
way, until she reached the house to which Ailie had directed her.
Her first ring was very feeble; and after waiting a long while,
shivering from head to foot in the icy wind, she ventured to give a
second pull. This time she was heard. The door opened, and a tall
servant looked down impatiently on the small child.
"A beggar—we don't want beggars here," she said shortly.
"Please," entreated Lettie, "the little lady said—"
"Are you the child Miss Josie told to come for some food?"
Lettie hardly knew what to say; and at that moment a voice called down
the stairs—
"Harrison, if it is my poor little girl, she is to wait in the hall,
and I'll be down in a few minutes. Give her that basket of things on
the sideboard, and tell her she may eat what she likes, and take the
rest home."
Every word of the message reached Lettie. "Well," said the tall
servant, "are you the child?"
"Please, she's sent me," whispered Lettie. "She's ill, and can't walk."
"Fever?" asked the servant, drawing back.
"No—starvin'," said Lettie.
"Oh!" said the servant, as if that were a matter of secondary
importance. "Well, come in and take the basket, and eat what you like,
till Miss Josie comes down."
Lettie took the basket obediently, and stood close to the door, which
was left merely on the latch. She peeped inside, and wondered at the
nice rolls and the pat of beautiful butter which met her gaze; but she
was far too timid to venture to take any.
Suddenly a lady came down the stairs and passed towards the door of
a room. She paused a moment, turning with a sweet sad smile to look
at the little ragged figure standing there. But it was a smile that
changed all at once—changed suddenly and strangely—changed to something
that Lettie could not understand. A livid whiteness came over the
lady's face; a hoarse shriek echoed wildly through the house; and
throwing up her hands convulsively in the air, she fell senseless to
the ground.
Lettie could not stand that! Without a moment's consideration, and
before she knew what she was doing, she had rushed out of the house,
and fled at full speed down the street—quite unconsciously grasping
still her basket of eatables. Nor did she once slacken speed, or dream
of turning back, till she again reached home.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XIX.
LITTLE VI.
"LEVESON!" and with a cry of joy Josie sprang to meet her brother. "Oh,
how glad I am that you have come at last!"
"Why, Josie, my dear little Josie, I am sorry I said anything to you of
my secret, if it has agitated you like this," said Leveson. "And I have
nothing but disappointment for you."
"About Vi—then you know it wasn't her?"
"No, the story has come to nothing. I have seen the child, and inquired
thoroughly into her history, and—"
"Oh, only think," exclaimed Josie, patience failing her—"only think,
there came a little girl to the house this morning—not my little beggar
girl, because she was ill, and sent this one in her stead—and oh,
Leveson, mother saw her and she says it is Vi."
"Vi! Impossible!"
[Illustration: She paused a moment to look at the little figure
standing there.]
"She says so. She goes on saying it over and over again. She saw the
little girl in the passage, and she screamed and fell down as if she
were dead. It was so dreadful. And the little girl must have been
frightened away, for we found her gone. Mother gave such a shriek that
I heard it up in my room—so loud!"
"Poor mother!" murmured Leveson. "She has been heart-broken about that
child."
"And we don't know in the least where the little girl lives. Oh, how we
have wanted you! Nurse doesn't know what to do, and I was sure that, if
we sent, you would be out, so it would not bring you any sooner than
you meant to come this evening. Mother has been ill all day—crying
and laughing and talking so fast, and calling out, 'It's my Vi—my own
little Vi!' She frightens me so. I am glad you have come!" Josie's
clinging hands and catching sobs told of the shock she had herself
received.
Leveson held her in his arms, kissing the flushed face. "What makes
mother think it is Vi, Josie?"
"Oh, her face. Mother says it is just the same as when she was a
baby,—not altered in the least."
"Ah, my mother always declared she should recognize her anywhere by her
eyes."
"Blue, were they not?" said Josie.
"Yes, blue of a very peculiar tint and peculiar shape, and there was a
curious deep dimple in each of her cheeks. It was not a face likely to
change much."
"Wasn't she like mother?"
"As like as you are to our father. The very image of her. But come, you
must take me in now. Is she down-stairs?"
"No, she is in her room, and nurse wanted her to go to bed, but she
will only lie on the sofa. How glad she will be to see you!"
They went up-stairs, and Leveson's cheerful voice had a soothing sound,
as he entered the room.
"How do you do, mother? Josie has told me your good news."
Josie drew back, frightened at the burst of weeping which followed his
entrance; but Leveson held her hand, with an encouraging glance, and
presently Mrs. Therlock raised her face, all tears and smiles.
"This is very weak, very ungrateful; but oh—to think that my child is
found, and that I should have driven her from home again."
"Not driven far at all events," said Leveson. "Now suppose you tell me
all that happened, and why you think it is Vi, so that I may know how
to act."
"Think! I know it is Vi," sobbed Mrs. Therlock. "My own little darling.
So shivering, and poorly clad, and half-starved; but I knew her—I knew
her—I should know her anywhere."
"Know her by what?"
"Her face, her eyes, her mouth, her dimples,—the very manner—that
quaint timid manner. She is the most perfect image of the old likeness
taken of me when I was eight years old. And you know how like to me
Vi was always considered. She has hardly changed in the least—only
so thin and white, my poor little precious one. To think she should
have been living near, and I to know nothing about it! But there is no
possibility of a mistake. I know—I am certain it is her. Vi! Vi! How am
I to get my child?"
"Mother, if you excite yourself so much, I shall not dare to talk to
you on the subject," said Leveson. "I am afraid you will make yourself
ill. Try to be quiet, while Josie tells me how it came about. Tell me
all you know about the little girl, dear."
"Why, you know that starving child I saw once," said Josie. "And the
day before yesterday—no, yesterday evening—afternoon I mean—"
"Tell me gently. Don't be in a hurry—" For Josie hardly seemed to know
what she was saying.
"Yesterday I met her, just in the same place as before, and close to
the same fountain. I have shown you the place, you know. Nurse was a
little way behind, but I stopped and spoke to her, and she said she was
starving again. She had been living with an old man up in a garret, she
said, and she called him 'grandfather,' because he was so good to her.
And I asked after her mother, but she never came back at all, after she
was set free from jail.
"I had spent my shilling, and I had no money, so I told her to come
to-day for some food. And this morning I was up in my room, when I
heard the front door opened, and Harrison saying something about not
wanting beggars. So I called out that the little girl wasn't to go
away, but was to have the basket of food, which I had put out for her
before breakfast, and was to wait in the hall till I came down, because
nurse was mending my frock just then."
"And you thought it was the child you had seen before?"
"Yes, but Harrison says that she said she was not, but had been sent,
because that little girl was ill from starving and couldn't come.
And then just as I was going down-stairs, I heard mother call out,
and nurse and I rushed down and found her fainting. And we were so
frightened that no one remembered anything more about the little girl,
until mother began to ask for her, and then we found that she was gone."
"Josie, don't call her 'the little girl!' She is Vi—your own little
sister Vi," said Mrs. Therlock feverishly.
"Did she leave the basket?" asked Leveson.
"No, that was taken," said Josie. "I suppose she was so hungry that she
didn't forget it in her fright. Do you think she really can be Vi?"
"It is," said Mrs. Therlock. "I cannot bear any doubts. I can't bear
them, Leveson. Only find her for me."
"You cannot tell me anything more about her?" said Leveson. "A friend
of the other child's, did you say, Josie?"
"I only know she was sent by her," said Josie. "That is all. But if you
could find the other child, you could find her—Vi, I mean," she added,
with a frightened glance at her mother.
"What is the other's name?"
"I don't know. I never thought of asking. It was so stupid, but nurse
scolded, and that put it out of my head. Oh, Leveson, only think, if I
had stopped that day we were going to Hampton Court, I might—"
"Hush, never mind now," said Leveson in a low voice, with a look which
Josie understood. "Did you ask where she lived?"
"I think I said something about it, because she told me it was up in a
garret of a house, not far from where she was then," said Josie.
"Come, that is not so bad. 'Not far' in London means a great deal. And
she lives with an old man, you say?"
"Yes. I can't remember his name exactly, but it was Job something—Job
Kips, or Job Kippers. Nurse says it was Job Klips, but I don't think
there was any 'l' in it."
"That is quite a clue. There are not likely to be two men with such a
singular name. I hope I shall hunt him out with no great difficulty.
And we must remember too, that even if I could not easily discover him,
it is pretty certain that you will see something more of the little
granddaughter. If they are in want, they will probably apply again for
assistance, though of course I have no intention of waiting for the
chance."
"Yes, I have been hoping all day that the little girl—Vi, I mean—might
come back, when she got over her fright; but she hasn't. And they have
the food."
"But you will find them soon," said Mrs. Therlock. "Leveson, tell me
you will."
"At least I can promise to do all in my power," said Leveson gently.
"Trust,—only trust, mother, and all will turn out well. I believe
we shall find our darling has been guarded all these years—that our
prayers for her have been answered. She may have been in a rough
school, but a rough school is sometimes the best in the end."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XX.
THE SEARCH ENDED.
TWO days of incessant inquiry passed by, leading to no result. Hour
after hour Leveson wandered from street to street, from house to house,
from shop to shop, asking the same questions over and over again, but
always with the same result. Nobody could tell him anything of Job
Kips, Klips, or Kippers,—and as for motherless and fatherless children,
he might find them by the score. But he came upon no little Vi.
Not till the third afternoon did he meet with a clue. Asking an old
vegetable vendor, at the corner of a dirty back street, the oft
reiterated question, and at the same time making a slight purchase to
secure a civil answer, she looked him in the face with a shrill laugh.
"Job Kips,—an' what if I does know a old man, as is named Job Kippis?
Mayhap 'tisn't the same."
"Probably it is," said Leveson. "At all events I should be glad to know
where Job Kippis lives."
"Ain't a 'tective, eh?" said the old woman. "He's a honest man, he be."
"I am no detective. I am a clergyman," responded Leveson. "You need
have no fear that the old man will gain harm from my visit."
"Nay, if yer be a parson, he'd likely be glad to see yer, for they says
he be ill."
"Tell me where he lives, and I will give you a shilling," said Leveson.
"Or show me the house, and you shall have half-a-crown."
The old creature's eyes twinkled. She left her barrow of vegetables
in charge of a girl, and led him off at a brisk pace round the
corner,—into a gloomy street, with overhanging houses, blackened and
grimy to a degree which even he, in all his city work, had rarely seen
surpassed.
"Them—he be up in top front garret there. He 've often dealt wi' me
till work failed him, an' spoke many a civil word too, he have. Where
be yer half-crown, parson?"
"One moment,—" and Leveson turned to a woman passing by with a baby in
her arms. "Is there an old man named Job Kippis living here?"
"Sure enough, up in a top garret," was the answer, and the half-crown
was slipped into the old woman's hand, whereupon she went off
chuckling. Leveson detained the other woman for a moment.
"Can you tell me anything about Job Kippis? I suppose you know him?"
"He be ill now,—was nigh starved t'other day, an' couldn't hardly be
brought round."
"Has he a grandchild?"
"None of his own kith an' kin. He 've took little Ailie Carter for his
own, an' nigh come to the work'us. An old man like him weren't fit for
the charge."
"Is Ailie ill?"
"Both on 'em was found nigh starved by a neighbour t'other mornin'.
Ailie's a-pickin' up now."
"Has any one helped them?" asked Leveson.
"Some gentlefolks gev a basket o' food. But for them, I doubt they
wouldn't ha' pulled old Job through. But likely 'tis all gone now."
"That basket—" said Leveson, hardly able to speak steadily. "Ailie, you
say, was ill. She could not go to fetch the basket. Who was the little
girl that went in her stead?"
"Little girl in her stead—" repeated the woman absently, being occupied
in wondering how the gentleman came to know so much about the matter,
and deciding that he must have sent the food himself. "I'm a poor
widder, sir, and 'ud be glad of help."
"If you will answer my questions, I am willing to give you a shilling
for taking up so much of your time," said Leveson, not liking the
assumed whine, yet feeling that the poor thing might need assistance.
"Sure, sir, I'll answer aught I can. Little girl sent in Ailie's
stead,—why 'twas Lettie Forsyth."
"Lettie Forsyth!" repeated Leveson. "Who are her parents?"
"Well, now I comes to think of it, sir, I've heard as she ain't got
none. But she be for all the world like to their own child."
"Will you kindly direct me to the Forsyths' rooms?" said Leveson,
and he followed her up the staircase, on which numerous children sat
and crawled, played and quarrelled; one and all pausing to stare in
amazement at the well-dressed stranger as he passed. Leveson looked
pityingly on the little ones,—unwashed, uncombed, untaught, uncared
for, unconscious of a Saviour's love, unknowing a Redeemer's story. Oh,
this mighty London harvest,—how few the labourers in comparison with
the work awaiting them!
"And there is room in the fold for one and all, if we could but call
them in!" murmured Leveson to himself.
Reaching the upper floor but one, Leveson's guide opened a door, and
called out, "I say, Mrs. Forsyth, here be a parson come to see yer."
Thereupon the promised reward was given, and a kind word with it.
The next moment Leveson stood in an ill-furnished room, where two
infants sat on the floor, and a woman was busy at a loom. No one
else was present. She rose and placed a rickety chair for the
gentleman,—then waited, with no lightening up of her tired look.
"May I have a few words with you?" said Leveson, and his gentle manner
won her confidence at once. He entered without delay upon the subject
in his mind, for suspense was becoming unbearable. "I am anxious to
hear something about the little girl under your charge."
"Under our charge—Lettie, ye'd say," returned Esther, as his meaning
dawned on her.
"Yes. I believe she is not your own child."
"Seems like as if she was," said Esther. "It don't make no difference.
John and I loves her as if she was our own."
"May I ask who were her parents?"
Esther shook her head. "I don't know nothin' about 'em, sir. She were a
poor little starvelin' a-wanderin' alone, an' like to drop. An' we took
her in out o' pity, an' she were that pretty an' clinging in her ways,
we couldn't part with her. John, he did talk o' the work'us, but we
couldn't send her,—we couldn't. We wasn't so poor then as we be now."
"How long ago was this?"
"Five years agone, sir,—over that."
"Five—" repeated Leveson.
"An' she were a mite of a child then, an' couldn't speak plain."
"Did you make no effort to discover her home?"
"'Twasn't much we could do, sir. We didn't live in this part then,"
and Esther sighed. "We'd plenty o' work, an' was well off. But John,
he wanted to get on, an' he heard o' higher wages elsewhere, an' he
couldn't be content to stay on where he was."
"Where were you then?"
"Some way off o' this, sir—a good hour's walk. We was starting the
very next day after we found Lettie, an' we took the child with us.
John did ask about her, but nobody couldn't tell nothin', an' he left
word with a neighbour to let it be known, if there was any inquiries.
But we never heard nothin' more. There's many a little one forsook by
its parents, an' that's what we thought with Lettie—only sometimes at
first I'd a fancy she wasn't a poor child born, for all her rags an'
tatters. But that's all I knows about her, an' she was too young to
tell us more. She'd cry for her mammy—not as I think she called her
that, she spoke her words so queer—but she was easy comforted, an' Hor
an' she took together wonderful. 'Twas only two years ago we came back
to London, an' since then we've been goin' down an' down, till I don't
know where it's to end."
"What made you call the child 'Lettie'?" inquired Leveson.
"'Twas the best it seemed to us. She couldn't speak plain; but she
telled us her name was Wilet, or Wiletta, or somethin' like; but it
sounded queer, so we just called her Lettie. 'Twas most times, 'Baby
wants this,' when she asked for anythin'; an' sometimes she'd say, 'Wi
wants it.' But we couldn't call a child Wi, sir, an' she soon forgot."
"Violetta—little Vi," said Leveson, with pale and trembling lips, at
which Mrs. Forsyth gazed in amazement. "Little Wi—the old baby name.
How we used to laugh at her for saying it! Little Vi—O God, I thank
Thee—found at last!"
And then raising his face, which he had bent in deep and wondering
gratitude, he told Esther of the little lost one, over whom they had
mourned, and for whom they had vainly sought, these five years past.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXI.
LETTIE'S RECOLLECTIONS.
"NOW ain't it just wonderful?" said Esther Forsyth, in overwhelming
astonishment. "To think o' that! Little Lettie as has lived with us all
this while—an' for a gentleman like yerself, sir, to be her brother."
"But how to thank you enough for all your tender care of our little
lost one, I do not know," said Leveson, with moist eyes and unsteady
voice. "When I think of what might have become of her, but that you
took pity—"
"Twasn't no praise to me, sir," said Esther. "It's a dear child she
've been; so good an' handy with the boys; an' never giving a scrap of
trouble. I don't know what I'll do without her."
"You are a mother, Mrs. Forsyth. Think what her mother has suffered all
these years. And she has only one child beside."
"Lettie 'll be a deal better off," said Esther unselfishly. "It's many
a day an' night she's knowed cold an' hunger, when we hadn't victuals
nor fire to give her."
"I have a great deal more to say to you—much that I wish to do as a
proof of our gratitude," said Leveson. "But I must leave that now till
another day. I long to take the dear child to her mother. What do you
think she will feel herself when she hears it?"
"Lettie? I'll call her in. She'll be main glad, if she 've sense to
know her own interests. She be down now in the court, a-keeping watch
over Roger—that's our half-witted boy, sir. Dear, dear, how the boys
'll ever get along without her.—But I'll go an' bring her in."
"And do not tell her anything by the way, if you please. Only say a
gentleman wants to see her."
Mrs. Forsyth nodded assent, and hurried off, her silent nature for
once aroused to excitement. Leveson waited with all the patience he
could muster, till Esther reappeared with a slight child, in ill-mended
rags, following after her. But the little face that looked up shyly
into his—Leveson did not wonder at his mother's instant recognition, so
marvellous was the resemblance in feature and expression, not only to
the lost infant of five years earlier, but to Mrs. Therlock herself.
Very tenderly, he lifted her upon his knee, for he was anxious not to
startle the little one, and in his gentlest voice he said, "You don't
know who I am, do you, Lettie?"
"Mother telled me a parson was come," said Lettie's shy deliberate
tones.
"What do you think the parson has come for?"
"Dunno," whispered Lettie.
"Lettie, you are very fond of Mrs. Forsyth, are you not?"
Lettie nodded, and corrected him with the word "Mother."
"But she's not your own real mother, you know."
"Yes, she be," said Lettie unexpectedly.
"No, no, I ain't," said Esther, disposed to be tearful.
"'Cause Hor says you is, and I'm every bit his sister, an' he won't
have nobody say 'tain't," responded Lettie, with decision.
"But, Lettie, though Mrs. Forsyth has been very very kind and good
to you for a great many years, yet she is not your own mother," said
Leveson. "Would you not like to see your own real dear mother?"
Lettie looked dubious.
"I say, Lettie, don't ye remember anythin' of the days afore ye lived
with us?" said Mrs. Forsyth.
"Dunno," murmured Lettie.
"Don't you remember a kind gentle lady, who used to kiss little Lettie,
and hold her in her arms, and give her nice presents?" asked Leveson.
"No," said Lettie.
"Don't you remember nursie, whom you loved so much? One day she put
such a pretty frock on Lettie, and took her out to walk; and then there
was a great crowd, and somebody carried off Lettie, and stole her nice
clothes. Don't you remember all that?"
Lettie shook her head.
"She were such a mite," said Esther.
"I does 'member one big white flower," said Lettie.
"What, a tall flower, in a pot, with long green leaves, standing in a
window?"
Lettie nodded this time.
"That was called a calla, and it used to be in my room. Strange that
she should remember the flower, and forget all else," added Leveson.
"She 've no recollection, sir, of havin' been lost," said Esther.
"Was it parson's big white flower?" asked Lettie, evidently interested.
"Yes, it was my flower. Lettie, we used to call you, Little Vi, in
those days. And you used to cry, and say, 'Little Wi wants that
f'ower.'"
"An' did little Vi have it?" asked Lettie, not clear as to who the said
child might be.
"No, but she was going to have it as soon as it began to fade, and just
before then something very sad happened. Shall I tell you a story?"
Lettie nodded with some energy.
"Once there was a lady who had two little girls. One was called Josie,
and one was called Vi. She was very very fond of them both, and they
used to live with her in the beautiful country, among the grass, and
the trees, and the flowers. But they came up to London sometimes, to an
old house that belonged to the lady, though they never stayed long.
"And one day, while they were there, the two little girls were going
out to tea with another kind lady. So nurse dressed them up, and Vi had
on a very beautiful frock, which had been given her as a present. Then
nurse took them out to walk to the lady's house; but on the way, there
was a great crowd of people, and in the crowd, nurse all at once lost
sight of little Vi. She looked for her, and hunted for her, but it was
of no use. I think some wicked man, when he saw little Vi alone, must
have carried her off for the sake of her pretty frock.
"Then nurse went home, and she cried a great deal, and the other little
girl cried a great deal, and the poor mother cried most of all—oh,
so much and so sadly. But no one could find little Vi. The lady said
she could never leave London and go into the country again, until her
little Vi was found, so she went on waiting, and hoping, and grieving,
and no one could find her little Vi. And more than five long years
passed away, and still the poor mother was sorrowful at the thought of
her little lost child."
"Didn't she never be happy again?" asked Lettie.
"I think she will be happy soon. When I take home her little lost Vi to
her this afternoon, I think she will be quite happy."
"And won't cry no more?"
"No,—no more, because she will be too glad to cry."
Then, after a pause, "Lettie, will you come home with me?"
Lettie shook her head.
"Wouldn't you like to live in a pretty house, and have plenty to eat,
and all sorts of lovely flowers and nice playthings?"
"I'd like to bring 'em to mother," said Lettie.
"So you shall—all sorts of things. But you must come home with me
first."
Another sign of dissent.
"And we will go into a shop by the way, and order in a good supper for
Hor and all of them," whispered Leveson.
"Will we?"
"To be sure we will."
"I'll come," said Lettie.
At all events she trusted him. "I don't see as she understands yet,"
said Mrs. Forsyth.
"Better not too quickly. It will all come in time. Now, Mrs. Forsyth,
I will ask you just to wash her hands and face for me, and then I will
take her away. Don't think it is good-bye. I shall soon bring her round
to see you all."
But Esther took the child to the corner of the room, and washed and
cried over her together. "It's but ragged an' shabby she be, sir, but I
couldn't do no better—not even for my own," she said.
"I am sure of it," said Leveson kindly; and as he rose he held out his
hand for a hearty grasp. "We owe you a heavy debt, Mrs. Forsyth, and I
will take care it is not forgotten."
With Lettie's hand clasped in his own, and her little feet pattering
by his side, he went down the broad staircase, and out into the gloomy
street. What a place! To think that his little sister could have lived
here so long! He looked down on the small grave face, and then, as they
came to some sharp stones, he lifted her up in his arms, pitying the
tiny feet. Lettie submitted in silence. A gentleman to be carrying her!
It was something unusual, certainly, in her experience, and she waited
to see what would happen next.
To Leveson it mattered nothing at all that people stared at the sight
of the well-dressed young clergyman carrying such a ragged little
object through the streets. What signified rags to him? He only pressed
her the closer in his arms, with a rush of love, and Lettie looked up
in wonder to say:
"Is you glad?"
"Glad! My dear little sister!" was the response.
And Lettie's serious face showed that some comprehension of the truth
was gaining entrance into her mind.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXII.
BROUGHT HOME.
THEY stopped at a baker's shop—Lettie still borne in the arms which
could not weary of their burden—and there Leveson ordered loaves and
rolls sufficient to supply the Forsyth family for a week at least. At
another shop, he desired that a goodly pat of butter and a quart of milk
should be despatched to the same quarter; from another, he sent tea
and sugar; and finally a joint of meat was ordered to follow in the
morning. After which he hailed a cab, and stepped into it, sitting with
Lettie on his knee, not making her talk, but watching the bewildered
gravity of the little face, and tracing more strongly every moment the
likeness to little Vi of old.
Home at last. Leveson paid and dismissed the cabman, then lifted Lettie
up the steps and into the hall. Josie came rushing to meet him, but
stopped short at the sight of the ragged little stranger.
"Yes, Josie, it is Vi herself," said Leveson.
Josie looked extremely perplexed what to do.
Lettie made no move, of course; and Josie was much more sensitive to
the rags than Leveson had been.
But a quick "Josie, have you no welcome to offer?" recalled her to
herself, and taking Lettie's hand, she kissed her shyly, letting the
hand drop again the next moment. It felt very uncomfortable. Somehow
this was not at all like the rapturous and enthusiastic re-union
that she had always imagined for Vi's return; and that silent timid
poor child did not seem in the least like her own sister. There was
something unreal about the whole matter, and Josie looked distressfully
at her brother.
"Patience, dear; it will all come right in time," said Leveson
comprehendingly. "Where is my mother?"
"Up-stairs. She heard you come, and she said she was sure, by the way
you shut the door, that you had some good news."
"Come, then, she is prepared," said Leveson. "We will go to her at
once."
Leading the passive little Lettie by the hand, he took her to the door
of the room, and entered alone. But he had no need to break the good
news. One look at his face told all. "Vi!—She is found!" were the only
words heard, broken by a stifled cry; and then Lettie was folded in
such a passionate embrace, that it seemed as if she could never again
be set free. Words failed here. Even sobs were silent in that first
five minutes of unutterable joy, and only the pressure of the mother's
arms spoke of what was passing in the mother's heart.
But she regained self-command. For the sake of her child, she sat up,
and smiled, and looked into the little strange yet familiar face, and
stroked back the uncombed hair, and kissed the thin though dimpled
cheeks. "Vi, my little pet—my little darling—have they told you who I
am? Do you know me, sweet one? Do you love me, precious Vi?"
"Call her Lettie—that is the name she knows," whispered Leveson.
"I wants mother," murmured Lettie, who was growing alarmed at such
vehement caressing; and seeing this, Mrs. Therlock forced herself to be
calm.
"You shall have her again another day," said Leveson, laying his hand
on Lettie's head. "But this is mother, Lettie, and you are going to
learn to love dear mother very much. Do you remember that story I told
you?"
Lettie nodded.
"This is the poor mother who was so unhappy; but now she is happy,
because she has her lost child back again."
"She ain't happy—she's a cryin'," said Lettie.
"Only because she is so very glad that she doesn't know what to do.
Isn't Lettie glad to come to her own dear mother?"
"I wants—mother," said Lettie, with trembling lips.
"And won't you have me for a mother, sweet one?" asked Mrs. Therlock.
"Don't you think some of my frocks and things that I have outgrown
would do for Lettie?" demanded Josie suddenly. "She is so very ragged."
This was a practical turn given to affairs. "Would you like a pretty
frock, Lettie?" asked Leveson. "And some shoes and stockings?"
"Hor does want a jacket ever so, 'cause he can't get no work," said
Lettie.
"You darling, he shall have it," said Mrs. Therlock eagerly. "Give me a
kiss, and Hor shall have a new jacket."
"And now Josie shall take her to nurse in the next room, and see what
can be done in the way of dress," said Leveson, when that request was
acceded to. "No, mother, you must lie quiet. I cannot have you overdo
yourself, and I have a great deal to tell you. They will become better
acquainted if they are alone together," he added, in a lower voice.
Mrs. Therlock submitted, though she gazed longingly after the little
pair as they disappeared. She had many things to ask and hear—many
particulars concerning Leveson's search—how he had found Lettie; with
whom she had lived; what had been the manner of her life; and why and
when the Forsyths had first taken her up.
Leveson had so much to say, that before he had finished, the door again
opened, and the two little sisters entered, hand in hand—Lettie arrayed
in a blue merino frock, outgrown by Josie, with her hair brushed
smoothly behind her ears, and a neat pair of shoes and stockings on her
feet. The pleased smile on the little face was even a greater change.
"Little pet! You like your new frock, don't you?" said Mrs. Therlock,
drawing her close for another embrace. "Does it feel warm and
comfortable?"
"She looks nice, doesn't she?" said Josie, as Lettie nodded. "I feel
somehow as if she were really more like my sister now."
"Do you know what to call this little girl, Lettie?" asked Leveson,
touching Josie's shoulder.
"Miss Josie," promptly responded Lettie.
"No, only 'Josie,' because she is your sister. And what are you to call
me?"
Lettie attempted no answer.
"You must call me Leveson. It is a hard name, isn't it? But you will
soon learn how. And this lady?"
"I dunno," said Lettie.
"Won't you call me 'mother,' darling?" asked Mrs. Therlock.
But Lettie thought of another, and at once said—
"No."
"'Mamma,' then, sweet one."
Lettie nodded. She was very sparing of her words that evening, grave,
demure, silent, and submissive. They gave her a good tea which she
heartily enjoyed, and Josie brought out numberless toys afterwards,
making her presents generously of the best among them; but Lettie would
only show pleasure by looks, not by words.
Mrs. Therlock could not bear to have her out of her sight, though as
yet there was no return of affection, and when they put her to bed, she
sobbed herself to sleep for "mother." Her own mother, sitting near,
shed a good many tears in company, but she knew how time would work,
and she was too happy and thankful for the great mercy of having her
child restored, to dwell on minor troubles.
Josie was happy too, yet not without a cloud. Leveson saw and
understood. When Lettie was gone to bed, and Mrs. Therlock had vanished
to watch by her side, he took Josie on his knee, and said, "Well,
little sister?"
Josie sighed.
"It has been a bright day for us, has it not?"
Josie hung her head, and said, "I'm glad she's found."
"Only that?"
"I am glad," said Josie, with a little sob. "And I don't want to be
nasty and cross,—only mother does kiss her so very very much."
"Don't you think it is natural she should?"
"She hasn't remembered to give me one kiss all the evening," said
Josie, another sob welling up from the depth of her heart.
"Think of the five long years that you have had all the kisses she had
to give—and poor little Lettie without one."
"I know, but that makes it harder to bear," said Josie, in a choked
tone. "And Lettie doesn't care. And I shall only have half of mother
now, and I used to have the whole of her."
"And do you think, Josie, that all the love she gives to Lettie will
take away one feather's weight from what she has always given to you?"
Then putting his arm round her, he quoted, "'Son, thou art ever with
me, and all that I have is thine. It was meet that we should make
merry, and be glad, for this thy brother'—thy sister—'was dead and is
alive again, and was lost and is found.'"
"But you don't think I'm like that elder brother, do you?" said Josie
indignantly. "Because he didn't like to see the fatted calf killed,
or the best robe given; and I am sure I liked ever so much to see Vi
eating the plum-cake, and dressed in my old blue frock."
"Perhaps the old blue frock does not occupy quite the same space in
your thoughts, as the best robe did in those of the elder brother. He
was jealous, you see, not at his brother having the same that he had
himself, but because he had better."
Josie sighed. "I don't mean to be jealous. I'm sure I shouldn't like to
be."
"Then fight it in the right way, dearest, when the feeling comes, and
remember that mother has to win Vi's heart, while she is sure of yours.
That makes a great difference. And you will try to win her also to love
you, will you not?"
"Yes, I mean to be kind," said Josie, in a low voice. "I did try this
evening."
"And you succeeded too, dear. Vi will soon learn to love you dearly, if
you go on as you have begun."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXIII.
PICTURES.
LYING still upon the mattress of his garret bed, with only one thin
blanket over him, his brown wasted hands clasped across his broad
chest, and some flakes of silvery hair straying over the wide sunburnt
brow, on which the very peace of God seemed stamped as with God's own
signet-stone,—so lay Job Kippis, as he had lain and never yet arisen
since the day when "daily bread," but not "daily comfort," had failed
him. Ailie sat on the foot of the bed, and Hor had taken up his station
near on the broken chair, with his face towards the back, and his chin
bent down upon his hands.
"'Tis very well, all that," he said discontentedly, "an' I dare say
it's a deal better for her. I don't say 'tisn't; but I says I'd rather
ha' kep' her with ourselves, I would."
"Aye, we're selfish mortals, the best among us," said Job. "Talk
o' lovin' our friends, an' then when God wants to take 'em home to
glory—oh, no, we're all for prayin', an' weepin', an' wantin' to keep
them among their troubles an' away from happiness, just as long as we
can. It's a selfish love at the best, it is, lad."
"I'm not a-talkin' of dyin'. I'm a-talkin' of Lettie," said Hor.
"And I'm a seein' pictures, lad, as I loves to do. Ain't the world full
o' pictures, an' people won't see 'em with their blind eyes? Ain't it
all a picture about little Lettie now, if we'll see it?"
Hor made an inarticulate sound, which might have meant anything.
"A pictur' of what, gran'father?" asked Ailie.
"Why, deary, here she was a-livin' in this poor part, all among the
mire an' mud as one may say, half-starved, an' ill-clothed, an' knowing
nothin' better,—an' never dreamin' she had a happy home awaitin' her,
an' them that loved her elsewhere."
"We loved her," said Hor.
"True for you, boy,—an' much your love could do for her! Weren't she
half-starved, an' half-frozen, an' a poor little thin object, wantin'
all sorts o' things she couldn't get. 'Happy,' was it, you think
her,—aye, maybe she was in her blindness, never knowin' what 'twas to
be better off. An' then her brother—a lovin' kind elder brother—" Job
smiled as he spoke the words,—"comes an' seeks her out, an' hunts for
her and finds her at last. He wants to take her off home, where she'll
have all she needs,—food, an' dress, an' play, an' learnin', an' love,
an' everything. He loves her, and he's good to her, an' she don't like
to go with him. Don't like it a bit. Wants to stay all among the rags,
and the dirt, and the starvin'. But he won't leave her. He don't carry
her off against her will, but he pleads, an' he begs, an' he wins her
in love, and at last she goes. Then as they're agoin', he lifts her up
in his arms an' carries her, for Mrs. Forsyth says she see him doing
it herself. Ah, it's a lovin' elder brother little Lettie's found. But
maybe now it seems hard to leave all she's knowed an' loved, and she
don't understand how all she's agoin' to have will more than make up
for what she 've lost,—ever so much more. Ah, she don't know that yet,
Ailie."
"Yes, gran'father," said Ailie, as Job paused.
"Well, now, deary, ain't that a picture,—a beautiful picture o'
somethin' else. Don't we read in God's Word of another Brother—a kind
lovin' elder Brother,—who comes seekin' an' searchin' after the poor
little lost brothers and sisters, living down among the mire of earth.
Then when He finds 'em, it's oftentimes they won't go with Him. No,
they'd rather stay where they be, an' they can't leave the things they
love, an' they're quite content as they are,—poor starvin' souls. An'
then He pleads, an' He begs, an' He commands, an' sometimes they'll go
at last. An' when He sees how weak they be, an' how the sharp stones
cuts the poor feet, He takes 'em right up, an' carries 'em along on
their way. It's all a beautiful picture, what's happened to little
Lettie—a beautiful picture o' somethin' better an' greater, an' yet
like to it. Ain't it now?
"But all the love an' the care she'll get in her new home, is just
nothin' at all, beside what the Lord Himself gives to them He seeks an'
finds, when they go along with Him. For all things are ours then,—all
things in heaven an' earth."
"Seems to me you'd work most everythin' into a pictur'," said Hor.
"And so I would, boy, sure enough. There's meanin' to be worked out o'
most things, if we'd see it. Ain't the whole world a lookin' glass,
made for nothin' but to reflect God's love, an' power, an' glory?
Ain't a lookin' glass full o' pictures, an' all o' them a-changin'
too. There's nothin' in the world that don't picture forth God's love,
save sin, and that's the one great blemish over everythin'. See ye
fight against sin, boy, an' ye'll be doin' work for God. If ye're not
workin' for God, ye're pretty sure workin' for Satan. There's only the
choice between them two kinds o' work, an' ye must do one or t'other.
There ain't no neutral ground in that war,—leastways those who thinks
themselves neutral are always found, sooner or later, to be Satan's
spies an' secret workers, and it'll be worst of all for them."
He had spoken with growing energy, but he paused here, and lay silent
for a while, looking towards the small window, where a gleam of blue
sky and wintry sunshine, seen through a smoky atmosphere, were visible.
"Will you have some'at to eat, gran'father?" asked Ailie.
"Thank'ee, deary, I don't seem to want it. The cravin's gone now we've
a plenty."
For Mrs. Forsyth had shared her gifts of the previous evening with her
neighbours, and a good half-loaf and a tiny piece of meat might have
been seen on the corner of the mantel-shelf.
"Gran'father, d'ye think we'll see Lettie here again?" asked Ailie
presently.
"No," said Hor. "They'll take precious good care she don't come among
us poor folk no more."
"Ye're unjust, boy," said Job. "'Twas only yester' mornin' she were
taken home. D'ye think she'd ha' come or could ha' come before this?"
"I don't think as she'll come at all," said Hor, doggedly. "I tells
mother she's lost to us, she be. An' much the gentlefolk 'll care for
what we feels about her."
"Aye, you an' she was mighty close friends. 'Tis hard on ye, boy, to
lose her so sudden," said Job. "But 'tis all for her good, an' ye must
think o' that. I don't reckon, somehow, ye'll be a loser neither in the
end."
"O I don't count, not I, on gentlefolks' gratitude," said Hor. "They've
got her now, an' what 'll they care for else?"
"Ye're wrong, boy,—wrong altogether," said Job. "But wait an' see,—that
'll be worth more 'n all I could say to persuade ye."
"I'm sure 'twas a beautiful lot o' things they sent ye all yesterday
evening," said Ailie. "An' wasn't Mrs. Forsyth good, gran'father, to be
a-givin' us so much!"
"Maybe they thinks a good supper 'll pay back all the five years we've
taken charge o' little Lettie," said Hor.
"Maybe they don't think nothin' o' the kind," said Job. "What's come
over ye, lad, to be so cantank'rous,—'cept that ye've lost a little
sister as you've had awhile, an' she's got a deal happier home than
you'd ever ha' give her? Well, well, 'tis hard for ye, but ye'd best
take it brave an' patient. Grumblin' don't do nobody any good,—eh?" as
he smiled at Ailie.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXIV.
VISITORS.
"AIN'T that somebody at the door, gran'father?" exclaimed Ailie,
jumping up.
"See if it be, deary."
And Ailie opened without delay. But there she turned shy, for before
her stood a strange gentleman, and on one side of him was the very
same little girl who had twice spoken to her in the street, and on the
other side of him was Lettie herself, dressed in a warm blue frock, and
fur-trimmed jacket, and pretty hat.
"Well, my little woman, is your name Ailie Carter?" asked the gentleman
kindly. "Lettie, I think this is an old friend of yours."
Ailie looked very much afraid of Lettie, and Lettie looked hardly less
afraid of Ailie, while the gentleman went on, "How is your grandfather?"
"Please, sir, he can't get up."
"Will he let me come in and see him, do you think?"
"Please, sir," repeated Ailie under her breath.
Leveson entered the room, and took a seat on the old rickety chair near
the bed. Josie stood close beside him, and Lettie slipped away to Hor,
while Job remarked—
"You be mighty welcome, sir."
"Mrs. Forsyth tells me you have not been well of late, Mr. Kippis."
Job shook his head. "Seems to me some'at of a breakin' up, sir. I'm
an old man, as you may say,—can look right back to the wars, an' went
through Battle o' Waterloo, an' I've had a harder life than some. Not
as I've nought to complain of."
"And now there comes a little warning, a little failing, to remind you
that the last call may not be far distant," said Leveson.
"Aye, sir. I'm noways loath to go."
"Those are solemn words for all of us, 'Prepare to meet thy God.' To
meet Him eye to eye, and face to face. But I trust you know something
of that which can lighten even the valley of death," said Leveson,
reading the source of that "noways loath" in the calm upraised eyes.
"If you have learnt the secret of the Lord's love and fear—"
"Sure an' that I have, sir," said Job, unable to wait. "Haven't I been
His humble servant twenty years an' more?"
"But it is no service of your own which can bear you heavenwards. The
Blood of the Lamb and that alone can save us from our sins. Our love
and service are but the fruit and not the root of our salvation."
"I knows it, sir, but 'tis good to hear it again. Twenty years I've
never missed church on Sunday, an' now I can't go to hear the Word,
sure 'tis my Master Himself has sent you to cheer me up."
They went into an earnest conversation, Job speaking from time to time,
but usually listening, with a smile of intense happiness. Leveson's
little Bible came out next, and during the reading which followed,
Josie mustered courage to steal away from her brother's side, and
approach Ailie. They only stood looking at each other silently, until
Leveson had ceased to read, and was speaking again; then Josie said—
"You're not starving now, I suppose?"
"No," said Ailie.
"Were you really starving that day?"
Ailie nodded.
"That was why you could not come next morning, wasn't it?"
"Lettie went 'stead of me," said Ailie.
"Yes, but you know you ought to call her Miss Lettie now, because she
is my sister," said Josie. "I am Miss Therlock, and she is Miss Lettie
Therlock."
Ailie looked very much impressed, not to say alarmed. They both stood
silent, looking at Lettie who was seated on Hor's knee, holding him
tightly. Josie felt that it was incumbent on her to keep up the
conversation.
"Do you know we are all going into the country next month?"
"Be you?" said Ailie.
"Yes. We halve a house there, and now that Lettie is found, we need not
stay in London any longer. Would you like the country, Ailie?"
"I dunno what country's like," said Ailie.
"Why, it's all green fields and trees, and as lovely as can be. Of
course I don't mean just at this time of the year, but in spring and
summer."
Another pause. "Lettie," said Leveson, turning, "suppose you come here
and speak to Job Kippis."
Lettie came slowly, and stood by the bed, her small hand in Job's large
one. "Aye, it's a happy little maid she be, to find a home like she
has," said Job, smiling, "ain't it deary? An' ye'll love 'em all ever
so."
"I likes him," said Lettie softly, with a trustful glance at Leveson.
"Aye, he be a kind elder brother, ain't he? As has sought an' found
ye, an' taken ye away from the mire an' misery," said Job. "Beg your
pardon, sir, 'tis a way I have o' lookin' at things as pictures like."
"I think it is the Bible way, Mr. Kippis."
"An' she be happy in her new home, eh?" said Job smilingly.
"They 's ever so kind," said Lettie, hanging her head and speaking low.
"But I've got to be a lady, an' tis so hard, an' I don't know how."
"Hard to be a lady, ain't it?" said Job. "'Cause ye wasn't bred up to
it, no more ye wasn't. An' yon parson, for all his love to ye, can't
change your nature sudden-like. Ye'll fit in by and by. Don't I mean
that when I says sometimes the Lord 'ud put me in a palace, if 'twas
good for me, but I wouldn't be over happy in it. Sure I haven't got
palace tastes, nor palace ways,—an' little Lettie's in a grand house,
and she haven't got grand house tastes, nor ways neither, eh?"
"She will learn all that by and by," said Leveson, stroking her head.
"But I think Lettie's difficulty makes another picture for you if you
want one. Do you see it?"
"Sure an' I do, sir. Why, if a man was took right to heaven, without
learnin' to have heaven's tastes, he wouldn't be a bit happier nor
fitter nor better off than old Job Kippis in the Queen's palace. What'd
he care for the singin' praises to God, and livin' for His service, and
lookin' into His glory, an' doin' His will? It's dull work he'd find
it all,—lest he had the love of God in his heart, sir, an' his sinful
nature washed an' fitted for heaven. Ain't it that you meant?"
"Just that," said Leveson. "But very few men realize it, or know that
to be taken to heaven, unfitted for heaven's work and glory, would
be no boon. As well take a blind man to see beautiful scenery, or a
deaf man to hear sweet music, as talk of a man who is deaf and blind
to God's love and beauty, finding any happiness in heaven. But you—"
Leveson went on after a moment's break,—"you, I trust, are no longer
deaf and blind. Heaven will not be to you what our home, with all our
efforts, must for a time be to little Lettie."
"Aye, sir, an' I don't think that the river Jordan's far distant
neither," said Job. "No, I'm noways loath to go,—save for leavin'
little Ailie tossin' about with no one to take pity on her. But I think
ye'll be a friend to the poor little lamb, sir."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXV.
THROUGH THE WATERS.
LETTIE settled down into her new home, slowly learning to love those
around her, and gradually becoming accustomed to the strange restraints
as to manner, behaviour, and speech, which at first were most irksome,
after her past life of freedom in such matters. The little neglected
mind was opening now to the enjoyment of beauty and happiness, where at
first all had seemed a blank. Leveson Therlock knew by this time how
much more ignorant and neglected they would have found her, but for the
simple efforts of old Job Kippis during many months.
The next few weeks were busy ones, for Mrs. Therlock had all sorts
of plans for helping the Forsyths, and Lettie's greatest delight was
in seeing those plans carried out. Hor's long-standing wish to go to
sea was at last to be fulfilled, and when the boy, in a fervour of
excitement on hearing the good news, rushed off to Job Kippis, he
listened patiently to the old man's grave rebuke.
"Will ye say now, boy, that God don't care for ye,—aye, though ye don't
deserve He should? Kind to the unthankful and evil He be, but take care
ye don't tempt Him too far, or maybe He'll see fit to withdraw His
mercies from you."
The Forsyths were no longer to live on in their miserable home. Two
or three airy rooms were found for them in an airy street, at a short
distance, and were simply furnished by Mrs. Therlock, who undertook
also to pay a portion of the rent. Through Leveson's efforts, regular
work was procured for John Forsyth, and the next move was, by dint of
much exertion and great correspondence, to place the half-witted boy,
Roger, in an idiot asylum.
Things began, as Esther said, to "look up" with them once more. She was
able again to take a pleasure in neatness and respectability, and her
careworn look gave place to health and cheerfulness. The measure dealt
out to little Lettie in her friendless days was amply repaid—"good
measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over."
There were plans also for Job Kippis and Ailie. Mrs. Therlock was going
soon with her two little girls to live in her country house, and a tiny
lodge close to the garden gate would just do for Job. Ailie should go
to the village school, and learn to read and write and work, and when
at home should take her share in opening the gate, and should be her
grandfather's little housekeeper. For a while it seemed as if the plan
might come to pass, and how eagerly the three children discussed it in
all its bearings need scarcely be told.
Job did not seem to count upon it much himself, however. He had rallied
slightly from his weakness, but never enough to be moved from the old
garret. He liked to hear the little ones talking of their country home,
and would listen to their anticipations, but he did not join in them
for himself.
"No, deary, I thinks not," he would say, when Ailie wanted him to look
forward as they were doing. "We'll wait an' see, but somehow I've a
thought that 'tain't that sort o' country I'll be going to."
And gradually the truth broke upon them all, that it was even so. Job
Kippis, the brave old soldier, who had battled so cheerily through his
long troubled life, was going to another and farther Land.
They did not think the change so near as it was. But one rough February
evening, a message came to Leveson Therlock, home on a brief visit,—a
message sent by Ailie.
"Grandfather was worse."
Nothing but those three words, implying the need of Leveson's
presence,—and he went.
Job lay there quietly, in his narrow garret, with brown hands clasped
across his chest, as often of late, and a look of wondrous rest upon
his furrowed brow, while Ailie crouched, trembling, beside the bed. He
glanced up cheerily as Leveson came in.
"It's a stormy night," he said. "I scarce thought I'd see you, sir, but
Ailie she said you was at home, an' she knowed you'd wish we should
send."
"Ailie was right," said Leveson. "It must have been a storm indeed that
could have kept me back if you needed me. How are you to-night?"
He looked downwards, smiling still, with a little motion of his hand
towards the floor. "Waters of Jordan washin' all round me, sir, but I
ain't out o' my depth yet."
"And you will not be," said Leveson, "so long as you lean on your
Guide. Don't look at the water like Peter, but look to His Face."
"I'll see it soon,—as plain as I see yours," said Job.
"Would you like me to pray with you?"
"Sure an' I would, sir, if 'tain't troublin' you,—not as that's
likely," he added. "I'm not feared. But if 'tis all the same to you,
sir, I'd rather have the prayers I knows, an' not the Visitation of the
Sick, nor no new one. My head's a bit weak, an' I'll follow the old
words easiest."
So the old-grand sweet words, offered up by tens of thousands before
him through hundreds of years past, now sounded reverently in Leveson's
deep voice. They seemed to fill the little garret with an atmosphere of
peace, and to bring a ray of measureless trust upon Job's face, as he
lay again with his clasped hands.
"Aye, that be it," he said at the close in an undertone. "Strayed an'
wanderin',—leavin' undone things I ought to ha' done, an' doin' things
I ought to ha' left undone,—a poor miserable offender first to last.
But He 've forgiven me,—blessed be His Name."
Then Job was quiet awhile,—as if asleep. Presently looking up, he said,
"He 've been a good Master,—a good Master,—lovin' right to the end."
"And how in the day of trouble, and failure, and almost starvation?"
asked Leveson. "Had He forsaken you then? Did your faith stand out
then?"
"Sure an' if it didn't, 'twas I that failed, an' not He. Trust
Him!—Aye, don't I? Little Ailie—"
She came closer, sobbing, and he put his hand over hers.
"Don't ye ever forget that. Trust Him whatever He do to ye—whatever.
Don't ye ever question an' doubt. His dealings with ye are all love,
an' faithfulness, an' tenderness, from beginning to end. Maybe He'll
let ye wander alone, and be half-starved again as He's done afore. It's
all love, I tell ye. Just cling to Him, an' He'll be with ye through
all. He'll never leave ye. He's never left me,—an' never will."
Once more there came an interval of silence, as Job lay with that same
smile upon his face, and no fear at his heart, no words of doubt upon
his lips. He knew his Master. Through long years he had proved His
love. And now that the last trial of life had come, he was troubled by
no dread.
"Aye, I'll die here," he said, speaking when they thought him past
speech. "Up in the old garret. Didn't think somehow all along that I'd
be let go to the country. I'd learn to love this world then maybe, an'
that 'ud be a pity, wouldn't it? I don't love it now, nor want nothin'
more."
Nothing more on earth. He had nothing more,—except peace at the last.
Slowly, as night crept by, he grew weaker. Jordan's waters were around
him, playing over him, dashing about him, rising higher and higher as
he went deeper into the flood. But he never sank, never wavered, never
struggled. Passing calmly through their midst, with his Master by his
side, he forded all the waves, and never lost his footing. And as the
first gray tint of dawn was shining in the east, over the house-tops
across the way, Job reached the Other Side.
He was only a poor old tailor, living up in a garret, in London's
dreariest quarter! But from the midst of squalor and misery, rags and
dirt, sounds of contention and anger, voices of sorrow and pain,—he
passed to glory and joy unending, to be a king and a priest for ever
before the throne of God.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE LAST OF THE OLD GARRET.
AND as the light of dawn came into the garret, which for so many
months had formed Job's home,—came resting in dull shades of gray
upon the wall, and upon the face that lay so calm in death, and upon
the outlines of the old warrior's face, still to be seen over the
fireplace,—as the light increased, Leveson rose to leave. He would take
little Ailie, twice-orphaned child, home with him. Where else could she
go?
But the door creaked slowly open, and a woman stood there,—a haggard
faded woman, walking with difficulty, dressed in rags, footsore and
poverty-stricken.
"They telled me I'd find her here," she said. "They telled me I'd find
Ailie."
And a cry broke from Ailie's lips, ringing through the stillness of the
death-chamber, but never disturbing the repose of old Job Kippis, lying
in his last long sleep,—a cry of "Mother! Mother!"
"Ailie! Why sure it can't be Ailie," said Mary Carter, almost putting
the child from her at first, as she scanned her face with trembling
eagerness. "Ailie,—why, so it is, but I scarce knowed ye, child,—ye've
that grown an' altered."
"O mother, if you had but come home a little earlier—just a little,"
sobbed Ailie. "He's dead now—gran'father's dead—an' ye'll never be able
to thank him."
"Gran'father!" repeated Mary Carter.
"He made me call him so, an' he was more to me nor any real
gran'father. Mother, why did ye never come sooner?"
"I couldn't help it. 'Twas no choice o' mine. Who's took care o' ye all
these months?"
"Gran'father—old Job Kippis he was," said Ailie sorrowfully, pointing
towards the bed. "He's lyin' there. He ain't dead long. Oh, I wish ye'd
come sooner, an' could ha' spoken to him."
"Maybe ye haven't a bit of somethin' to give me. I'm famished."
She looked ready to drop, and Leveson, coming forwards, told her to sit
down on the chair, and desired Ailie to bring food from the cupboard.
She ate eagerly, holding Ailie all the while, as if fearing to lose her
again, and Leveson said, "It must be almost more than you expected, to
find your little girl safe in the old house."
"Indeed, sir, an' I've wondered what could ha' become of her, not a
soul to look after her, an' her poor father a-dying the night I went."
She heaved a sigh at the recollection.
"Have you been in any trouble since leaving jail?" asked Leveson
gravely.
She did not answer the question, but flushed with burning shame at
the last word, and hung her head heavily. "What Jem would ha' said—I
doubt but it helped to kill him. An' my poor mother as brought me up so
respectable; but I didn't know what I was a-doin' that day, I didn't."
"It was the first time you ever gave way to such temptation, was it
not?"
She gave a mute sign of assent.
"And I trust it may be the last. Poor woman, you have suffered for your
sin," he said compassionately. "But there is One—One of purer eyes than
to behold iniquity, and One whose law you have broken—who well knows
the strength of your temptation. He offers you free pardon for the
past, if you will seek it at His feet."
"I dunno much about such things," said Mary Carter despondingly. "An'
what I'm to do now, no home, an' no work, an' the child dependin' on
me!"
"Mother, we'll be took care of," said Ailie. "Why didn't you come back
straight when you was set free?"
"I couldn't, child. I've been in hospital since. I was run over that
day, an' 'twas weeks afore I knowed where I was, an' longer afore I
could speak sense."
"Run over!" repeated Leveson and Ailie together.
"Aye, 'twas that same day," repeated Mary Carter. "I've but a half
remembrance of it all. I was walkin' along, an' looking forward to
hear where Ailie was, an' thinkin' to find she'd been sent off to the
work'us. I s'pose I wasn't heedin' much where I was goin', an' in
crossin' a road, I heard a shriekin', and I see a great 'bus comin'
down right upon me, an' somehow my foot slipped. After that I knowed
nothin'—for weeks they telled me. I'd a broken leg, an' a blow on the
head, as took away all my senses. It's left me that weak now, that I
don't scarce know how to walk nor stand, but they says I'm as well as
I'm like to be for many a year. I'll never be the same woman again, an'
I can't take a needle for half an hour, but I turns giddy. But I'll
have to work, for we ain't got nothin' to live on."
"We will not leave you to starve," said Leveson. "I think we shall find
some means of helping you. Now, what will you do first? I would rather
see you in another room before I go. Is there any vacant in the house,
Ailie?"
"Please, sir, next door garret. Mr. Sloane went away yesterday," said
Ailie, "an' nobody hasn't took it yet."
"Then I think that had better be your home for a few days, until we can
arrange something more definite."
He placed five shillings in Mary Carter's hand as he spoke, and
she faltered tearful thanks. There were a few words more about
arrangements. Then he walked to the bedside, and stood looking down—not
sadly. It was not a sight to look upon sadly—that face of happy rest.
"Fought a good fight, kept the faith, finished the course," he
murmured. "Poor old Kippis! Oh, what a change to step from such a spot
as this into the infinite glory! Ailie,—" and he laid his hand on the
little girl's head,—"never forget all that he taught you. Never forget
to pray that your last end may be like his."
And Leveson went home. But all the way he had ringing in his head the
words of a hymn, which seemed strangely applicable to old Job:—
"Safe home, safe home in port!
Rent cordage, shattered deck,
Torn sails, provisions short,
And only not a wreck.
But oh! the joy upon the shore,
To tell our voyage perils o'er.
"The prize, the prize secure,
The athlete nearly fell,
Bare all he could endure,
And bare not always well;
But he may smile at troubles gone
Who sets the victor garland on."
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXVII.
A NEW HOME.
IT was a lovely day, out in the fair country, far away from the smoke
and dust, the noise and turmoil, which had surrounded Ailie from
earliest babyhood. Through the drive from the station, Ailie sat beside
her mother in the farmer's cart which had been sent to meet them,
wondering till words failed her at all she saw.
The green early grass stretching into the far distance, the purple
horizon tints, the budding richness of hedges near at hand, the glee of
birds overhead, the lowing of cows in the meadows, the gay frisking of
tiny lambs beside their staid old mothers, the harsh cawing of rooks in
old elm trees—what a marvellous world it was!
Ailie's pent-up delight broke forth in one eager cry: "O mother! Just
think o' livin' here!"
"Seems a dream to me, to be seeing a green field again, it do," said
Mary Carter.
"O mother, don't it look as if there was room here?" said Ailie. "An'
not every one a-crowdin' an' pushin' everybody! Why, it looks most as
if the world was gettin' empty."
"Ah, you be come from London parts," said the stout driver in his smock
frock, who had been whistling a nameless tune, and letting his plump
horse jog along quietly at any pace it chose. "Lots o' folks in London,
ain't there, an' not much o' green fields?"
"I never see a green field in all my life afore," said Ailie, upon
which the worthy man ejaculated—
"Think o' that now! Never see a green field!" and gazed at Ailie with
compassion.
"O mother,—see, there be a brown field too!" cried Ailie. "What's it
for?"
"That be sown with wheat," said the man. "Ye'll see it all a-comin' up
by an' by. An' there, over among the trees, is the house I'm a-takin'
ye to—Mrs. Therlock's."
"An' she lives there?" said Ailie.
"That she do,—an' her father an' grandfather afore her. A mighty kind
lady she be, and we're main glad to have her among us again, with
little Miss Vi and all."
Passing by a plantation of saplings growing close to the road, a small
gate in the fence opened, and two little girls rushed out. "I knew it
was them," cried Josie. "I knew it, directly I heard the cart. O stop,
please—don't drive on. Let them both get down here. What do you think
of the country, Ailie?"
The man pulled up slowly, threw the reins on the old horse's neck,
stepped down himself first, lifted Ailie to the ground, and helped her
mother to follow. Ailie gazed wonderingly round, and back at Josie.
"Well?" repeated Josie. "You look as puzzled as Vi did, when first we
came. But you like it now, don't you, Vi?"
"It's just beautiful," said little Vi emphatically. "Ever so much
better than the old court, ain't it, Ailie?"
Ailie nodded. Words would not come yet. "Mother will see you soon,"
said Josie, assuming the patronizing "Miss Therlock" air, which she
sometimes put on. "And now I am going to show you your new home. Come
along, Vi,—we'll lead the way."
Holding Vi's hand, as if she counted her little sister her especial
charge, Josie danced along the grass borders, looking back impatiently
at Mary Carter's slower footsteps.
"It's not far," she said, "only along the road,—straight on this way.
After all, you might as well have kept in the cart, but it doesn't
matter. We're close now. Only this one corner. There!"
They had reached the large iron gates which formed the principal
entrance to the grounds. Beside them stood a fancy cottage, small and
neat, overgrown by honeysuckle and clematis. One lattice window below
and one above looked towards the road, and a tiny garden, stocked with
early vegetables, lay on one side. Ailie's eyes went speechlessly to
her mother and to Josie.
"Yes, that's it," said Josie. "That is to be your own home now. And
all you've got to do is to open and shut the gate, Mrs. Carter, when a
carriage passes through. But mother will tell you all that by and by.
Come now,—come in and see how you like the rooms."
Following the eager child, Ailie and her mother found themselves in a
neat kitchen, furnished with a strong deal table, two wooden chairs,
and a small dresser which bore an ample supply of blue china and other
requisites. Nothing would satisfy Josie but that they must at once
climb the ladder staircase, into the upper room, and there admire the
tidy bed, the chintz curtains, the painted wooden chest of drawers, and
the washhand-stand, with its jug and basin. She chattered fast enough
herself to make up for their bewildered silence, and as soon as she had
done displaying the bedroom, she brought them down again.
"I think I have shown you all now, Mrs. Carter."
Poor Mary could do nothing but curtsey in her wordless gratitude.
"And mother has put some tea in this little box, and there's the teapot
up there, and Vi and I brought some milk and bread and butter ourselves
this afternoon, didn't we, Vi? So you can have your tea as soon as you
like. Shall I tell mother you are pleased?"
Assurances on this point were so unnecessary, while in full view of
those two faces, that Josie did not wait for them, and went springing
away along the gravel pathway, the long ribbon ends of her hat floating
out in the breeze. Lettie lingered behind, looking sedately at Ailie.
"It's just like a dream, so it be," said Mary Carter, slowly. "Such a
place as this! Why, I don't know if I'm in my senses to think it's for
us."
"It's just beautiful!" said Ailie, with one long breath.
"An' I haven't said a word o' thanks," said Mary. "I couldn't. Seemed
as if none 'ud come. But Miss Vi 'll tell the lady,—won't ye, Miss? I
can't say all I ought."
"I'll tell mamma you're glad," said Lettie, adding
thoughtfully,—"Ailie, don't you wish ever so much that old gran'father
was here?"
"He'd ha' liked the green grass, an' the trees' an' the flowers," said
Ailie.
"Mamma says heaven's ever so much beautifuller than the country," said
Lettie. "I don't know how, but she says it is."
"Gran'father didn't seem to want to come, 'cause he was afraid he'd
learn to love it more than heaven," said Ailie. "I hope we won't,—but I
do think it'll be hard not to," she added, looking through the window
at the sunshine without. "It do seem pretty."
"Maybe if we try, we won't neither," said Lettie. "Josie will want me,
and I'll go now."
Smiling a farewell, she too went off along the gravel path, in somewhat
more sober fashion than Josie.
Ailie stood gazing after the little departing figure, thinking to
herself how she would need to know and love and trust God much, even as
old Job Kippis had known and loved and trusted, if she would keep the
thought of Heaven first in her heart, before the thought of this her
new sweet cottage-home.
THE END.
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