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.
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