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]