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.
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