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.
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