BACK IN LONDON.
When Juliet awoke in the early morning she could not at first remember
where she was. It was not the old home in London, crowded with father,
mother, and children. It was not the new home at Littlebourne, where
Emily's bed lay beside that of her cousin. Oh, but it was the prison
in which the dreadful Mrs. Bosher and her bonnet had shut up an
unhappy girl and kept her all night!
Looking round the room, Juliet saw on the boards close to the door the
same basin of bread-and-milk which she had refused to eat on the
previous evening. Mrs. Bosher must have put it in noiselessly while
her prisoner was asleep. The prisoner could not resist her fare this
morning, but ate it all up, though the milk was just what she called
"on the turn."
She did not know what the time was; the sun rose so early that he
shone as brightly at five o'clock as at seven o'clock. What did it
matter? Juliet could not get out until her jailer chose to release
her. As soon as Mrs. Bosher opened the house-door, or sent her out for
water, or for a cabbage, or to hang up wet linen, she would make off
and run away somewhere. Not through the wood, lest the awful brother
might be there again, and the utmost rigour of the law prosecute the
trespasser; but somewhere, anywhere.
Juliet lay down and slept again. She was disturbed by the door of the
room being opened, and the bonnet nodding in.
"Oh, you are not up. Come down and wash in the scullery."
The bonnet went down the stairs, and Juliet followed. It stood over
her while she washed and brushed her hair, and made herself tidy. Then
it gave her a toasting-fork and some slices of bread, and set her in
front of the kitchen fire. While thus obeying Mrs. Bosher the mind of
Juliet was trying to strike out some plan of escape; but when she saw
the brother outside in the road she put off running away. The clock
told her that the hour was eight. The Littlebourne family was now at
breakfast too. How they must be fretting for want of Juliet!
As it happened, they were not fretting at all, but talking together
cheerfully.
Juliet did not want much more in the way of breakfast. She sat, cross
and ugly, scowling at Mrs. Bosher.
When breakfast was ended and the dinner put to cook in the oven,
Juliet began once more to look about for a chance of escape. The
brother was not to be seen from the window. There must come the right
moment presently. Mrs. Bosher left the kitchen. Now the right moment
had come. Juliet put on her hat, and went into the passage.
"That is a good girl," said the deep voice, "I'm ready too."
A strong hand took Juliet by the arm, and the hat and the bonnet went
out together. Speechless with terror, the girl could not resist. She
was hurried along the road in the direction furthest from
Littlebourne, past the brother's house, and past several other houses.
What could it all mean? Whither were they going?
At the corner of a cross-road there stood the brother himself, but
without the gun. Mrs. Bosher led Juliet to him, and his hand took the
place of his sister's.
"Here's the runaway," said Mrs. Bosher. "She'll be safe with you."
"Rather," said the big man; "or she shall know the rigour of the law."
It was odd how his eyes laughed while his mouth was so awful.
"So you'll dispose of her, Jim; and I'll run back, for I've left the
door open."
The bonnet went nodding away, and the burly Jim dragged Juliet along
faster than she could walk, and almost as fast as she could run. She
was soon tired and out of breath. Neither spoke.
They went along one road and turned down another, and crossed the
Thames by a bridge, and passed through a street of shops, and then, by
a dirty lane among gas-works, arrived at a place which Juliet had seen
before.
"Why, it is Littlebourne station!" she exclaimed.
And there, on the platform where the sun was beating down with fierce
heat, stood Mr. and Mrs. Webster. The big man took Juliet up to them
and placed her in front of them, saying, "Here she is; I've done my
part of the business, and I place her safely in your charge."
Mrs. Webster was looking at Juliet with pitying eyes; the vicar of
Littlebourne appeared sterner than his wife.
"Very good," he said to Mrs. Bosher's brother; "we will take her in
charge. It happens very fortunately that we are going to London
to-day, and so can dispose of her. How much anxiety and trouble her
bad conduct has caused! It was very clever of Mrs. Bosher to guess who
the girl was."
"Yes, sir, so it was. When my sister came in last night to tell me how
a young thing from Littlebourne had come to her house, having run
away from home seemingly, I should never have seen my way to finding
out the truth. But then women are quicker-witted than men, though they
are not so steady-headed. And my sister says, 'She must have come
across the fields somehow.' And I says, 'I met a slip of a girl in the
wood, and made believe that I was going to shoot her.' And says Mrs.
Bosher, 'It's the same girl, take my word for it,' says she. 'And,
you, Jim,' she says, 'step over to the lock the first thing in the
morning, and ask Mrs. Rowles if they have seen a girl coming through
the fields in this direction.' Which I did."
To all this Juliet was listening eagerly.
"And two words settled it," said Mrs. Bosher's brother; "two words
with Mrs. Rowles. 'Why,' says she, 'it must be our niece Juliet who
ran away last night, and we _have_ been in a state ever since.' And
then she described her niece, and I saw plain enough that it was this
identical girl. There came an old gentleman in a boat just then, and
so I said good-morning and went to tell my sister what I had heard."
"They did not wish to have the girl brought back to them?"
"Oh, no, sir; they'd had enough of her. They said she must go to her
home in London. And Mrs. Rowles knew that you would be going to town
to-day, and she promised to send word to you that I would bring this
runaway here to meet you; and Mrs. Rowles said she knew you would see
her safe home, because you are always ready to help everybody."
Mrs. Webster smiled. "And what did Mr. Rowles say about his niece?"
"Oh, he said she was a regular bad un; went off alone in the boat and
got shipwrecked. He said she had a father who never thought of getting
up to work until other folks were going to bed, and what else could
you expect from the daughter of such a man as that? But the old
gentleman who had got out of the boat said, 'Tut, nonsense!' and
seemed to want to have an argument with Rowles after I had left. And
now, sir, I see your train coming, and I have talked myself out; so
good-morning to you and to your good lady."
Lifting his hat, Mrs. Bosher's brother went away, and Juliet saw no
more of him. She was pushed into a carriage with the vicar and Mrs.
Webster. Indignant she was, and unhappy; all her folly and all her
wickedness were coming back upon her now.
During the long, hot journey up to London Mr. Webster several times
spoke very severely to Juliet. He knew enough of her story to be aware
that she was selfish and conceited, unwilling to be taught, and
resolved to have her own way. He told her how she might have lived
most happily at the lock until a nice little situation had been found
for her; but she had spoilt everything, and made her uncle and aunt
glad to get rid of her. He told her that unless she could become more
humble and teachable she would never learn anything good; that it is
the childlike, humble souls which grow in wisdom and in favour with
God and man.
Mrs. Webster did not say much, but looked so gently at Juliet that her
looks had almost as much effect as her husband's words. The experience
of the last few days, her frights, her misfortunes, the gun of Mrs.
Bosher's brother, the locking up in Mrs. Bosher's house, this sudden
journey home, all showed Juliet that she had tried the patience of
grown-up people more than they could bear. She looked with hazy eyes
on the country that they were passing through; she hardly saw the
fields and trees. But at length she noticed that the houses were more
numerous, and then that the fields were gone, and then that she was in
London--hot, smoky, noisy London once more.
"It is very annoying for you," said Mr. Webster to his wife in a low
tone, which yet was distinct enough to Juliet's young ears--"very
annoying for you to be obliged to go to the other side of the city,
when your mother expects you at eleven o'clock. But there is no help
for it. I have to go down to Westminster. I don't suppose I shall see
you till we meet at Paddington to come back by the 7:45 train. I will
put you and the child into an omnibus in Praed Street, and when you
get out Juliet Mitchell must guide you to her home."
Even the West-end was hot and steamy on that broiling August day.
Never before had Juliet thought London so unpleasant; the reason being
that this was the first time she could contrast the town with the
country. It seemed to her that the further she went through the
streets the thicker the air became, the dimmer the light, the dingier
the houses. And so indeed it was. And when she brought Mrs. Webster
into the street which contained No. 103, she wondered how that lady
would like to exchange Littlebourne vicarage for an East-end vicarage.
An almost similar thought was passing through Mrs. Webster's mind, or
rather, the same thought reversed.
"Juliet," she said, "I wonder how your father and mother would like to
leave London and come and live at Littlebourne?"
"I don't know, ma'am," answered Juliet.
"I have heard a good deal about them from Mrs. Rowles. Your father
would have better health if he lived in the country."
By this time they had reached No. 103. Juliet's heart was beating at
the sight of the well-known door-step of her home. She forgot all
about Mrs. Webster, and ran on. There were lots of boys and girls
playing in the street; some called out to her, some stared at Mrs.
Webster. But Juliet took no notice; only ran on, climbed up the dear
old dirty, steep stairs without bannisters, and got to the door of the
back attic, followed closely by her companion.
The girl did not knock, but rushed in, and then stood aghast. A
strange woman was there but no one else.
"Where is mother?" cried Juliet.
"Whose mother?" responded the strange woman.
"My mother."
"Ain't she got e'er a name?"
"Yes; she's Mrs. Mitchell."
"Oh, the Mitchell lot has gone into the front room, if you please.
Going up again in the world, I can tell you."
Juliet turned and dashed into the front room. There she found another
surprise.
Her father lay sleeping; her mother was sewing at some black hats and
bits of crape. The other children, all but Albert, stood round about
the room; some crying silently, some watching their mother, who paused
every now and then in her work to wipe away tears which quickly
returned.
But there was one whom Juliet missed.
"Mother," she said, as Mrs. Mitchell's arms clasped closely round her,
"where is baby?"
Tears poured down from the mother's eyes. "Oh, baby, baby, our darling
baby is gone! He was took with the croup yesterday morning, and he
just went off in the evening. There was too many of you, and now he's
gone!"
A sad silence fell upon the room. Thomas Mitchell moaned in his sleep,
as if his dreams were painful. Outside in the street there was a sound
of angry voices--two women quarrelling. Mrs. Webster had once had a
baby of her own; it had died. She felt, she knew, all that Mrs.
Mitchell was feeling now.
The bits of black on which the mother was at work were poor and
skimpy, but they betokened a real sorrow. And though Mrs. Mitchell
knew that the "home for little children" was far, far better for them
than the busy, hard world, yet she could not bring her heart to be
thankful that baby was taken; all that she could say was, "Thy will be
done!"
In the mortuary belonging to the church lay the little, thin, pale
body of baby Thomas Mitchell. Life, though short, had been very hard
for him, and he had gone out of it at the first call from his Father
in heaven--at the first sound of that voice which is sweeter and more
drawing than the voice of a mother.
Other children had gone before him; but because he was the baby his
loss was more acutely felt than that of the others had been. Juliet
sat and thought of the many times she had bumped his tender head
against the wall, and how often she had let him slip off her lap, or
left him lying in the rain or in the fierce sunshine. And now the
darling baby had died, and she away from home! She had not watched his
last sigh, she had not given him one farewell kiss! Already he was in
his tiny coffin, and she would never in this life see him again, save
in those blessed dreams which now and then restore to us for a time
our loved and lost ones.
Juliet could not have explained--perhaps it could not be
explained--how it was that the death of baby during her absence seemed
to be connected with her bad conduct. It is certain that this sudden
shock affected her greatly. It was, as it were, a break in her life;
her old ill-tempered, unteachable childhood went into the past, and a
gentle womanhood sprang up in the future. For the present there was a
sad, humble, penitent girl.
When she began once more to know what was going on in that room, she
found that Mrs. Webster was telling Mrs. Mitchell, in very mild
terms, of the reasons why Juliet was sent home.
"I am quite a stranger," said the lady, "and I feel myself an intruder
in your time of sorrow. You have my deepest sympathy. And I trust that
Juliet will henceforth do better. She has had some severe lessons. Do
you think your husband would be stronger if he lived in the country?"
"Yes, ma'am; the doctor at the dispensary says that country air would
do wonders for him. But then he can't leave his work; it is no use to
live in the country and have a good appetite if you have no means of
getting victuals for your appetite."
"No, of course not," said Mrs. Webster.
"We are doing better now," continued Mrs. Mitchell. "He's at work
again, and Miss Sutton--that's a kind lady--is trying to bring us
women face to face with our employers and no middleman between. But I
don't know how it will act. I've done work for Miss Sutton and her
friends, but the same people don't keep on wanting mantles. I could
have borne anything if I hadn't to make up crape for ourselves!"
Mrs. Webster pressed Mrs. Mitchell's hand kindly, and took her leave.