THE WOLF.
THE home of Matthew Reardon and his family consisted of one large room,
with a kind of closet opening out of it, in which the children slept.
The walls were of dark oak and panelled, with a carved chimney-piece,
and deep recesses, and, best of all, a lofty ceiling, such as one
seldom meets with in those close and confined dwelling-places in which
the London poor are obliged to live.
It was a gloomy room, nevertheless, especially when evening came, and
the dim light of the one candle by which Matthew and his wife worked
cast all beyond into deep shadow. Then the little handful of fire
gleamed and flickered in the large old-fashioned grate, and the shadows
began to dance in a strange grotesque manner on the dark oak panels.
A little apart, in one of those deep recesses, sat, on the evening of
which we write—and, indeed, on most evenings—the two little children,
close together, and speaking in whispers for fear of disturbing
their father. One would almost wonder what they could find to talk
about—their mother often did—but somehow, they always seemed to have a
thousand things to say to one another, especially after they began to
attend the Sunday school.
It was a dull life for those lonely children sitting thus hour after
hour in the dusk, and neither playing nor speaking aloud, or having any
one to speak to or amuse them, and with no sound to be heard save the
scratch, scratch, scratch, of Matthew's pen as it flew rapidly over the
paper; or the occasional click of their mother's scissors, although she
was very careful in this respect, well knowing how every little noise
jarred upon the sensitive nerves of her husband, rendered painfully
irritable by over-work.
Sometimes an organ-grinder would come into the street and begin playing
a melancholy tune. Somehow street organs generally do play melancholy
tunes—which the children loved to hear, although it made them feel sad
without knowing why. Matthew the while used to fling down his pen, and
running his thin fingers through his hair, walk up and down the room
with an angry frown, incapable of doing anything until the last note
had died away, and often obliged to work late in consequence of the
interruption thus occasioned.
The whispering of the children never seemed to disturb him. So good and
quiet were they, indeed, that he frequently even forgot that they were
in the room. But their mother never did.
Poor loving mother! God only knows the sorrowful thoughts that filled
her mind at those times, and that not because she told Him—it would
have comforted her if she had—but because He knoweth the secret of all
hearts.
Day after day, night after night, week after week, month after month,
it was the same thing over and over again. The same weary toil,
the same writing, page after page, and sheet after sheet. The same
hemming, and sewing, and frilling little dainty garments for other
people's children to wear. The same long silent evenings in that large
shadow-haunted room. The same melancholy organ coming and going.
The same stir of human life in the street below, and on the stairs
without, surging on but never coming near them. The same grand theme of
conversation, of which the whispering children never seemed to tire.
The same ceaseless, prayerless struggle constantly going on in the
parents' hearts and lives.
The evening of which we are about to write was nevertheless an eventful
one to Polly and Bessie. The fire had burned low in the wide grate, and
the room looked gloomy enough as Mrs. Reardon rose to mend it, using
her fingers for that purpose, in order not to make more noise than she
could possibly help, for fear of disturbing her husband.
It was a pleasant sight to the children to watch the bright flames
leaping and dancing up the chimney, as their mother stirred the fire
into a cheerful blaze; after which she washed her hands, and having
carefully snuffed the candle, pushing it a little nearer to her
husband, and a little farther from herself as she did so, quietly
resumed her needlework.
A long silence ensued, so long that the flames had finished their dance
and vanished, and the fire was nearly gone, too, before Mrs. Reardon
moved again.
"Have you much more to do to-night, Matthew?" asked she.
"Not much," replied her husband, without looking up.
"Is it worth while to put on more coals?"
"Why not?"
"There are so few left," was the reply, "and I do not see how we shall
be able to get any more before Saturday."
"Then we must wait till Saturday."
"One begins to feel the cold towards evening in this large room," said
his wife, shivering as she spoke.
"I don't mind it."
"But the children, Matthew."
"I had forgotten them. Won't the man let us have more if we promise to
pay for them on Saturday?"
"We promised last week, Matthew."
"It was not our fault," said her husband, gloomily. "If we had been
paid, we should have paid him. It is a shame to keep a man out of his
hardly-earned wages."
"Never mind," said his wife, soothingly, "there will be all the more to
receive when Mr. Heighington returns. He never disappointed you before,
you know. We must try and make the coals last out. May I put away your
papers? I am sure you must be tired." She never remembered her own
aching eyes and weary fingers.
"Very well," said Matthew, leaning back in his chair, "only take care
what you are about, or I shall have no end of trouble with them in the
morning."
And resting thus, he watched her as she gathered them together, and
laid them carefully aside, together with her own neatly-folded work.
"You, too, have been busy to-day," continued he, touching the delicate
fabric as he spoke.
"Yes, indeed. But then mine is not hard work like yours. I can sit and
think of a hundred things all the time I am sewing—not that thinking
makes me any happier. It was only to-day that I was wondering to myself
whether the children will have to work as hard when they grow up as you
and I are obliged to do."
"Before they grow up, perhaps!"
"Oh, Matthew!" exclaimed his wife.
"Well, let us hope not. At any rate, it is of no use meeting trouble
half-way. It won't be while I am alive. I do not mind how hard I work,
if we can only keep the wolf from the door."
Just then a large cinder fell out of the dying fire; and the children,
huddled together in their dark corner, woke up in time to catch the
last words which their father had uttered.
"Polly," whispered little Bessie, "did you hear what father said about
the wolf?"
"Yes," answered Polly, all of a tremble.
"Hulloa, children!" exclaimed Matthew. "How is this? You ought to have
been in bed long ago."
"Poor things!" said their mother. "It is not much later than usual. How
white you both look, and how cold your hands are—and no fire to warm
them," added she, with a sigh.
"They will be warm enough in bed," said Matthew. "Come, off with you,
little ones. What is it, Bess?" added he, touched with the earnest and
wistful expression of the child's face.
"Oh, father," exclaimed she, nestling closer to him, "do you think that
you shall be able to keep it out?"
"Keep what out?"
"The wolf, father," was the whispered reply.
Matthew thought for a moment, and then a strange rare smile passed over
his face.
"You have been listening," said he.
"We could not help it, father. The cinders fell out of the fire and
woke us up; and then we heard you telling mother that there was a wolf
at the door, and that you meant to try hard to keep him out. Was he
really at our door, father?"
"I am afraid he was very near it."
"But he's gone now, isn't he?"
"Yes, he's gone now—but not very far off, I fear."
"Does the wolf ever go to any of the other rooms?" asked little Bessie.
"I dare say he does. He is always prowling about somewhere among the
poor."
"'Seeking whom he may devour'?" repeated the child, fearfully.
"That's about it, little one."
"Do you think that you shall be able to keep him out?" asked Bessie
again.
"I hope so; at any rate, I'll try hard."
Matthew and his wife exchanged a sad smile as he said it. They little
thought, as they spoke of their poverty, of the impression which his
words had made upon those poor frightened children, or how they would
go to bed that night and dream of the terrible wolf, and start and
tremble at every sound.