RELATIONS.
“That doesn’t sound like a creditor with a bill to-night,” said Mr.
Kayll, laughing and rubbing his hands softly over his knees. “But if
so, mother’s ready for him.” And he slapped his pocket meaningly.
“Jack, my boy, you go and open. Your sister looks as though she’d done
about enough for to-day.”
Jack obeyed. He opened the door rather doubtfully a little way to begin
with, and then, hearing and seeing nothing, somewhat wider, when he saw
before him a small girl, apparently about as old as his sister Edie.
He looked at her, but she did not speak.
“What do you want?” he asked, after waiting a minute.
“Does Mr. Kayll live here?” she inquired then in a voice that trembled
with nervousness.
“Yes, he does.”
“Could I see him?”
“I suppose so. Come in,” said Jack gruffly, and she stepped timidly
inside, when he shut the door behind her and put his head into the
sitting-room.
“Little girl wants to speak to you, father.”
“Little girl! What little girl? What’s her name?”
“She didn’t tell me.”
“Ask her then, my boy.”
Jack’s head disappeared, but reappeared almost directly, and he said:
“Amy Coleson.”
“Coleson!” repeated his father with a start of surprise. “Tell her to
come in here.”
And the next instant Jack ushered in the visitor, who looked at the
floor and seemed dazzled by the lamp-light which showed her to be a
pretty child with soft yellow hair and fair white skin, but poorly or
rather miserably clad in a black frock worn through at the elbows and
in many a place beside. She was so thin in the face, too, that it was
quite painful to look at her.
Mr. Kayll took her by the hand, drew her to him, and kissed her.
“Well, this is a surprise!” he said. “Little Amy Coleson! Grown exactly
like her mother, too, only thinner. Jack, bring her a chair. Mother,
isn’t she like what Amy used to be?”
“Very,” said Mrs. Kayll, resting one hand on her husband’s shoulder,
and thoughtfully looking at the child. “Dear, dear, how time flies! It
must be eight years since we saw her last. Boys, you’ve heard of your
father’s cousin Amy. This is her little girl.”
“And where have you dropped from?” Mr. Kayll asked next. “What brings
you to us alone at nearly nine o’clock at night?”
“Mother was afraid I shouldn’t find you at home if I came earlier,”
said the child, nervously twisting her hands together, and letting
her large blue eyes wander from one to another of the wondering faces
around her, for Madge and Jem were staring at her without disguise, and
Bob and Jack stole furtive glances every now and again.
“And how is mother?” Mr. Kayll asked, beginning to have some suspicion
as to the meaning of this visit. “I haven’t even heard from her for
years and years.”
“She’s not very well. She never is very well,” was the shy answer. “She
always has such a bad cough.”
“And father?”
“Father died a long time ago,” she said simply, with a downward glance
at her shabby and ragged black frock.
“Dead! Dear me! Tut, tut, tut!” said Mr. Kayll, very much shocked.
“Poor child! Poor little woman! that’s very sad. Dear me!” he repeated,
while his wife looked at the wan little figure until the tears came
into her eyes. As for Madge, not being able to show her sympathy in any
other way, she sat down and drew her little cousin on to her knee.
“Mother sent me,” said Amy Coleson from that perch as she gathered
more courage, “to ask you if you would lend us a little money, because
we are so dreadfully poor, and--and baby’s so ill;” here her voice
trembled, but she recovered herself directly and went on, “and we can’t
get her anything she ought to have.”
Mr. Kayll looked grave.
“How old is the baby?” his wife asked.
“Three; but she can’t walk yet. She has never been strong.”
There was something very old and womanly about Amy’s way of saying this
that showed plainly how she was her mother’s companion and help, and
had lost her childishness in the anxiety of needing money, an anxiety
that makes children old before they are grown up.
“And how many more of you are there?” Mrs. Kayll inquired, as her
husband seemed to be still thinking.
“There’s Kitty,” she said. “That’s all; mother and Kitty, baby and me.
Kitty’s only four.”
“What have you been living on since you lost your father, my dear?” Mr.
Kayll asked, suddenly looking up, for he had been staring very hard at
the boards of the floor where they were visible through a hole in the
carpet.
The little girl coloured faintly.
“Mother used to take sewing, but she has been so ill and so busy
nursing baby that she hasn’t been able to do any. We haven’t had
any money lately except what I’ve earned, but we can do with _very_
little,” she concluded pathetically. And then guessing at the question
that was coming, she added: “I’m a model.”
“A what?”
“I sit for painters to draw and paint me,” she said, “when they want
me, but that isn’t always, and the last week or two I haven’t been
wanted at all. And mother thought perhaps you’d help us a little
until--until--I get something to do again, or mother is better and can
take in sewing.”
Mr. Kayll stared at the boards again for a few minutes in silence.
The child’s story was a sad one undoubtedly, yet how could he help
her with such a large family of his own? But again, when he compared
the round healthy faces of his children with that of this pale
sharp-featured little creature, and reflected that she was fatherless,
and had already to support others by her own efforts, he felt that he
could not refuse her request. Fatherless! What would become of his
little ones had they not him to work for them?
“Madge,” he said rising, “get the girl a sandwich. She must be hungry
after her journey. By the way, where do you come from? Where do you
live now?”
“At Wingate Row, Bacton,” she answered.
“But you’re not going back there to-night?”
“Oh, yes, I am!” she said quickly. “I must. It isn’t much after nine,
and it’s only half an hour’s walk.”
He asked her one or two more questions, then giving his wife a look
that she understood, he led the way from the room, she following, when
they had a little private conversation in the kitchen, leaving the
visitor to eat the sandwiches Madge brought her, and to be stared at
by the wondering boys.
In the kitchen five pounds passed back into Mr. Kayll’s purse, as a
result of the few words with his wife. Then they both returned and
found Amy Coleson standing up, apparently anxious to be gone.
“Come, my child,” said Mr. Kayll. “I’ll take you home and talk to your
mother myself; that will be the best way. When you’re ready I am.”
She coloured up to the roots of her hair with pleasure, for she had
begun to think her visit was to have no result at all.
“I am ready now,” she said, raising her face to kiss first Madge, then
Mrs. Kayll, and then laying her hand confidingly in his. “Good-bye,”
and she glanced at the rest with a nod that was meant for them all at
once, and began to move towards the door. Mr. Kayll lingered only to
say good-night to the children, as they would be in bed before his
return, and looked round at their bright faces with a smile. It was a
pleasant picture, one that he would perhaps have looked at yet once
more if he had known that he would never enter that room again.
The next minute he and the child were gone. Then began a buzz of talk
and wonderment, and Madge cleared away the supper-things with her head
so full of other thoughts that she nearly put the cheese into the
bread-pan and the loaf away on the same dish with the bacon.