Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: MOLLY IN THE CHEMIST'S SHOP.]
[Illustration]
"IT'S ALL REAL TRUE."
_The Story of a Child's Difficulties._
BY
EGLANTON THORNE
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LONDON:
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
56, PATERNOSTER Row; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD;
AND 164 PICCADILLY.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER.
I. MOLLY AND KATHLEEN
II. A SAD FAREWELL
III. TWO LONELY GIRLS
IV. THE THEATRE AND THE MISSION HALL
V. MOLLY GAINS A TREASURE
VI. DOUBT AND DISAPPOINTMENT
VII. A STRANGE QUESTION
VIII. MOLLY HAS A TALK WITH HER MINISTER
IX. THE REST OF FAITH
X. KATHLEEN IS A SOURCE OF GRAVE ANXIETY
XI. A SISTER'S DANGER
XII. KATHLEEN IS SAVED
XIII. NO LONGER DESOLATE
XIV. A WILLING SACRIFICE
XV. MOLLY'S DIFFICULTIES COME TO AN END
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"IT'S ALL REAL TRUE."
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CHAPTER I.
MOLLY AND KATHLEEN.
NIGHT was falling on the city of London, a night of wind and
rain, following a day of clouds and gloom. The rain was sharp and
penetrating, and the wind piercingly cold.
No one would readily choose to walk abroad on such a night. Walking,
indeed, was no easy matter, for the pavements were wet and slippery,
and on the roads the horses could with difficulty be driven over the
mud. Yet, despite the cold and wet, wherever there were shops, the
streets were filled with people, for it was Saturday evening, and many
poor folk were unable to do their marketing for the morrow until this
late hour.
Along the Edgware Road, stalls had been placed beside the pavements,
and shrill-voiced costermongers were doing a brisk trade in more or
less tempting edibles, whilst more particular purchasers hurried to the
shops on either side the way. Into this thoroughfare, from one of the
narrower streets opening on to it, came a little girl. She walked with
rapid, certain step, and appeared in no way dismayed by the noise and
bustle around her.
Threading her way through the crowd gathered on the pavement, she
darted on to the road, and nimbly dodging the numerous vehicles, soon
gained the other side, and entered a chemist's shop there. The shop
was small and already full of customers, so the child, being tiny and
insignificant, had to stand in a corner and wait patiently till the
chemist had leisure to attend to her. She was a strange-looking child,
so small that no one would have taken her to be nearly eleven years
old, had not her pale, thin face worn a look of care, far older than
her age. Her figure was deformed, as well as stunted, for one shoulder
rose higher than the other, and the hump below was scarcely hidden by
the shabby cloak she wore.
The child shivered as she stood in the warm, bright shop, and tried
to shake the wet from her frock, which was of far too frail a texture
for that damp night. Then she pushed back the thick, wet locks of
reddish-brown hair that were falling over her forehead, and longing for
her turn to come, watched with shrewd glances of her dark, deep-set
eyes, the movements of the chemist, as with wonderful quickness he
supplied, one after another, the wants of his customers.
Her patience was sorely tried. No sooner did one person leave the shop
than another entered, and it seemed impossible for her to get near
the counter. Even when she did push her way to it, she was still kept
waiting, for she was but a child, and what did it matter whether a
child were kept waiting a few minutes more or less? But at last her
turn came.
"Well, Molly," said the chemist, sharply, but not unkindly, "what is it
you want?"
"Some more cough-mixture for father," she answered, hastily producing a
bottle from beneath her cloak, "and, oh! 'please,' sir, will you give
me something different this time? That other stuff didn't do father no
good. His cough is worse than ever."
"Dear, dear! That's bad," said the chemist, as he took the bottle from
the child's hand, "and it's ill weather for coughs. However, I'll see
what I can do."
Molly watched him eagerly as he proceeded to prepare the medicine. She
wondered how he knew which drug to take from so many, but he seemed to
experience no difficulty in selecting. And in a very few minutes, the
bottle was again in the child's hand.
"Do you think this will make father quite better?" asked Molly, as she
stood on tip-toe to place her shilling on the counter.
"I hope so," he replied, looking compassionately at the child, for he
had not the heart to tell her that he believed her father's cough to be
beyond his power to cure. "I hope so, my dear, but not if he goes out
this weather, you know."
"But he 'must' go out; he cannot stay at home," said Molly,
sorrowfully. "He has his work to do, and if he did not work, he would
get no money to pay the rent."
"Dear, dear! That's bad," said the chemist again. "But try to get him
to stay in for a few days, whilst this rough weather lasts. And give
him a dose of medicine to-night and another to-morrow morning, and
we'll see what that does for him."
In a moment Molly was out of the shop, and running across the road soon
reached her home in a narrow gloomy street, not far distant.
Passing into the house, she climbed a steep, and not too clean,
staircase, and entered a back room on the second floor.
It was a long, narrow room, with low ceiling and dingy walls. A slight
partition divided it at the farther end, and the space thus enclosed,
though hardly larger than a cupboard, made a little bedroom for Molly
and her sister Kathleen.
The place was in darkness when Molly entered, save for the faint,
flickering light of the feeble fire which burned in the grate. Its
light, however, sufficed to reveal the form of a tall, thin man, with
stooping shoulders and narrow, contracted chest, who bent shivering
over the fire, vainly trying to warm himself by its fitful glow.
"Is that you, Molly?" he asked, in a hollow voice, as the child opened
the door.
"Yes, father, it's me," she said, "and I've got some new mixture for
you, some stuff that Mr. Turner thinks is sure to make you well."
For thus had Molly's hope interpreted the chemist's few words.
But her father seemed to have little faith in the power of the medicine.
He sighed wearily, then exclaimed, in a fretful tone, "It's little good
the mixture is likely to do me, Molly, if you leave that door open,
with such a draught coming up the stairs as will give me my death of
cold."
Molly closed the door in a moment.
"There's no chance of my cough leaving me whilst this bitter weather
lasts," continued her father, "but when the spring comes—yes, when the
warm days begin, I may hope to get well. But it is a long while to
wait."
"Yes, there'll be a long time first," said Molly, sadly, as standing by
the fire she tried to stir the fading embers into a blaze.
"Put on some more coal, child!" exclaimed her father, peevishly. "I'm
almost perished with cold. You ought to have made up the fire before
you went out. And pray light a candle; I hate to sit in darkness."
"There's very little coal left," said Molly, as, having found a piece
of candle and lighted it, she proceeded to place a few tiny knobs of
coal on the fire, touching them very tenderly in her consciousness
of their value. "I want to make it last over to-morrow. Perhaps the
manager will pay Kathleen to-night, and then we can buy some more."
"To think I should live to depend on my darling's earnings!" sighed
her father. "Oh, dear! What will become of us? I've earned scarcely
anything this week; and next week will be worse, I fear. Molly, the
master told me to-day that he saw I was not fit for my work, and he
thought I had better keep at home till I was better. And he was right,
for indeed I could not make fair work of it to-day. I turned faint, and
was obliged to lay down my tools and rest for a while."
"Never mind, father," said little Molly, soothingly, though the anxious
look on her face deepened; "you'll be better in a few days, I daresay,
and able to go to work again."
Her words were interrupted by her father's violent cough. Molly watched
him fearfully as he struggled for breath.
"You must take some of this stuff at once," she said.
And fetching a cup from the cupboard, she poured out a dose of medicine
and held it to his lips.
He drank it, and soon ceased to cough. "You are a good child, Molly,"
he said; "you remind me of your mother, for you've got her ways
somehow, though you're not a bit like her in the face. Kathleen is
more like her. Ah! My pretty Kathleen! To think she should dance at a
theatre for the sake of earning a few shillings! But what could I do?
The child wanted to earn money, and it seemed the easiest way."
"Don't you trouble about it, father," said Molly; "Kathleen does not
mind it; she says she likes the fun."
"That only makes it worse," he answered, sharply; "it's not the right
sort of life for a girl to lead. But you don't understand; how should
you, you poor little thing? You don't know what a bad world it is. But
you'll find it out one day, Molly. You'll see that it's a bad, cruel
world, where no one is to be trusted, and you must fight your own way,
for there's no one to help you or care for you."
He spoke in a tone of despair.
Molly's sad face grew sadder as she listened.
"I've had a hard struggle," continued James Macardie, taking a
sorrowful review of his past history; "and I've always been the most
unlucky fellow in the world. Everything has been against me—yes,
everything. I've never had any of the happy chances which fall to some
men's lot; such luck as my brother Tom had, for instance. There is he,
now making his fortune in Australia, I'll be bound, whilst I—see what
I am! No one to look at me would think that my father was a well-to-do
cabinet maker at Liverpool."
"Does your brother Tom know how poor you are?" asked his little
daughter.
"No, he knows nothing about me. We had words together before he went
abroad. He interfered with me in a way I could not stand, and I would
have nothing more to say to him. He wrote to me once or twice after he
reached Australia, but I took no notice of his letters. I was sorry for
it afterwards, and wrote to him several times asking him to overlook
the past, but it was of no use. My letters were never answered."
"Perhaps he never got them," said Molly.
"Perhaps not. I can't tell how it was, but I was sorry, for I thought
he might do something for Kathleen, if he did not care to help me
again. Poor Kathleen! Dancing at a theatre! Oh! I thought to bring her
up so differently! I meant to give her a good education and make a lady
of her. I was so proud of my pretty Kathleen, with her quick, bright
ways and roguish tricks."
These plaintive utterances were succeeded by another fit of coughing,
and thoroughly exhausted, he was obliged to lean back in his chair and
keep silence.
It was growing late. Molly spread a cloth on the table, and placed
thereon part of a loaf of bread, and a piece of hard, dry cheese. Then
she sat down quietly by her father's side, regarding him with sorrowful
glances, for she thought she had never seen him so ill as he seemed
to-night. She was frightened therefore when he suddenly roused from the
doze into which he had fallen, and glancing at the old Dutch clock in
the corner, got up from his chair, crossed the room with feeble steps
and took down the coat and hat which hung behind the door.
"Oh! Father!" she exclaimed. "You will not think of going out again
this night! Indeed you are not fit."
"You forget that Kathleen must be fetched from the theatre," he
answered, hoarsely, as with trembling hands he put on his coat. "I
would not have her come home alone through the streets for the world.
I will take care of her whilst I can, my poor Kathleen. I ought never
to have consented to her going to that place, but I will do my best to
shield her from its dangers."
Molly said no more, for she knew it would be useless. Her face wore a
look of fear, as candle in hand she stood at the top of the stairs to
light her father, as grasping the rickety balusters for support, he
went down.
She listened to the sound of his footsteps after he had passed out of
her sight. They seemed to grow fainter and fainter, till suddenly the
sound ceased, though she knew her father could not yet have left the
house. Molly rushed down-stairs in a moment. Below she saw her father,
overcome by sudden faintness, clinging for support to the open house
door, while the cold damp air beat upon him.
"Father, come in," cried Molly; "you are ill, you cannot go!"
"No, I must give it up," he murmured; "I cannot go, I have no strength.
But oh! Kathleen!"
"Never mind about Kathleen, father," said Molly, as she helped him up
the stairs. "I will go and meet her, and tell her how ill you are."
"You go, child! How can you take care of Kathleen? You need taking care
of yourself, you poor little thing!"
"But, father, I'm not like Kathleen, you know. I can go out alone in
the evening, and no one takes any notice of me. I should be company for
her."
"That's true," said her father, as he sunk weariedly into his chair;
"no one will notice a child like you. You may go, Molly. Make all the
haste you can, and tell Kathleen to come home quickly by the quietest
streets."
Molly lingered for a few minutes, not liking to leave her father in
such a weak state. But he was impatient for her to be off, and would
not let her stay.
So out into the cold, wet streets again went Molly. The strong wind
drove against her, and the pitiless rain drenched her light garments,
but she struggled bravely on, and soon reached the theatre where
Kathleen was to be found. No one observed the little deformed child as
she sped along through the wind and rain.
She reached the theatre just as the people were beginning to come out.
Elbowing her way through the crowd at the main entrance, she went to
a side door at which her father had told her to await Kathleen. She
had to stand for many minutes shivering in the cold ere any one issued
from this door. At last, however, it was opened and the players began
to come out. Some bold-looking girls appeared, who talked and laughed
loudly as they brushed past little Molly, standing in the shelter of
the doorway. Kathleen was not with these. Presently she came out alone
and stood for a moment on the steps, peering into the darkness beyond.
"I cannot see father anywhere," she said to herself, half aloud.
"I am here, Kathleen!" exclaimed Molly, springing forward. "Father was
so ill, he could not come, so he sent me."
"Father ill!" said her sister. "What do you mean?"
"His cough has been worse than ever to-day," replied Molly. "And when
he was coming to meet you, he turned so faint, he could not get along.
So I've come instead, and father said I was to tell you to come home as
quickly as possible by the quietest streets."
"All right, let's make haste," cried Kathleen, starting off at so quick
a pace that Molly could hardly keep up with her.
No one looking at the two as they hurried on their way would have taken
them for sisters. There was nothing attractive in Molly's thin, wizened
face, with its unchildlike look of care, but Kathleen's was a face
which could not fail to call forth admiration.
Her eyes shone like stars beneath the bright black tresses which waved
on her brow; her cheeks were round and rosy, her lips like coral, and
her look free and careless as that of a child. She was in truth little
more than a child, being but fifteen years old, though tall for her
years, with a pretty figure and graceful bearing. She differed from
Molly in character as much as in appearance.
Kathleen was one to take things easily. Care could not lay hold on her
as on little Molly. She would be cross and fretful when things were not
to her mind, but she had a happy knack of shaking off her annoyance in
a moment, and making the most of every bit of enjoyment which came in
her way.
Molly knew well that she was not like Kathleen. The sense of
inferiority to her sister kept her humble, and she never dreamed of
resenting the way in which Kathleen tyrannised over her. Sometimes it
pained her to think how different they were. She knew her father did
not love her as he loved Kathleen. She was poor little Molly, ugly and
crooked; he could take no pride in her.
Little love or care had Molly's childhood known, for her birth had
cost her mother's life, and her father had no welcome for the sickly
babe which brought such trouble to his home. Yet Molly had lived to
repay with warm love the indifference with which her father and sister
regarded her. And though she often wished she were more like Kathleen,
no envy mingled with the wish to prevent her taking a loving pride in
Kathleen's beauty.
"Has the manager paid you, Kathleen?" inquired Molly anxiously, as they
went along.
"Yes, he has paid me. Listen!"—And Kathleen shook her pocket that Molly
might hear the shillings rattle. "Doesn't that sound nice? What say
you—shall we buy some hot pies for supper?"
"Father might like one, perhaps," said Molly. "He has eaten scarcely
anything to-day, and we've nothing but bread and cheese. But don't buy
one for me. There are such lots of things to buy. We want coals and
candles, and almost everything, I think."
"I wonder when father will be able to do full work again," said
Kathleen, discontentedly; "it's rather hard that my money should have
to go for coals and candles."
"Kathleen," asked Molly, gravely, "have you ever thought—what if father
should die?"
Kathleen started at the unexpected question, and the colour left her
cheek for a moment, but it quickly returned as she replied in a tone of
angry remonstrance:
"What do you mean, Molly, by saying such a thing? Father is not likely
to die; there is nothing the matter with him but a cough. I wish you
would not frighten me so."
"I am very sorry," returned Molly, humbly. "I did not mean to frighten
you."
"What can have put such a thought into your head, I can't imagine,"
added Kathleen, still looking disturbed.
"I don't know," said Molly, "it came to me quite suddenly, and I could
not get rid of it. But I'm glad you think it won't happen."
"Of course not. Don't name such a thing to me again, pray."
"No, I won't," said little Molly; and she kept her word.
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