A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT.
There are little girls of ten years old who in the present day are
possessed of a large amount of self-possession. Some of these little
maids are, in their own way, quite womanly--they can ask their way
without faltering, and they can even walk about alone in a great world
like London without losing themselves.
But to this class of self-possessed little girls Daisy Mainwaring did
not belong. She had a charming, babyish little face, and was something
of the baby still in the confiding and wistful way in which she leaned
on others for support. Daisy was, perhaps, in all particulars younger
than her years. When at last, after inconceivable difficulties--after
being jostled about by an indifferent crowd, and pushed rudely against
by more than one stupid, blundering porter--she did find her way to
the right ticket-office, and did secure her single third to Rosebury,
and then get a very small allowance of room in a crowded third-class
carriage her heart was beating so loudly that she almost wondered it
did not burst. The great train, however, moved out of the terminus,
and Daisy felt herself whirling away through the night, and then she
became conscious of a little sensation of thankfulness. Surely the
worst of her journey was over now; surely she and the Pink would be
received very kindly and very lovingly by Mrs. Ellsworthy; surely Mrs.
Ellsworthy would listen with full credence to the little tale Daisy
would make up about an ogre having stolen away her money, and would
hasten to fill the poor empty little purse from her own abundant
stores. Daisy thought such happy and hopeful thoughts as she was
commencing her weary journey, and then she clasped the basket which
contained the Pink tightly in her little arms, and presently, from
sheer weariness, dropped asleep. When the little head bobbed forward
two or three times a good-natured neighbor put her arm round the
child, and after a little even took her into her arms, where Daisy,
after many hours of deep slumber, awoke. The night train to Rosebury
went very slowly, stopping at every little wayside station, and
sometimes seeming to the exasperated passengers scarcely to move at
all; but all these weary hours Daisy slumbered peacefully, and when
she awoke the sun was shining brightly, and a new day had begun.
"Well, my dear, you have had a hearty sleep," said the good-natured
woman; "and where are you bound, if I may make so bold as to ask,
little miss?"
"I am going to Rosebury," said Daisy. "Oh! how kind of you to let me
sleep in your arms. I've had quite a nice nap, and I'm not so very
tired. Thank you very much for being so very good to me. Are we near
Rosebury now, please?"
"In half an hour you'll get there, dear. Now I must say good-bye, for
this is my station. Good-bye, missy, and a safe journey to you."
"I'm so sorry you are going away," said Daisy, and she raised her
little lips to kiss her friend.
"God bless you, love," said the nice, pleasant-faced woman, and then
she got out of the carriage, nodding her head to Daisy as she walked
away.
The loneliness which had more or less been soothed or kept in abeyance
by this good woman's company now returned very strongly, and Daisy had
to feel a certain empty little purse which she held in her pocket to
keep up her resolution. She did not seem so certain about Mrs.
Ellsworthy being nice and kind as she was the night before. The
third-class carriage in which she had travelled was now nearly empty,
and when she at last arrived at Rosebury she was the only passenger to
alight. She gave up her ticket and walked out of the station, a
forlorn and unnoticed little personage. It was still very early in the
morning, not quite six o'clock, and there were very few people about,
and the whole place had a strange, deserted, and unhomelike feeling.
Could this be the Rosebury where Daisy was born, where she had been so
petted and loved? She did not like its aspect in the cold grey morning
light. There was a little drizzling mist falling, and it chilled her
and made her shiver.
"I know I've been very, very selfish," she kept murmuring to herself.
"I oughtn't to have minded the dungeon. I ought not to have been so
terrified at the ogre. I'm afraid God is angry with me for being so
dreadfully selfish, and for letting the ogre take Primrose's money. I
always did think the sun shone at Rosebury, but perhaps even the sun
won't get up because he is angry with me."
Daisy knew her way down the familiar and straggling village street,
but there were one or two different roads to Shortlands, and she
became puzzled which to take, and what with the drizzling rain, and
her own great fatigue of body, soon really lost her way.
An early laborer going to work was the first person she met. She asked
him eagerly if she was on the right road; but he answered her so
gruffly that she instantly thought he must be a relation of Mr. Dove's
and ran, crying and trembling, away from him. The next person she came
across was a little boy of about her own age, and he was kind, and
took her hand, and put her once more in the right direction, so that,
foot-sore and weary, the poor little traveller did reach the
lodge-gates of Shortlands about nine o'clock.
But here the bitterest of her disappointments awaited her, for the
woman who attended to the gates said, in a cold and unsympathizing
voice, that the family were now in London, and there was no use
whatever in little miss troubling herself to go up to the house. No
use at all, the woman repeated, for she could not tell when the family
would return, probably not for several weeks. Daisy did not ask any
more questions, but turned away from the inhospitable gates with a
queer sinking in her heart, and a great dizziness before her eyes. She
had come all this weary, weary way for nothing. She had taken dear
Poppy's last money for nothing. Oh, now there was no doubt at all that
God was very angry with her, and that she had been both wicked and
selfish. She had still twopence in her pocket--for the good-natured
omnibus conductor had paid her fare himself. She would go to the
nearest cottage and ask for some milk for the Pink, and then she
wondered--poor, little, lonely, unhappy child--how long it would take
her to die.