RHODA MORRIS.
"OH, my gracious! What a miserable fire you have got, mother!"
The exclamation came from Rhoda Morris, as she rushed in from school,
bringing with her a draught of cold air that made her mother shiver.
She sat at needlework between the fire-place and the window, stitching
away at a fine shirt. There was no comfortable dinner being prepared
here, such as awaited her schoolfellow, Esther Wright, but this did not
damp the girl's spirits in the least.
"I'm hungry enough to eat dry bread and enjoy it, so it will be a waste
to use butter to-day, mother," said Rhoda, as she hung up her hat.
"Now, let's see to the fire."
And as she spoke, she made a dash at the poker, but her mother reached
it first.
"No, no, Rhoda, you leave the fire alone, or there won't be a bit left
in the grate, and I've no more firing to make it up again."
Rhoda looked blank. "But it's so cold, mother," she said.
"Never mind, dear, I've nearly finished the last of these shirts, and
you can take them home this afternoon, and then, as you come back, you
can order some coals—that is, if you get the money," added Mrs. Morris.
Rhoda stood staring at the handful of exhausted cinders burning in the
grate, then she suddenly exclaimed, "Mother, they're felling some of
the trees on the other side of the common. Let me go and pick up some
of the chips; you must be so cold," added the girl.
Mrs. Morris had not much hope of the chips, but she agreed to let Rhoda
take a bag and go to see what she could find.
"Don't touch them, Rhoda, if the men have gone to their dinner, but if
they are there, ask if you may pick up what are lying about."
"All right, mother. May I cut a bit of bread for my dinner, and eat it
as I go along?"
While Rhoda stood with the loaf and knife in her hand, the street door
opened again, and in bounded her brother.
"Oh, mother! I've heard of a place, and almost got it too!" he
exclaimed in eager, excited tones, his eyes dancing as he spoke.
Rhoda dropped the knife and bread, and came forward to question him.
"Where—where is it, Frank?" she asked, seizing his hands in her
excitement.
"At Mortimer's, that nice bookseller's in High Street. I shall be in
the printing office too, sometimes, so that I may have a chance of
learning a little of the business."
"Oh, ain't you lucky to have a chance of helping mother like that!"
exclaimed Rhoda, with something like envy in her tone.
Mrs. Morris was a widow, earning a scanty living for herself and
children by doing plain needlework for one of the shops in the
town. They had come to live here on purpose, for there was no such
opportunity of employing her needle in their old home. She had made
neither friends nor acquaintances since she had been here. Rents were
low at this half-built-upon, wholly desolate suburb of the town, and
here she had settled, having neither time nor inclination to become
acquainted with her neighbours. Her boy and girl were friends enough
for her, and although they were poor, and the pinch of poverty was
often keenly felt, the little family were very happy together, in spite
of a frequent dinner of dry bread, and short commons in the way of
coals.
The widow had thought her boy scarcely old enough yet to help her in
the struggle of life. But Frank knew how hard his mother had to work,
and when on his way to school, he saw a card in the bookseller's
window, "Boy wanted," he went in and offered himself, telling such a
straightforward story when asked for references, that Mr. Mortimer had
a great mind to conclude the bargain there and then, he liked the look
of the lad so much. But remembering that his apprentice, Tom Wright,
lived in the same neighbourhood as the address given by this boy, he
told his foreman to make some inquiries of Tom, and bade Frank come in
again in the afternoon for his answer about the place.
"Five shillings a week, mother, and my tea every day," exclaimed Frank
triumphantly, when he had explained how he came to apply for the
situation.
"Oh, my goodness! What a lot of money boys do get!" exclaimed Rhoda.
"If I got a place to nurse a baby all day, I should only get about half
as much."
"Ah! Boys is boys, and gals is only gals," said Frank laughing.
The merry chatter was stopped by Rhoda pickup her bag. "The fire will
be out soon if I don't get some wood," she said.
And off she marched, Frank running after her with a thick slice of
bread by way of dinner. Of course, the talk between them was of what
they were going to do with the extra five shillings a week, little
dreaming that a companion's unkind words were even then shattering all
their hopes.
"Wood, my gal. Yes, you can pick up the chips lying about if you like,"
said the man in answer to Rhoda's request.
She had nearly filled her bag when the same man called to her again.
"You'd better give it up now, while you're safe and sound. If one of
the trees come down upon you, your mother mightn't like it," he said.
"Come again when we've done—about five o'clock, you know."
"Thank you, I'll come," said Rhoda.
And Frank shouldered the bag, and they hastened home to replenish the
fire.
"It's lucky it happens to be Wednesday and half-holiday, for I've got
to go and see about my place at three o'clock," said Frank, as they
walked back over the common.
"'My place!' Don't count your chickens before they are hatched," said
Rhoda, laughing.
"All right, but I think I'm pretty sure of it. Are you going to take
mother's work home this afternoon? Because if you are, we might go to
the town together," said Frank.
But Mrs. Morris was not sure that she would have the work ready in time
for them to reach the town by three o'clock.
"Be punctual, my boy, even if you have to start half an hour before
Rhoda goes," said the widow. "You will be sure to meet her coming back."
Frank made himself neat and tidy, and started alone, but Rhoda was
scarcely less anxious than he was over the success of his errand.
Soon after three she set out with her bundle of shirts, thinking she
should meet her brother soon after she started. But she walked on and
on without seeing him, down into High Street, and past Mr. Mortimer's
shop; she paused there and looked in as she slowly walked by, wondering
whether she should see him dusting books or something. But no, he was
not there, and she hurried on, thinking he had gone round another way
to avoid her, that he might get home and tell his mother the good news
first.
She had taken the shirts into the shop and been paid for them, and was
just coming out again, when she caught sight of her brother, looking so
sad and woe-begone that there was no need to ask him what had happened.
"Never mind, Frank," she whispered, as she slipped her hand in his and
drew him along towards home.
"Do you know about it? Who told you?" asked Frank fiercely, drawing his
hand away.
"Of course I know by your looks. I am sorry, though, Frank. But never
mind, you'll soon hear of another place."
"Hear of another place—yes, I daresay I shall. But what's the good of
that, if my character won't suit?" said the boy angrily.
Rhoda looked blank. "What do you mean?" she said.
"That's what he said—Mr. Mortimer, I mean,—'Your character won't suit,
my boy.'"
"Who did he ask? Where did he inquire?" gasped Rhoda, feeling that to
go home with this tale to her mother would be bitter indeed.
"I dunno, but I'll find out," said Frank fiercely.
"He'd go to your schoolmaster, I should think," said Rhoda.
Frank stood stock still and stared at her for a minute or two, then
slowly shook his head. "I don't believe he's been there," he said. "Of
course I am not a pattern boy, nobody could ever say I was, but I'm
about as good as the rest."
"Couldn't you ask Mr. Collins to-morrow whether anybody came to inquire
about you to-day?"
"Perhaps I might, but I feel sure they never went to school. Oh, Rhoda,
what will mother say when she hears it?" And the poor boy hastily drew
his sleeve across his eyes to wipe away the gathering tears.
Very slowly did they retrace their steps homeward now, debating whether
they should tell their mother what Mr. Mortimer had said, or whether
they should keep it to themselves.
"It'll worry her awfully," said Rhoda, with a sigh.
"But we never do keep anything from mother," debated Frank.
They were still talking the matter over when Esther Wright ran
against them, as she came flying round the corner on her way to Mary
Coppinger's.
"Oh! I beg your pardon," she said in a breathless kind of way. Then,
recognising Rhoda, she added, "I've lost my little brother and sister;
you know Bobbie, don't you?"
"I think I should know him. I have seen that dear little sister of
yours a good many times, and I am sure I should know her," said Rhoda.
"And you have not seen them? I am going to Mary Coppinger's now. If you
should meet them, will you send them home?"
"I'll bring them," said Rhoda good-naturedly. "I'm going across the
common presently, and I'll look about for them."
The brother and sister went on their way, Frank stopping to order the
coals, while Rhoda told the disappointing news to her mother.
Mrs. Morris was as disappointed as her children, and even more hurt and
surprised when she heard the full account of it, for Rhoda decided at
last that she ought to be told all the circumstances.
"I cannot understand it," she said. "Somebody must have been bearing
false witness against you, my boy."
This view of the matter afforded Frank some consolation, but to his
mother it was a very ominous circumstance, for how was her boy ever to
get out in life if he was met at the beginning with such a charge as
this? She knew him to be honest and truthful as the day. And yet, here
he was told that his character was not good enough to secure him an
errand boy's place.
It troubled her greatly, but Rhoda would not stay long to discuss the
matter; she wanted to go and pick up the wood on the farther side of
the common. It was nearly five now; it would be past five before she
could get across to where the trees were being felled, and soon quite
dark.
So she picked up her bag and ran out, exclaiming, "Send Frank with the
other bag, mother, as soon as he comes in."
In her anxiety about the wood and Frank's disappointment, she forgot
all about the lost children, until her brother joined her and asked if
she had seen anything of them.
"Oh, my goodness, I had forgotten all about them!" exclaimed Rhoda in a
tone of self-reproach.
"They can't be on the common," she added, "or else we should see them."
And she stood up and looked all around as she spoke.
Frank, too, looked in every direction, but not a living soul was to be
seen. It was a solitary spot, except on summer half-holidays, when the
children from the surrounding neighbourhood, or from the town, came
here to play.
Away to the left was a turnpike road, leading to another town some
seven or eight miles off. But the passengers on it were never very
numerous, for the railway was far more convenient for most people, and
leading, as it did, over a bleak moor, few would care to travel along
it such a cold day as this.
Having looked all round, and seen nothing of the children, Rhoda
returned to her task of picking up chips. "Let's go now," she said,
when she had nearly filled her bag. "If we stay any longer, it will be
quite dark before we get back."
So they shouldered their burdens and started homeward.
Before they had gone many yards, Rhoda stopped and said, "Hush! I think
I can hear a child crying."
They both stood still and listened intently.
"There's something," said Frank, "but I don't think it's a child
crying."
"I do. Hark! There it is again. Frank, it's over there." And Rhoda
dropped her bag and ran in the direction of the sound. Sure enough it
was Bobbie, shivering and crying with cold and terror, but Lilla was
nowhere to be seen.
"Where's sister?" asked Rhoda, taking him up in her arms in a motherly
fashion, and preparing to go in search of Lilla.
"Gone," said Bobbie with a sob.
Rhoda looked all round, although the gathering gloom prevented her from
seeing any object a dozen yards from where she stood.
"Where has she gone, dear?" asked Rhoda, kissing the little
tear-stained face.
"Gone," repeated Bobbie with another sob.
Then Rhoda noticed that he had nothing on over his holland pinafore,
and that his hat was put on hind part before. It seemed useless to stay
here any longer in the cold, so she resolved to take him back to where
she had left Frank, without looking further for his sister.
"You'll have to carry the wood now," she called, as she drew near.
"I've found one of the stray sheep."
As they went along, they questioned the little boy about his sister.
But it seemed that Bobbie's use of intelligible words was very limited,
and beyond "Gone," they could make nothing of what he said.
Just as they reached the edge of the common, they met Esther, and she
almost sobbed with relief when she caught sight of Bobbie in Rhoda's
arms. But when she heard that nothing had been seen of her little
sister, her alarm returned.
"Where is Lilla?—Show me," she said, speaking to Bobbie.
"Over there," lisped Bobby, pointing vaguely back over Rhoda's shoulder.
"I'll go and find her," said Esther, setting off in the direction
Bobbie pointed out. "You take him home; father will be home by this
time, and tell him I'm gone to look for Lilla."
So Frank went home with the chips, and Rhoda went on to Springfield
Street with Bobbie. She knew where he lived, for she passed the door on
her way to school. And if she had not, it would have mattered little
now, for just as she reached the door, it opened, and out rushed Tom,
who looked considerably taken aback at seeing his little brother in a
stranger's arms.
"Halloo! Where's Esther?" he said.
"She's gone to look for the little girl," said Rhoda.
While Bobbie burst into a roar at the sight of his brother, and threw
himself into his arms.
"Well, this is a pretty go. Father! Father!" called Tom. "Stop a
minute," he said, as Rhoda was turning away.
Mr. Wright came to the door and took Bobbie. "Where have you been, my
boy?" he said. "Why, you're perished with cold."
"I found him the other side of the common, sir," said Rhoda.
"The other side of the common!" repeated Mr. Wright in astonishment.
"Come in, come in out of the cold wind, and tell me all about it."
Tom went back with them, and Rhoda told about the meeting with Esther,
and all she knew. "Perhaps if we'd got back from the town quicker, we
might have found them both," she added.
She did not say what had delayed them, and Tom never thought of the
vacant errand boy's place, or dreamed that his careless words to the
foreman could have any connection with the loss of his little sister.
But so it was, for if Rhoda had only gone to the common a little
earlier, she would have found them both, and much misery would have
been spared the anxious parents.
Mr. Wright carried Bobbie to the fire, and chafed his little hands,
purple and swollen with the cold, and tried to get from him some
account of the affair, but beyond the fact that Lilla was "gone," he
could learn nothing more than Rhoda had told him.
"We must wait till Esther comes to clear up the mystery," he said at
last.
And Tom went off to work, racing back to the town as fast as he could,
to make up for lost time.
And Rhoda went home to her tea, for she was very hungry now.