DICKIE'S ATTIC.
When Mrs. Seymour had placed the tired little Cherry in her own nice
bed, and had made Miss Hobson understand in a few words who it was who
would be found in the morning sharing her room, she returned to the next
floor and looked round.
In the bedroom Meg and Dickie slept the sleep of the utterly weary, and
leaving them for a moment she went to look after her son Jem.
He too slept soundly, though he had not undressed, but lay covered by a
blanket on the sofa.
The clock on the mantel-piece pointed to two, the fire was out, and the
room desolate.
Making her own determination, but leaving it for the present for fear of
disturbing Jem, she went back to Meg. She stood by the side of the
little cot and gazed long and earnestly at the face of her grandchild.
Her grandchild! How she had longed to welcome it! how she had counted on
hearing its little feet patter about in her room! how she had yearned to
see her Jem with his child on his knee!
Instead of that, a dead baby lay in the cradle; and in Meg's embrace
slept a little stranger child, taken, as it were, out of the very
gutter; and in Jem's arms had stood a little cripple, who might be a
care to him all his days.
Mrs. Seymour could hardly believe that all this had happened in one
day--that it could be only yesterday when she had felt that everything
was going so well with the pair whom she loved better than herself.
She sat down in Meg's low chair, and looked into the fire with a
troubled face. She argued to herself that Jem and Meg little knew the
burden they were taking up; and even if they dimly understood it, they
were not able to look into the future, and could not know what the years
might bring.
While these thoughts were passing through her mind, she seemed to see
something written across the fire as she gazed into it.
The words were familiar, and yet she could not make them out in their
order. She shut her eyes, but still they came again, haunting her with a
rebuke as thorough as it was gentle. Was it the Holy Spirit, who teaches
all those who are wanting to do their Father's will?
"I was an hungered, and ye gave Me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave Me
drink: I was a stranger, and ye took Me in. Verily I say unto you,
Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren,
ye have done it unto Me."
"My Lord, have I grudged Thee?" she said, her old eyes dimmed with rare
tears. "Oh, forgive me, and let me do my part towards taking Thee in!"
When the clock struck six she rose and softly went into the front room.
With as little sound as possible she set Jem's breakfast, and lighted
his fire; putting on the kettle and preparing his room against he should
awake.
After that she made some gruel for her daughter, on the clear little
fire she had noiselessly kept up all night, and when all was done, she
decided it was time to wake Jem.
But when she entered his room again he was already up, all traces of
fatigue gone from his face, and her own cheerful Jem stood before her.
She signed to him that Meg was still asleep, and closing the door behind
her, she set about making the tea, Jem asking her in a low tone what
sort of a night his wife had passed.
"Beautiful," said Mrs. Seymour; "she hasn't waked once since I put
Dickie back; and while they're all asleep I want to talk to you, Jem.
Shall we sit down and have a bit of breakfast, so as to be ready when we
are wanted?"
Jem willingly complied, and began at once on the subject that was
uppermost in his mother's thoughts.
"I dare say, mother, that you think as Meg and me must ha' gone crazy
last night?"
"I _did_ think so, but----"
"It wasn't so bad as that," Jem went on, smiling slightly, "for Meg and
me has often talked about Dickie and Cherry; and Meg had said if she got
through this, she should do her best to find 'em, and try to teach
Cherry somethin' or 'nother to get her livin'."
Mrs. Seymour listened. She had intended to give her son a lecture on
caution and rash haste, but since those words had shone out upon her,
she could hear nothing but the tender "Inasmuch--ye have done it unto
Me." How could she say anything after that?
"Of course we neither of us thought on it comin' all of a heap like
this, mother; and we didn't guess as our Lord was goin' to take away
with one hand while He gave with t'other! But it's His doin', and we
ain't goin' to grumble. Meg said, 'Blessed be the name of the Lord,' and
if she could say it, I won't be behind her."
Mrs. Seymour got up to poke the fire, and as she passed her son's chair,
she bent and kissed his forehead in silence.
"Dear mother!" he said affectionately, "I knew as it 'ud be a sore trial
to you; but----"
"Don't say a word more, Jem," she said; "I'll help you all I can, and
after a bit we shall see how things turns out. If you decide to keep
Cherry with you, and she is a good girl, I'll promise you as I'll let
her share my bed; and there'll often be a bit of breakfast for her too.
I 'ain't given so much to my Lord as that I can't spare a little more. I
feel to-day as if I'd never done nothing for Him. 'Inasmuch'----!"
"That's right down kind o' you, mother. If you'd seen all as I saw last
night, you'd find it easier to understand what I felt."
"Was it so bad, Jem? I never saw you take on like that before."
"_Bad?_" echoed Jem. "Why, mother, if any one'd 'a told me about it I
wouldn't ha' given it credit.
"I went out last night more to pacify Meg than because I thought as I
could do any good. The streets was mighty dark, 'cause ye know it was
wet, and when I got to the door, I thought I'd got the right 'un, but I
couldn't be sure. But when I pushed it open and listened, I could hear
the crying, and up I went to the very top, as quiet as I could,
wondering what on earth I could give as a excuse for bein' there if any
one interfered with me.
"Nobody did. They was all settled in to bed, that is, those as had 'em.
Leastways they was settled to sleep. As I got near the top there was a
bit of light out of the door, and when I got to the landin' I just
paused and took a look in.
"There was a man sittin' over a bit of fire, sulky like; and there was
a woman bustlin' about gettin' somethin'; and there was Cherry holdin'
Dickie, and cryin' as if her heart would break. And while I looks the
woman comes to her, and drags Dickie away, and when Cherry tries to hold
her off from him, she lays it on to her with a stick till poor little
Cherry lets go at last. Then the woman seizes Dickie again, and begins
to tie somethin' on his eyes, and he fights and screams with all his
little might.
"'Take it away,' he moans, 'I s'an't have it. Take me away from 'em,
Cherry! Cherry, take it off!'
"Oh, how his screams rings in my ears now. I could ha' rushed in and
knocked her down, that I could; but I'm glad I didn't interfere then,
for I should ha' lost the little 'un if I had. They'd ha' made off with
him fast enough.
"So I was just turnin' away on the dark stairs when the woman came
towards the door. I stood back behind it as flat as I could, and she
brushed past without seein' me.
"The moment she was gone I could see Cherry creep towards her little
brother and lift the bandage. 'You'll get hit agin,' said the sulky man
in a low voice; 'there's nothing but the p'lice, Cherry. I wish some 'un
would give 'em a wink. I'm goin' down to bed.'
"He shuffled off to one of the lower rooms, and passed me as the woman
had done without seeing me. Fearin' I should be questioned, and not
makin' up my mind whether to let the poor little things know as I was
there, I came out to collect my thoughts. The man had given me a hint.
What if I should go in and rescue the children with the knowledge of the
p'lice?
"I hastened down-stairs and reached the air without meetin' any one.
Then I came home to you and Meg; but when I saw our own little 'un lyin'
there so still and sweet, and knew that he, anyways, could never know
those cruel blows, it wholly overcame me. And you know the rest,
mother."
"I don't know how you got 'em, Jem, at last?"
"No more you do. Well, when Meg said as they was to come home here, I
rushed out; and the first p'liceman I found I tells him the story.
"He didn't half believe me, but I says to him, 'You come up and stand
outside the door, and if I can't persuade 'em, I'll call you. I don't
want to have a row if I can get the children peaceable.'
"'Ain't they got no one belongin' to 'em?' he says, as we got to the
door.
"'Their mother's dead and their father drinks; he might be anywhere,' I
says to him.
"'I'll tell you where _he_ is, then,' he says, 'if this is the house.
He's dyin' in the hospital, he is. He was run over this mornin'.'
"'Is _that_ their father?' says I; and, mother, if you'll believe me, I
felt all at once as if they ought to belong to me, since I'd been
saved, and this man of my name had been took.
"So we went up, and when we come to the door she'd begun beatin' of
Cherry again.
"'Stop that!' I says, goin' in quick, and she looked as if she'd been
shot. 'And now I've come to fetch these 'ere little 'uns away. I've seen
yer cruelty to 'em, and if you make a fuss I'll expose you, as sure as
my name's Jem Seymour.'
"With that she stares at me hard, and I go to Dickie and untie his eyes
once more. They was terrible bad by this time, and he only cried more
than ever at the light, and ran to Cherry.
"'Come, Cherry,' I says to her, 'there's them outside as will see
justice done this time. Come along with me; put that shawl round Dickie,
and never you fear, my dear.'
"Then I turned to her as they call old Sairy--'As for you,' says I, 'if
you're ever seen with such another little 'un as this, I'll give you in
charge that instant!'
"Cherry lifted Dickie up, but she was too sore to carry him. So I took
him in my arms, and he clung round my neck, and so we come away. The
woman was too scared to say a word, but I think as she caught sight of
the p'liceman's helmet as we went down."
Mrs. Seymour sat with her breakfast almost untasted.
"Oh, God be thanked as they are safe," she said at last. "Jem, you did
quite right."
"I think as I did," he answered; "but it's a cruel world, mother."
"And that child, Cherry, said as she was praying for a home?" asked Mrs.
Seymour presently.
"Yes; she told me so as we come along. Her little heart was near
breakin'."
Mrs. Seymour said no more, but went into the back room to see if Meg had
waked. Still she and Dickie slept; so leaving the door ajar, she
ascended to her own rooms, taking a cup of tea in her hand for her
lodger.
She found her awake, and very glad of the tea and the latest news. While
they were talking Cherry raised her head from her pillow and looked
round startled. Then she saw Mrs. Seymour's kind face, and understood it
all.
"Have you slept long enough, my dear?" she asked.
"I think so; when I opened my eyes at first I thought it was two years
ago, and that this was our home before father took to drink so bad."
"Did your mother die since then?"
"Yes," said Cherry; "I forget exactly, but one thing I know, she was
dreadfully ill on Christmas Day--not this last one, nor the one before
that, but two years ago--and she died in a few days. Soon after that
father got bad; he used to drink afore, but not so much; and then our
things went one by one, and at last----" Cherry shuddered.
"At last?" questioned Mrs. Seymour.
"He got tired of me askin' for food for me and Dickie, and we'd been a
long time livin' in that big room where's there's such a lot of 'em, and
then he agrees with old Sairy to take Dickie out with her, and let him
share the profits; and he was out with 'em for I should say nigh on six
months. At last Dickie was took so ill that he couldn't walk another
step, and for a long time I thought he'd 'a died; I wished he had."
"And was that when you began to know my Meg?"
"Yes. Oh, she was awful kind to us. And then we went hoppin', and father
and me earned a lot; but he hadn't been home but a little while afore
he'd drunk up every bit of it, and then he thinks of sendin' Dickie out
ag'in; and then they was that cruel to us both. Look here!"
She undid some of her poor little dress, and bared her thin, deformed
shoulders. They were scarred with red seams and black and blue lines.
"Why did they beat you?" asked Mrs. Seymour, her face turning white at
the sight.
"'Cause I wouldn't let 'em hurt Dickie, not while I could hold 'em back;
but it weren't of no use, they always got the best of me at the end."
"Poor little girl," said Mrs. Seymour, stroking Cherry's head tenderly;
"poor little motherless girl!"
Cherry's eyes looked up gratefully.
"Oh, ma'am," she exclaimed earnestly, "if they'll keep Dickie safe from
old Sairy I'll do anything for 'em--anything in the world that I can. I
can learn things pretty quick--mother used to say so. Do you think as
you could teach me anything?"
"I think we can, Cherry, if you're a good girl."
"I will try to be," she said humbly. "And please don't think, ma'am, as
I've took to bad ways, 'cause--"
Cherry's voice was choked, and she could say no more.
Had the child guessed a certain holding back in Mrs. Seymour's manner.
"Why?" she asked gravely.
"'Cause," answered Cherry in a low voice, "I've never forgot what mother
taught me. She said as I belonged to Jesus. When I thought of that--"
"Well?" asked Mrs. Seymour gently.
"I tried to please Him," said Cherry, hiding her face in the pillow.
Mrs. Seymour bent over her.
"Forgive me, little Cherry; I was so afraid--but now I'm not. Look up,
dear, and give me a kiss."
Cherry put her arms round her neck without a word; and then Mrs. Seymour
asked her if she would not like some breakfast soon?
Cherry's eyes brightened. "Oh, ma'am," she said, "I've not had anything
but a crust for so long that I gave up callin' it breakfast."
"Well, child, when you have made yourself a bit tidy you come down as
quiet as you can, and see what I'm about. There's Jem's teapot on the
hob for you, and some nice bread and butter. Dickie's fast asleep now,
and I must go back to them."
She went to seek Jem, who was not in the front room. She came to the
open door, and saw him standing looking intently into the cradle. He
turned hastily when he saw his mother, and signed to her to go into the
other room, whither he followed quickly.
"Mother," he said, in a low tone, "what must I do about the little
babe?"
He spoke in a smothered voice, and his mother knew the pang he must
feel, now the excitement of all that had happened on the previous day
was passing off.
She gave him a few brief instructions, and after saying he understood,
he presently added, "Mother, I shall go to my master's, and ask him to
let me off for a few hours. There ain't nothin' particular doin', so I
dare say he'll make no objections. You see I've got to go about
this----; and then when I come back Cherry and me must go to the
hospital. I've been told as he's not expected to live the day. D'ye
think my Meg'ull be awake when I come back?"
"Very likely she will. And, Jem, tell Mrs. Blunt as you pass, as I want
her to step up for a few minutes. I've done by her clothes as I've
never done by no one's, all these twenty years that I've washed for
people. I've let some one belongin' to me wear one! What do you think of
your old mother now, Jem?"
"It's what she'll think," answered Jem with a slight smile. "I'll tell
her to step up anyway."
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