THE SEVENTH DAY.
“When the heart is sick,
And all the wheels of Being slow.”
Seven leaden days had come and gone. To-night they said the little
child would die or live. But the second would need almost a miracle.
All day the red signal had drooped out of a front upstairs window of
Misrule. Five times had the children from the cottage trailed with
sick hearts up the long red road to the house, and each time had that
sorrowful signal been there.
Meg’s heart had bled as she floated it out in the morning; only that
they had her faithful promise they should not be deceived, she could
not have borne to put it there. “Not so well,” they had agreed it
should mean, but her heart said “Dying” as she fastened it, and she
knew the little anxious-eyed group at the gate would read it so.
Such a tiny darling it was, such a wee frail body for the fierce fever
to feed upon. How could it stretch out its little listless hands and
grasp strongly at that strange thing Life that was slipping so fast
away? And ah, God! that those standing by so wild with grief might not
put out their eager hands and seize it for her!
After the fifth sad journey the children dragged to the cottage again
and cried themselves sick. Poppet began. The minute they got inside
the little front room she dropped down in a heap on the oilcloth and
sobbed in a wild hysterical way that shook her poor little body all
over. Peter fell down beside her and cried in the bitter, astonished,
whole-souled fashion of very small children. And Bunty put his rough
head down on the table with both his arms round it. Nellie walked past
them all into her tiny bedroom, and only God saw her despairing grief.
They had had tea before they went the last time, and the early winter
darkness had fallen already, though it was only seven o’clock.
Alan had promised to come in at nine and give them the latest report,
but how could any of them see the end of that interval with such wet
eyes? Time seemed to have ceased for them altogether just now.
After a time, however, Peter sat up straight and looked around;
childish tears, thank Heaven, dry quickly. There was one of his little
tin soldiers on the hearthrug, and he picked it up gratefully and held
it in his small warm hand. Near the fender two of the horsemen with
red caps were lying; he would like to have reached them as well, only
Poppet’s chest was on his other arm, and he could not bear to disturb
her.
Five more minutes ticked away by the funny old clock on the
mantelpiece. It pointed to a quarter to eight, and had just struck
eleven; they all knew by that it was about twenty minutes past seven.
Peter sighed, and very, very softly withdrew his small cramped arm; he
waited a minute or two longer, and then crawled over to the horsemen.
He felt a chastened joy to find all the boxful in the fender just as
he had left them yesterday after the war against the Matabele tribes.
He had painted one of them black for Lobengula, and it reminded him of
the exciting game he had had over his capture. He wondered, poor little
tear-weary boy, would Essie mind very much if he had a little, only a
little, game very quietly on the floor now; the oilcloth had beautiful
yellow squares, all ready for the different detachments.
Poppet’s head was turned the other way; he fancied she was asleep, she
lay so still; Bunty at the table had stopped breathing loudly; perhaps
he was asleep too; and Nellie was in her room.
He marshalled the little figures up in rows, army against army; the
brass toy cannon he gave to the English, but to make up, he put a few
more men on the side of the Matabeles. He always felt secretly sorry
for them, and often gave Lobengula loopholes of escape that he did
not permit to Nelson, Gordon, and Marlborough, who, with small-boy
enthusiasm, he had placed in command of his British forces.
[Illustration: “‘NELTHONTH COPPED THE IMPITH!’”]
The clock struck six, indicated eight, and meant half-past seven. Then
the stillness of the little lamp-lit room was suddenly broken.
“Nelthonth copped the Impith! hurrah—hip, hip, hur——”
Poppet sat up speechless. Poor little sinful Peter lowered his head at
her accusing eyes and whimpered softly.
“You _cwuel_ boy!” she said.
“I wath only picking them up,” he returned, so bitterly ashamed he
could not be quite truthful.
“_I’ve_ been cwying hard all the time,” was Poppet’s sorrowfully
superior answer; she was feeling disappointed with herself at being so
near her own last tear, and it made her more severe with him. “I don’t
b’leeve you care a _bit_.”
“I’m thorrier than you, tho there!” he retorted tearfully.
“Why, you’ve hardly cwied at all!”
“I have, I cried for hourth,—you’re a thtory, Poppet.”
Bunty bade them hold their tongues. He got up and reached “Hereward the
Wake” off the side table to try to occupy his thoughts with; he was
half through “Tom Floremall’s School Days,” and it lay open on the same
table, but he felt it would have been unfeeling to read anything so
light.
The example, however, encouraged the children. Poppet put out her hand
and caught the black kitten that had tapped her shoulder temptingly
once or twice; she cuddled down on the hearthrug with it, after giving
Peter a kiss of forgiveness.
And Peter, utterly relieved, banged Marlborough and Lobengula together
in such fierce single combat that it is wonderful neither of them was
decapitated.
The door handle turned and Nellie came in again, Nellie with a
sheet-white face, heavy wet lashes, and swollen eyes.
“I’m going up again,” she said.
“Tho ’m I,” said Peter, springing to his feet.
“An’ me,” Poppet cried.
“Come on,” said Bunty, picking up his hat.
But Nellie shook her head.
“You know your cold’s bad again, Poppet; and, Peter dear, it’s after
your bedtime,—you _must_ stay,” she said. “Oh, Bunty, _do_ stop with
them.”
“I’m sure——” Bunty answered, with contradictory accent.
Nellie caught a sob.
“I shall _die_ if I don’t go this minute,” she said passionately.
She moved to the door, but Bunty had gone before her.
“We _can’t_ leave them,—oh, _Bunty_, if only you’d stay!” She held his
coat sleeve and tried to force him back.
“I want to hear as much as you do,” he said, with all his old
gruffness; “here, let go.”
“I tell you I shall go mad—_mad_—if I don’t go!” the girl said wildly.
He saw the burning look in her eyes, the pain at her lips, and fell
back suddenly, awkwardly.
“All right, go on,” he said.
Then his just wakening brotherly-protection ideas occurred to him.
“I say, you can’t go,” he said; “don’t be a silly. You’re only a girl,
and it’s dark,—let me go, Nell; I’ll run all the way, and come straight
back and tell you.”
“I _must_ go,” she repeated hoarsely. “Make them go to bed; give Poppet
her medicine; don’t leave the matches near Peter.”
She slipped off his detaining hand, and the next minute was flying up
the road through the cold white moonlight, a small dark figure with
desperate eyes, and the wretchedest little heart in the world.