Produced by Al Haines
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: Looking out for Father]
Little Meg's Children
BY HESBA STRETTON
Author of 'Jessica's First Prayer,'
'Alone in London,' 'Pilgrim Street,'
'No Place Like Home,' etc.
WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY HAROLD COPPING
And other Illustrations
LONDON
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
56 PATERNOSTER ROW AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD
1905
Contents
CHAP.
I. MOTHERLESS
II. LITTLE MEG AS A MOURNER
III. LITTLE MEG'S CLEANING DAY
IV. LITTLE MEG'S TREAT TO HER CHILDREN
V. LITTLE MEG'S NEIGHBOUR
VI. LITTLE MEG'S LAST MONEY
VII. LITTLE MEG'S DISAPPOINTMENT
VIII. LITTLE MEG'S RED FROCK IN PAWN
IX. LITTLE MEG'S FRIENDS IN NEED
X. LITTLE MEG AS CHARWOMAN
XI. LITTLE MEG'S BABY
XII. THE END OF LITTLE MEG'S TROUBLE
XIII. LITTLE MEG'S FATHER
XIV. LITTLE MEG'S FAREWELL
Little Meg's Children
CHAPTER I
Motherless
In the East End of London, more than a mile from St Paul's Cathedral,
and lying near to the docks, there is a tangled knot of narrow streets
and lanes, crossing and running into one another, with blind alleys and
courts leading out of them, and low arched passages, and dark gullies,
and unsuspected slums, hiding away at the back of the narrowest
streets; forming altogether such a labyrinth of roads and dwellings,
that one needs a guide to thread a way among them, as upon pathless
solitudes or deserts of shifting sands. In the wider streets it is
possible for two conveyances to pass each other; for in some of them,
towards the middle of their length, a sweeping curve is taken out of
the causeway on either side to allow of this being done; but in the
smaller and closer streets there is room spared only for the passage to
and fro of single carts, while here and there may be found an alley so
narrow that the neighbours can shake hands, if they would, from
opposite windows. Many of the houses are of three or four stories,
with walls, inside and out, dingy and grimed with smoke, and with
windows that scarcely admit even the gloomy light which finds a way
through the thick atmosphere, and down between the high, close
buildings.
A few years ago in one of these dismal streets there stood a still more
dismal yard, bearing the name of Angel Court, as if there yet lingered
among those grimy homes and their squalid occupants some memories of a
brighter place and of happier creatures. Angel Court was about nine
feet wide, and contained ten or twelve houses on each side, with one
dwelling at the further end, blocking up the thoroughfare, and
commanding a view down the close, stone-paved yard, with its
interlacing rows of clothes-lines stretched from window to window, upon
which hung the yellow, half-washed rags of the inhabitants. This end
house was three stories high, without counting a raised roof of red
tiles, forming two attics; the number of rooms in all being eight, each
one of which was held by a separate family, as were most of the other
rooms in the court. To possess two apartments was almost an
undreamed-of luxury.
There was certainly an advantage in living in the attics of the end
house in Angel Court, for the air was a trifle purer there and the
light clearer than in the stories below. From the small windows might
be seen the prospect, not only of the narrow court, but of a vast
extent of roofs, with a church spire here and there, and the glow of
the sky behind them, when the sun was setting in a thick purplish cloud
of smoke and fog. There was greater quiet also, and more privacy up in
the attics than beneath, where all day long people were trampling up
and down the stairs, and past the doors of their neighbours' rooms.
The steep staircase ended in a steeper ladder leading up to the attics,
and very few cared to climb up and down it. It was perhaps for these
reasons that the wife of a sailor, who had gone to sea eight months
before, had chosen to leave a room lower down, for which he had paid
the rent in advance, in order to mount into higher and quieter quarters
with her three children.
Whatever may have been her reason, it is certain that the sailor's
wife, who had been ailing before her husband's departure, had, for some
weeks past, been unable to descend the steep ladder into the maze of
busy streets, to buy the articles necessary for her little household,
and that she had steadily refused all aid from her neighbours, who soon
left off pressing it upon her. The only nurse she had, and the only
person to whom she would entrust her errands, was her eldest child, a
small, spare, stunted girl of London growth, whose age could not be
more than ten years, though she wore the shrewd, anxious air of a woman
upon her face, with deep lines wrinkling her forehead and puckering
about her keen eyes. Her small bony hands were hard with work; and
when she trod to and fro about the crowded room, from the bedside to
the fireplace, or from the crazy window to the creaking door, which let
the cold draughts blow in upon the ailing mother, her step was slow and
silent, less like that of a child than of a woman who was already weary
with much labour. The room itself was not large enough to cause a
great deal of work; but little Meg had had many nights of watching
lately, and her eyes were heavy for want of sleep, with the dark
circles underneath them growing darker every day.
The evening had drawn in, but Meg's mother, her head propped up with
anything that could be made into a pillow, had watched the last glow of
the light behind the chimneys and the church spires, and then she
turned herself feebly towards the glimmer of a handful of coals burning
in the grate, beside which her little daughter was undressing a baby
twelve months old, and hushing it to sleep in her arms. Another child
had been put to bed already, upon a rude mattress in a corner of the
room, where she could not see him; but she watched Meg intently, with a
strange light in her dim eyes. When the baby was asleep at last, and
laid down on the mattress upon the floor, the girl went softly back to
the fire, and stood for a minute or two looking thoughtfully at the red
embers.
'Little Meg!' said her mother, in a low, yet shrill voice.
Meg stole across with a quiet step to the bedside, and fastened her
eyes earnestly upon her mother's face.
'Do you know I'm going to die soon?' asked the mother.
'Yes,' said Meg, and said no more.
'Father'll be home soon,' continued her mother, 'and I want you to take
care of the children till he comes. I've settled with Mr Grigg
downstairs as nobody shall meddle with you till father comes back.
But, Meg, you've got to take care of that your own self. You've
nothing to do with nobody, and let nobody have nothing to do with you.
They're a bad crew downstairs, a very bad crew. Don't you ever let any
one of 'em come across the door-step. Meg, could you keep a secret?'
'Yes, I could,' said Meg.
'I think you could,' answered her mother, 'and I'll tell you why you
mustn't have nothing to do with the crew downstairs. Meg, pull the big
box from under the bed.'
The box lay far back, where it was well hidden by the bed; but by dint
of hard pulling Meg dragged it out, and the sailor's wife gave her the
key from under her pillow. When the lid was open, the eyes of the
dying woman rested with interest and longing upon the faded finery it
contained--the bright-coloured shawl, and showy dress, and velvet
bonnet, which she used to put on when she went to meet her husband on
his return from sea. Meg lifted them out carefully one by one, and
laid them on the bed, smoothing out the creases fondly. There were her
own best clothes, too, and the children's; the baby's nankeen coat, and
Robin's blue cap, which never saw the light except when father was at
home. She had nearly emptied the box, when she came upon a small but
heavy packet.
'That's the secret, Meg,' said her mother in a cautious whisper.
'That's forty gold sovereigns, as doesn't belong to me, nor father
neither, but to one of his mates as left it with him for safety. I
couldn't die easy if I thought it wouldn't be safe. They'd go rooting
about everywhere; but, Meg, you must never, never, never let anybody
come into the room till father's at home.'
'I never will, mother,' said little Meg.
'That's partly why I moved up here,' she continued. 'Why, they'd
murder you all if they couldn't get the money without. Always keep the
door locked, whether you're in or out; and, Meg dear, I've made you a
little bag to wear round your neck, to keep the key of the box in, and
all the money I've got left; it'll be enough till father comes. And if
anybody meddles, and asks you when he's coming, be sure say you expect
him home to-day or to-morrow. He'll be here in four weeks, on Robin's
birthday, may be. Do you know all you've got to do, little Meg?'
'Yes,' she answered. 'I'm to take care of the children, and the money
as belongs to one of father's mates; and I must wear the little bag
round my neck, and always keep the door locked, and tell folks I expect
father home to-day or to-morrow, and never let nobody come into our
room.'
'That's right,' murmured the dying woman. 'Meg, I've settled all about
my burial with the undertaker and Mr Grigg downstairs; and you'll have
nothing to do but stay here till they take me away. If you like, you
and Robin and baby may walk after me; but be sure see everybody out,
and lock the door safe afore you start.'
She lay silent for some minutes, touching one after another the clothes
spread upon the bed as Meg replaced them in the box, and then, locking
it, put the key into the bag, and hung it round her neck.
'Little Meg,' said her mother, 'do you remember one Sunday evening us
hearing a sermon preached in the streets?'
'Yes, mother,' answered Meg promptly.
'What was it he said so often?' she whispered. 'You learnt the verse
once at school.'
'I know it still,' said Meg. '"If ye then, being evil, know how to
give good gifts unto your children: how much more shall your Father
which is in heaven give good things to them that ask Him?"'
'Ay, that's it,' she said faintly; 'and he said we needn't wait to be
God's children, but we were to ask Him for good things at once, because
He had sent His own Son to be our Saviour, and to die for us. "Them
that ask Him, them that ask Him"; he said it over and over again. Eh!
but I've asked Him a hundred times to let me live till father comes
home, or to let me take baby along with me.'
'May be that isn't a good thing,' said Meg. 'God knows what are good
things.'
The dying mother pondered over these words for some time, until a
feeble smile played upon her wan face.
'It 'ud be a good thing anyhow,' she said, 'to ask Him to forgive me my
sins, and take me to heaven when I die--wouldn't it, Meg?'
Yes, that's sure to be a good thing,' answered Meg thoughtfully.
'Then I'll ask Him for that all night,' said her mother, 'and to be
sure take care of you all till father comes back. That 'ud be another
good thing.'
She turned her face round to the wall with a deep sigh, and closed her
eyelids, but her lips kept moving silently from time to time. Meg
cried softly to herself in her chair before the fire, but presently she
dozed a little for very heaviness of heart, and dreamed that her
father's ship was come into dock, and she, and her mother, and the
children were going down the dingy streets to meet him. She awoke with
a start; and creeping gently to her mother's side, laid her warm little
hand upon hers. It was deadly cold, with a chill such as little Meg
had never before felt; and when her mother neither moved nor spoke in
answer to her repeated cries, she knew that she was dead.