Little Meg's Disappointment
If Meg had been up early on Robin's birthday, she was out of bed and
about her preparations still earlier the next morning. She had time to
go over again most of her brushing and rubbing of the scanty furniture
before the children awoke. She reached out all their best clothes, and
her own as well, for she did not intend to go down to the docks to meet
her father, but thought it would be best to wait at home for his
arrival. Her hands were full, and her thoughts also, for some time;
and it was not till the nearest clock struck eleven that she could
consider all her preparations completed.
When all her work was done, Meg helped Robin up to the window-sill, and
climbed after him herself to the perilous seat, with the baby held fast
upon her lap. It was the first time the baby had been allowed to
occupy this dangerous place, and for the first few minutes Meg was not
without her fears; but it was weary and languid this morning, and sat
quite still upon her lap, with its little head resting upon her
shoulder, and its grave eyes looking out inquiringly upon the strange
world in which it found itself. Meg and Robin watched every man who
entered the court; and every now and then Robin would clap his hands,
and shout loudly, 'Father, father!' making Meg's arms tremble, and her
heart beat fast with expectation. But it was nine months since he had
gone away, and Robin had almost forgotten him, so that it always proved
not to be her father. Hour after hour passed by, and Meg cut up the
last piece of bread for the children and herself, and yet he never
came; though they stayed faithfully at their post, and would not give
up looking for him as long as the daylight lasted. But the night drew
near at last, an early night, for it was the first day in November, and
London fogs grow thick then; and Meg kindled the fire again, and sat
down by it, unwilling to undress the children before he came. So she
sat watching and waiting, until the baby fell into a broken, sobbing
slumber on her lap, and Robin lay upon the floor fast asleep.
At length Meg resolved to lay the children in bed, dressed as they
were, and steal down herself to the docks, under the shelter of the
fog, to see if she could learn any news of the Ocean King. She drew
the old shawl over her head, which well covered her red frock, and
taking off her shoes and stockings--for father would not miss them in
the night--she crept unseen and unheard down the dark staircase, and
across the swarming, noisy court. The fog was growing thicker every
minute, yet she was at no loss to find her way, so familiar it was to
her. But when she reached the docks, the darkness of the night, as
well as that of the fog, hid from her the presence of her good-natured
friend, if indeed he was there. There were strange noises and rough
voices to be heard, and from time to time the huge figure of some tall
man appeared to her for an instant in the gloom, and vanished again
before little Meg could find courage to speak to him. She drew back
into a corner, and peered eagerly, with wistful eyes, into the thick
yellow mist which hid everything from them, while she listened to the
clank of iron cables, and the loud sing-song of the invisible sailors
as they righted their vessels. If she could only hear her father's
voice among them! She felt sure she should know it among a hundred
others, and she was ready to cry aloud the moment it reached her
ears--to call 'Father!' and he would be with her in an instant, and she
in his arms, with her own clasped fast about his neck. Oh, if he would
but speak out of the darkness! Meg's keen eyes grew dim with tears,
and her ears seemed to become dull of hearing, from the very longing to
see and hear more clearly. But she rubbed away the tears with her
shawl, and pushed the tangled hair away behind her small ears, and with
her hands pressed against her heart, to deaden its throbbing, she
leaned forward to pierce, if possible, through the thick dark veil
which separated her from her father.
She had been there a long time when the thought crossed her, that
perhaps after all he had been knocking at the door at home, and trying
to open it; waking up the children, and making them cry and scream with
terror at finding themselves quite alone. She started up to hurry
away; but at that moment a man came close by, and in the extremity of
her anxiety Meg stopped him.
'Please,' she said earnestly, 'is the Ocean King come in yet?'
'Ay,' was the answer. 'Came in last night, all right and tight.'
'Father must be come home, then,' thought Meg, speeding away swiftly
and noiselessly with her bare feet along the streets to Angel Court.
She glanced up anxiously to her attic window, which was all in
darkness, while the lower windows glimmered with a faint light from
within. The landlord's room was full of a clamorous, quarrelling crew
of drunkards; and Meg's spirit sank as she thought--suppose father had
been up to their attic, and finding it impossible to get in at once,
had come down, and begun to drink with them! She climbed the stairs
quickly, but all was quiet there; and she descended again to hang about
the door, and listen, and wait; either to discover if he was there, or
to prevent him turning in when he did come. Little Meg's heart was
full of a woman's heaviest care and anxiety, as she kept watch in the
damp and the gloom of the November night, till even the noisy party
within broke up, and went their way, leaving Angel Court to a brief
season of quietness.
Meg slept late in the morning, but she was not disturbed by any knock
at the door. Robin had crept out of bed and climbed up alone to the
window-sill, where fortunately the window was shut and fastened; and
the first thing Meg's eyes opened upon was Robin sitting there, in the
tumbled clothes in which he had slept all night. The morning passed
slowly away in mingled hope and fear; but no step came up the ladder to
their door, and Kitty had gone out early in the morning, before Meg was
awake. She spent her last shilling in buying some coal and oatmeal;
and then, because it was raining heavily, she stationed herself on the
topmost step of the stairs, with Robin and baby, waiting with
ever-growing dread for the long-delayed coming of her father.
It was growing dark again before any footstep came further than the
landing below, and then it was a soft, stealthy, slipshod step, not
like the strong and measured tread of a man. It was a woman who
climbed the steep ladder, and Meg knew it could be no one else but
Kitty. The girl sat down on the top step beside them, and took Robin
upon her lap.
'What are you all doing out here, little Meg?' she said, in a low,
gentle voice, which Meg could scarcely believe to be the same as that
which had sometimes frightened her by its shrill shrieks of drunken
merriment.
'We're looking for father,' she answered weariedly. 'He's never come
yet, and I've spent all my money, and we've got no candles.'
'Meg,' said Kitty, 'I can pay you back the shilling you gave me on
Tuesday night.'
'But you mustn't come into our room, if you do,' answered Meg.
'No, no, I'll not come in,' said she, pressing a shilling into Meg's
hand. 'But why hasn't father come home?'
'I don't know,' sobbed Meg. 'His ship came in the night of Robbie's
birthday, that's two days ago; and he's never come yet.'
'The ship come in!' repeated Kitty, in a tone of surprise. 'What's the
name o' the ship, Meg?'
'Father's ship's the Ocean King,' said Robin proudly.
'I'll hunt him up,' cried Kitty, rising in haste. 'I'll find him, if
he's anywhere in London. I know their ways, and where they go to, when
they come ashore, little Meg. Oh! I'll hunt him out. You put the
children to bed, dear; and then you sit up till I come back, if it's
past twelve o'clock, I'll bring him home, alive or dead. Don't cry no
more, little Meg.'
She called softly up the stairs to say these last words, for she had
started off immediately. Meg did as she had told her, and then waited
with renewed hope for her return. It was past midnight before Kitty
tapped quietly at the door, and she went out to her on the landing.
But Kitty was alone, and Meg could hardly stand for the trembling which
came upon her.
'Haven't you found father?' she asked.
'I've found out where he is,' answered Kitty. 'He's at the other end
of the world, in hospital. He was took bad a-coming home--so bad, they
was forced to leave him behind them; and he'll work his way back when
he's well enough, so Jack says, one of his mates. He says he may come
back soon, or come back late, and that's all he knows about him. What
shall you do, little Meg?'
'Mother said I was to be sure to take care of the children till father
comes home,' she answered, steadying her voice; 'and I'll do it, please
God. I can ask Him to help me, and He will. He'll take care of us.'
'He hasn't took care o' me,' said Kitty bitterly.
'May be you haven't asked Him,' said Meg.
Kitty was silent for a minute, and then she spoke in a voice half
choked with sobs.
'It's too late now,' she said, 'but He'll take care of you, never fear;
and oh! I wish He'd let me help Him. I wish I could do something for
you, little Meg; for your mother spoke kind to me once, and made me
think of my own mother. There, just leave me alone, will you? I'm off
to bed now, and you go to bed too. I'll help you all I can.'
She pushed Meg back gently into her attic, and closed the door upon
her; but Meg heard her crying and moaning aloud in her own room, until
she herself fell asleep.