Little Meg's Baby
The new year came, but Meg's father had not arrived. Kitty was having
a mad outburst, as if she had so long controlled herself that now it
was necessary to break out into extra wickedness. She came home late
every night, very drunk, and shouting loud snatches of songs, which
wakened up the inmates of the lower stories, and drew upon her a storm
of oaths. But she continued always good-natured and kind to Meg, and
insisted upon having the daily charge of Robin and the baby, though Meg
left them in her care with a very troubled and anxious spirit. Things
were looking very dark to the poor little woman; but she kept up as
brave a heart as she could, waiting from day to day for that
long-deferred coming of her father, in which she believed so firmly.
It was a little later than usual one evening, for the days were
creeping out since the new year, when Meg climbed wearily upstairs to
Kitty's attic, in search of her children, but found that they were not
there. Mr Grigg told her that he had seen Kitty take them out with her
in the afternoon; and even while he was speaking, Meg saw her
staggering and rolling into the court, with the baby fast asleep in her
drunken arms. Meg took it from her without a word, and led Robin away
upstairs. Robin's face was flushed, and his hand was very hot; but the
baby lay in her arms heavily, without any movement or sign of life,
except that the breath came through her parted lips, and her eyelids
stirred a little. Meg locked the door of her attic, and laid her baby
on the bed, while she lighted the fire and got their tea ready. Robin
looked strange, but he chattered away without ceasing, while he watched
her set the things in readiness. But the baby would not awake. It lay
quite still on Meg's lap, and she poured a little warm tea into its
mouth, but it did not swallow it, only slept there with heavy eyelids,
and moving neither finger nor foot, in a strange, profound slumber. It
was smaller and thinner than when mother died, thought Meg; and she
lifted up the lifeless little hand to her lips, half hoping that its
eyes would unclose a little more, and that sweet, loving smile, with
which it always welcomed her return, would brighten its languid face.
But baby was too soundly asleep to smile.
Little Meg sat up all night, with the baby lying on her lap, moaning a
little now and then as its slumbers grew more broken, but never lifting
up its eyelids to look into her face and know it. When the morning
dawned it was still the same. Could the baby be ill? asked Meg of
herself. It did not seem to be in any pain; yet she carried it to the
door, and called softly for Kitty to come and look at it; but there was
no reply, only from below came up harsh sounds of children screaming
and angry women quarrelling. Oaths and threats and shrieks were all
the answer Meg's feeble cry received. She sat down again on her
mother's low chair before the fire, and made the baby comfortable on
her lap; while Robin stood at her knee, looking down pitifully at the
tiny, haggard, sleeping face, which Meg's little hand could almost
cover. What was she to do? There was no one in Angel Court whom she
dare call to her help. Baby might even die, like the greater number of
the babies born in that place, whose brief lives ended quickly, as if
existence was too terrible a thing in the midst of such din and
squalor. At the thought that perhaps baby was going to die, two or
three tears of extreme anguish rolled down little Meg's cheeks, and
fell upon baby's face; but she could not cry aloud, or weep many tears.
She felt herself falling into a stupor of grief and despair, when Robin
laid his hand upon her arm.
'Why don't you ask God to waken baby?' he asked.
'I don't know whether it 'ud be a good thing,' she answered. 'Mother
said she'd ask Him over and over again to let her take baby along with
her, and that 'ud be better than staying here. I wish we could all go
to heaven; only I don't know whatever father 'ud do if he come home and
found us all dead.'
'Maybe God'll take me and baby,' said Robbie thoughtfully, 'and leave
you to watch for father.'
'I only wish baby had called me Meg once afore she went,' cried little
Meg.
The baby stirred a little upon her knees, and stretched out its feeble
limbs, opening its blue eyes wide and looking up into her face with its
sweet smile of welcome. Then the eyelids closed again slowly, and the
small features put on a look of heavenly calm and rest. Meg and Robin
gazed at the change wonderingly without speaking; but when after a few
minutes Meg laid her hand gently upon the smooth little forehead, the
same chill struck to her heart as when she had touched her mother's
dead face.
It did not seem possible to little Meg that baby could really be dead.
She chafed its puny limbs, as she had seen her mother do, and walked up
and down the room singing to it, now loudly, now softly; but no change
came upon it, no warmth returned to its death-cold frame, no life to
its calm face. She laid it down at length upon the bed, and crossed
its thin wee arms upon its breast, and then stretching herself beside
it, with her face hidden from the light, little Meg gave herself up to
a passion of sorrow.
'If I'd only asked God, for Christ's sake,' she cried to herself,
'maybe He'd have let baby wake, though I don't know whether it's a good
thing. But now she's gone to mother, and father'll come home, and
he'll find nobody but me and Robbie, and the money safe. Oh! I wish
I'd asked God.'
'Meg,' said Robin, after she had worn herself out with sobs and tears,
and was lying silently beside baby, 'I'm very poorly. I think I'll go
to live with the angels, where mother and baby are gone.'
Meg started up, and gazed anxiously at Robin. His bright eyes were
dimmed, and his face was flushed and heavy; he was stretched on the
floor near the fire, in a listless attitude, and did not care to move,
when she knelt down beside him, and put her arm under his head. It
ached, he said; and it felt burning hot to her touch. Meg's heart
stood still for a moment, and then she dropped her tear-stained
sorrowful face upon her hands.
'Pray God,' she cried, 'don't take Robbie away as well as baby. Maybe
it wasn't a good thing for baby to stay, now mother's dead, though I've
done everythink I could, and there's been nobody to take care of us but
You. But, pray God, do let Robbie stay with me till father comes home;
for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen.'
Meg rose from her knees, and lifted up Robin as gently as she could,
soothing him, and talking fondly to him as she took off his clothes.
When that was finished she laid him on the same bed where the baby was
sleeping its last long sleep, with its tiny face still wearing an
unspeakable calm; for Robin's little mattress had been sold some time
ago. The day was just at an end, that sorrowful day, and a lingering
light from the west entered through the attic window, and lit up the
white, peaceful features with the flushed and drowsy face of Robin
beside it. Meg felt as if her heart would surely break as she stooped
over them, and kissed them both, her lips growing cold as they touched
baby's smiling mouth. Then drawing her old shawl over her head, she
locked the attic door securely behind her, and ran as fast as her feet
could carry her to Mrs Blossom's house.
'Robbie's very ill,' gasped Meg, breathlessly, as she burst into the
shop, the shutters of which were already put up, though it was still
early in the night, 'and I want a doctor for him. Where shall I find a
doctor?'
Mrs Blossom had her bonnet and cloak on, and looked very pale and
flurried. When she answered Meg she kept her hand pressed against her
heart.
'I'm just a-going to one,' she said, 'the best at this end o' London,
Dr Christie, and you'd better come along with me. He knows me well.
Meg, I've seen somebody go by to-day as was like Posy, only pale and
thin; but when I ran out, she was gone like a shadow. I'm a-going to
tell Dr Christie; he knows all about Posy and me.'
But Meg scarcely heard what Mrs Blossom said. All her thoughts and
interest centred in Robin, and she felt impatient of the slow progress
of her companion. They seemed to her to be going a long, long way,
until they came to better streets and larger houses; and by-and-by they
saw a carriage standing before a door, and a gentleman came out and got
into it hurriedly.
'Why, bless me!' exclaimed Mrs Blossom, 'there's Dr Christie. Stop
him, Meg, stop him!'
Meg needed no urging, but rushed blindly across the street. There was
all at once a strange confusion about her, a trampling of horses' feet,
and a rattling of wheels, with a sudden terror and pain in herself; and
then she knew no more. All was as nothing to her--baby and Robin alone
in the attic, and Mrs Blossom and Posy--all were gone out of her mind
and memory. She had thrown herself before the horses' heads, and they
had trampled her down under their feet.
When little Meg came to herself again it was broad daylight, and she
was lying in a room so bright and cheerful that she could neither
imagine where she was nor how she came there. There was a good fire
crackling noisily in the low grate, with a brass guard before it, and
over the chimney-piece was a pretty picture of angels flying upwards
with a child in their arms. All round the walls there hung other
pictures of birds and flowers, coloured gaily, and glittering in gilded
frames. Another little bed like the one she lay in stood in the
opposite corner, but there was nobody in it, and the place was very
quiet. She lay quite still, with a dreamy thought that she was somehow
in heaven, until she heard a pleasant voice speaking in the next room,
the door of which was open, so that the words came readily to her ears.
'I only wish we knew where the poor little thing comes from,' said the
voice.
'I'm vexed I don't,' answered Mrs Blossom. 'I've asked her more than
once, and she's always said it's down a street off Rosemary Lane, and
along another street, and up a court. But there's a girl called Kitty
living in the back attic, as takes care of the children when Meg's
away. She's sure to be taking care o' them now.'
In an instant memory came back to little Meg. She recollected bending
over Robin and the baby to kiss them before she came away, and locking
the door safely upon them. Oh! what had become of Robbie in the night?
She raised herself up in bed, and uttered a very bitter cry, which
brought to her quickly Mrs Blossom and a strange lady.
'I want Robbie,' she cried. 'I must get up and go to him directly.
It's my Robbie that's ill, and baby's dead. I'm not ill, but Robbie's
ill, if he isn't dead, like baby, afore now. Please to let me get up.'
'Tell me all about it,' said Mrs Blossom, sitting down on the bed and
taking Meg into her arms. 'We're in Dr Christie's house, and he'll go
and see Robbie in a minute, he says.'
'Baby died yesterday morning,' answered Meg, with tearless eyes, for
her trouble was too great for tears; 'and then Robbie was took ill, and
I put them both in bed, and kissed them, and locked the door, and came
away for a doctor, and there's been nobody to take care of 'em all
night, only God.'
Meg's eyes burned no longer, but filled with tears as she thought of
God, and she laid her head upon Mrs Blossom's shoulder, and wept aloud.
'God has taken care of them,' said Mrs Christie, but she could say no
more.
'Where is it you live, deary?' asked Mrs Blossom.
'It's at Angel Court,' answered Meg. 'But there mustn't nobody go
without me. Please to let me get up. I'm not ill.'
'You're very much bruised and hurt, my poor child,' said Mrs Christie.
'I must go,' pleaded Meg urgently, 'I must get up, I promised mother
I'd never let anybody go into our room, and they mustn't go without me.
They're my children, please. If your little children were ill, you'd
go to 'em wouldn't you? Let me get up this minute.'
It was impossible to withstand little Meg's earnestness. Mrs Blossom
dressed her tenderly, though Meg could not quite keep back the groan
which rose to her quivering lips when her bruised arm was moved. A cab
was called, and then Mrs Blossom and Meg, with Dr Christie, got into
it, and drove away quickly to Angel Court.