Produced by Chris Curnow, Joseph Cooper and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note:
Phrases printed in italics in the original version are
indicated in this electronic version by _ (underscore).
A list of amendments are given at the end of the book.
LITTLE FOLKS:
_A Magazine for the Young._
_NEW AND ENLARGED SERIES._
CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED.
_LONDON, PARIS & NEW YORK._
[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.]
[Illustration]
A LITTLE TOO CLEVER.
_By the Author of "Pen's Perplexities" "Margaret's Enemy," "Maid
Marjory" &c._
CHAPTER XII.--AN UNEXPECTED FRIEND.
[Illustration]
For the first time since she had left home, Elsie felt thoroughly
frightened and miserable. Even when she had stayed in the crofter's
cottage she had not felt worse. For this little attic, right at the top
of a tall house full of people, seemed even more dreadful than the bare
wretched loft in Sandy Ferguson's hovel. The height of the house, the
noises of loud angry voices, banging doors, hurrying footsteps coming
and going on the stairs, the continual roar of traffic in the street
below, were all things strange and terrifying to the moor-bred Scottish
lassie. Besides this, she had begun to realise to the full extent how
greatly she had been mistaken in all her ideas when she formed the plan
of running away. She had thought it would be a fine adventure, with some
little difficulties to encounter, such as would quickly come right, as
they did in the books of running-away stories, which she had always
believed to be quite true. How could she have known it would happen so
differently to them? And above all, who could suppose that Duncan, who
was so strong and hearty, should fall ill just at such a time as this?
That was the worst thing about it, and the one that frightened Elsie
most. She didn't like the look of Duncan at all. He had been getting
worse all day while they were in the train, and now he did not seem to
notice anything or anybody. His eyes were closed, and he never spoke a
word, but only gave a sort of little moan now and then. He was burning
hot too, and he moved his head and his limbs about restlessly, as if
they were in pain. Elsie wondered whether he was really very ill, and
what ought to be done for him. No one seemed to take any notice or think
that he required any attention; and what could she do?
I do think that when children run away from a good kind home and
watchful loving guardians, God must be very angry with the hardness of
heart and wilful ingratitude that can lead them to do such a wicked
thing, and I have no doubt that He purposely let all these difficulties
and terrors fall in Elsie's path in order to punish her. Children, even
big ones, have little idea of the dreadful dangers there are waiting for
them to fall into, or how soon some shocking disaster would happen to
them if they had not such careful, kind protectors. I am afraid, too,
that people who write books often hide such things, and only tell of the
wonderful escapes and marvellous adventures that runaway children
encounter, although they know that really and truly the most dreadful
things have happened to children who have run away from their
homes--things too dreadful for me to tell of. We know that the Gentle
Shepherd has a special care for little lambs of His flock, but we can
never expect God to take care of us when we have wilfully turned away
from Him to follow our own wrongdoing, and refused to turn back. If the
lambs will not listen to the voice of the Shepherd, but will stray far
away from Him, they are likely to be lost.
Now, He had already spoken to Elsie many times since she had left home.
Her conscience, which is really His voice, had told her frequently that
she was doing wrong, and that it would end badly; but she had refused to
hear. Even now, when she had really begun to wish she were back again,
it was because of the discomfort she was suffering, much more than on
account of any belief that she had done a very wicked thing. But God is
never content with such a grudging, half repentance as that, and so it
was that Elsie fell into worse trouble still.
I wish I could describe to you how utterly forlorn and miserable Elsie
felt, standing there by poor Duncan's bed, watching him toss about, and
not able to do anything for him, or even to call any one to his
assistance. I am afraid the little children who are in their own happy
homes cannot imagine what it would be like, and I only hope they never
may experience anything so dreadful.
Elsie could not tell any one how she felt, for there was no one to
listen. She was not a child who had ever cried much; but do what she
would, she could not help shedding some very bitter, angry tears now.
Presently Duncan lifted his heavy eyelids, and asked for some water.
Elsie jumped up and began searching in the room; but there was neither
basin nor jug, and such a simple thing as a drop of water was not to be
had.
She told Duncan there wasn't any; but he did not seem to understand, and
kept on asking for it. Elsie, in her indignant anger, beat furiously at
the door to attract some one's attention, but in vain. No one came near.
It drove her almost mad to hear the child moaning and groaning, and
calling out incessantly for water in a peevish, whining voice. Where was
Mrs. Donaldson? and why had she left them in this cruel way, without
food or even a drop of water, although she knew that Duncan was ill?
After a long time, Elsie heard some one coming up to the attic; the door
opened, and the girl who had brought them upstairs put her unkempt head
in at the door.
"Just to have a look at you," she said, with a broad grin upon her face,
which was a very stupid-looking one, and frightfully begrimed. "I sleep
up here, just next to you."
"Will you get us a little water?" Elsie cried.
"Why, yes!" said the girl, good-naturedly. "There's a pitcher full out
here. I'll bring it in."
She came in, bringing it with her, and then went up to the bedside,
where Duncan lay tossing and moaning. "Is it for him to drink?" she
asked. "I'll go fetch a mug." And she sped away, bringing back an old
gallipot, which she filled, and held to the child's lips.
"But he is just bad," she said, looking at him. "Ain't he hot? He's got
the fever! Is that the reason you was brought here?"
"I'm sure I don't know," Elsie replied, wondering how much she dared say
to this girl, and with a recollection of the "fairy mother's" threats.
"Do you know where mamma is?" she asked, cautiously.
The girl burst out laughing. "You needn't come that here," she said. "We
know her and him well enough, both of them. They wasn't always such
grand folk, I can tell you. Why, Lucy Murdoch is as well known down
Stony Close as ever I am. Her mother lived next to mine, and does to
this day, and holds her head so high, on account of her daughter, that
she'd like to pass mother in the street if she dared. If you belong to
her, it's news to me, and I've known her all my life." All this was said
with the quaint expressions and broad northern dialect that Elsie very
well understood, although none but a Scottish lassie would do so.
"I don't think you like her much," Elsie said.
The girl made a wry grimace. "I like any one so long as they don't do me
no harm," she replied evasively. "She wouldn't stand at that, either, if
she had the mind. How did you get with her?"
Elsie pondered a moment, and then decided she would tell this girl
everything, and trust to her being a friend.
"She found us on a road by the mountains, oh! ever so far away from
here; and she seemed so kind, and brought us clothes, and took us to a
nice house to sleep, and brought us in the train all this way," Elsie
said.
"H'm," the girl said, looking rather puzzled. "Well, she'd got her
reasons," she added presently. "I don't know what they might be, but it
wasn't done for any good to you. What did they bring you here for?"
"I don't know," Elsie replied.
"You see, master's in all their secrets. He's one with them, and does a
lot of business with them. To tell you the truth--which you needn't let
out, unless you want to have your head smashed--he's master's brother,
only he goes under another name. Now, what did he tell you his name
was?"
"I was told to call him Uncle 'William,'" Elsie replied, "and the lady
'Mamma.'"
The girl laughed to herself heartily--a sort of suppressed chuckle,
which could scarcely have been heard outside the door. "Well, that's a
queer dodge! I suppose she made out that she was his sister; and she was
dressed like a widow, and he's her husband all the time, which I know
very well. She passes, then, as a widow with two children, does she?"
"I suppose so," Elsie replied, scarcely understanding what the girl was
talking about.
"She's deep, she is," the girl continued; "and lots of money always,
hasn't she? rings too, and bracelets, and all sorts of things."
"She had at first all those things, and I've seen a lot of money in her
purse."
"Well, would you think she once lived in Stony Close along of us, and
was only a poor girl like me, though always a dashing one, with a
handsome face of her own?" the girl asked. "They think I'm so stupid,
but I ain't quite so stupid as I look. I don't forget. I wasn't as old
as you are when Lucy Murdoch was married, but I remember it. What were
you doing on that road when she found you?" she asked suddenly.
"We had run away from home," Elsie replied falteringly, for at the
thought of home she felt ready to cry.
"My goodness! you can't be the two children what was lost off a moor
somewhere up Deeside."
"How did you know it?" Elsie cried eagerly. "Has mother been here?"
"Oh, no! It's posted up at the police station," the girl replied. "They
always have all such things up there: a description of you, and
everything. Your mother goes and tells the police, and they has it
printed, and sends it about everywhere. Lucy Murdoch is after the
reward, I'll be bound!"
All this was quite unintelligible to Elsie, who knew nothing of rewards
or police regulations. Only one thing she learnt, and that was that they
were being sought for, and she hoped some one would find them. A slight
misgiving crossed her mind as to whether the police could take her to
prison for having run away; but this did not trouble her very much, for
she felt sure that Mrs. MacDougall would never let any bad thing befall
them, and no one else could have told the police to search.
"I suppose I should just get it if I was found in here," the girl said
presently. "You won't go telling, I suppose; for if they thought I knew
too much, they'd----" the sentence ended with a grimace and expressive
shrug of the shoulders.
Again the girl held the jar to Duncan's parched lips. "I dursn't stay,"
she said, kindly; "but if you knock at this wall I shall hear, and I'll
come if you want me. We're up at the top, so there's no one to pry down
the stairs. He do seem real bad, poor little chap! but maybe he'll be
better in the morning."
With these words she departed, locking the door after her; and Elsie
somehow felt that, in spite of her rough looks and miserable appearance,
she had found a friend.