E-text prepared by Al Haines
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 20260-h.htm or 20260-h.zip:
(https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/0/2/6/20260/20260-h/20260-h.htm)
or
(https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/0/2/6/20260/20260-h.zip)
DAYBREAK
A Story for Girls
by
FLORENCE A. SITWELL
[Frontispiece: "Little night-dresses rustled."]
London
S. W. Partridge & Co.
9 Paternoster Row.
1888
Contents.
CHAPTER
I. LIFE IN THE ORPHANAGE
II. THE FLIGHT
III. IN THE HOSPITAL
IV. IN A THIRD-CLASS CARRIAGE
V. BY THE SEA
VI. CHRISTMAS DAY
Illustrations.
"Little night-dresses rustled." . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
The Westminster clock tower.
St. Thomas' Hospital.
Kate and Frances.
DAYBREAK.
CHAPTER I.
LIFE IN THE ORPHANAGE.
Long before it was light, little feet were passing up and down those
great stone stairs, little voices whispered in the corridors, little
night-dresses rustled by the superintendent's door. She did not think
of sleeping, for though the moon still hung in the sky, it was
Christmas morning--five o'clock on Christmas morning at the Orphanage;
and the little ones had everything their own way on Christmas Day. So
she sat up in bed, with the candle lighted beside her, bending her head
over a book she held in her hand, and often smiling to herself as she
listened to the sounds that revealed the children's joy. She was a
grey-headed woman, with a face that might have been stern if the lines
about the mouth had not been so gentle; a face, too, that was
care-worn, yet full of peace. A tall night-cap surmounting her silvery
grey hair gave her a quaint, even laughable appearance; but the orphan
children reverenced the nightcap because they loved the head that,
night after night, bent over them as a mother's might have done.
She was reading Milton's "Ode on the Morning of Christ's Nativity," and
only laid the book aside as the little feet gathered outside her door,
and clear, passionless voices blended in a Christmas hymn.
Then the sounds died away again in the distance, and she was left to
follow in her thoughts.
* * * * * *
Upstairs to the great dormitory the children crept; trying to be as
noiseless as the fairies who filled their Christmas stockings. Maggie,
being the gentlest, led the way, and was trusted to open creaking
doors; the younger ones formed the centre of the little army, and
behind them all marched Jane, the trusted Jane, who, though she had
been one year only at the Orphanage, had won the confidence of all.
She was the daughter of honest, industrious, working people, and had
not the sad tendencies to slippery conduct which many of the little
ones possessed. She was true in word and in deed; and no one could
measure the good of such an example amongst the children.
The full moonlight was shining in the dormitory on many a little empty
bed. Who could resist a pillow-fight? The sub-matron was up already
trimming an extra beautiful bonnet to wear on this festive day. Jane
remonstrated, but was met with a wrathful reminder that on Christmas
Day Mother Agnes let them do just what they liked, a great pillow was
hurled at poor Jane's head, and the fight began in real earnest.
Just when the excitement was at its highest pitch, a fierce cry rang
from the end of the room. The game ceased suddenly, and the children
turned to see what had happened. There was that odd little new-comer,
Kate Daniels, standing with hands clenched and dark eyes flashing, in
front of the last small bed.
"You wicked, rough girls," she said, "you have hurt my little sister.
I shall make you feel it! I shall do something dreadful to you, Mary
Kitson. I hate you!"
In their excitement the children had quite forgotten that the little
bed at the end of the dormitory had an occupant, a soft curly-headed
child of six, who slept soundly regardless of the noise, till that
awkward Mary tumbled over the bed and made her cry. They understood it
all now, and Jane and Maggie moved up to the bed-side, hoping to soothe
the sisters with kind words. But Kate stood in front of the bed
glaring at them.
"You treat us so because we are strangers," she said, "and I hate you
all. I never wanted to come here--they made me come--and I shan't stay
if I can help it. I shall run away, and take Frances."
Little Frances, meanwhile, clung crying to her sister, who went on
talking so wildly and passionately that Jane thought it better to make
a move to the lavatory with the younger children, and leave the new
girls for a time to themselves.
A great change passed over poor Kate's face when she and her sister
were once more alone together. The passion left it, and was replaced
by a melancholy smile. She sat down on the bed, took her little
sister's hand, and looked long into her face.
"Are you much hurt, darling?" she said, at length.
"Not so badly, but I made a great noise, didn't I!"
Kate did not answer, but wrapping a petticoat round the child, lifted
her out of bed.
"Now, Frances, darling, come with me to the window, and I will show you
the prettiest sight you ever saw, and we will forget all our troubles.
Look at the roofs with the snow on them, and the moon making such
strange, pale lights on the snow. Look at the icicles--did you ever
see such lovely ones! Look at the trees--every tiniest little branch
covered with frost! Look at the pictures the frost has made upon the
window,--see, there are forests,--and oh, more wonderful things than I
could tell.
"Nobody loves you and me, Frances. We've only got each other,--and I
hate everybody but you (you needn't do that though). But I am glad
things are so pretty. One might almost think that somebody had loved
you and me, and cared to make everything so pretty to please us!"
Kate's eyes softened as she said this,--she had beautiful eyes, large
and dark. The rest of her face was plain: it showed much strength of
purpose, but little feeling. Poor Kate! the furrows on her forehead,
the old, sad smile, so unlike a child's, and the bony hands, told of
much hard work, much care, and deep and painful anxieties in the past.
She was sitting on the window ledge, half supporting little Frances in
her arms. It was no new attitude to Kate. Her figure was stunted and
slightly bent from the efforts she had made years ago to carry her
little sister about; but the weight of little Frances had rested upon
her in another way also, and it was perhaps owing to her brave efforts
to shield the child from evil and from grief that the contrast in
appearance was so marked between the two sisters. Frances with her
soft little pink and white face, her solemn eyes, and smiling mouth,
and without a hard line anywhere, looked as if life had smiled upon her.
All through the day the little strangers kept close together, and took
very little notice of what went on around them. They ate their
Christmas dinner in solemn silence, and declined to join in the games.
Mother Agnes was disappointed, for her whole heart was bound up in her
children's happiness; and least of all she could bear to see sad faces
on Christmas Day. She watched Kate with much interest, but could not
wholly understand her.
* * * * * *
Before many months had passed, a curious transformation came over Kate.
She became the recognised leader of the children. Mother Agnes saw
with despair Jane's influence waning before that of this strange new
girl. Jane was so safe, so true, so dependable; and Kate, well, who
could trust Kate, with her odd ways of going on? Sometimes she would
keep the younger ones awake half the night telling them the wildest of
tales. She had laws of her own for the play-hours, and a secret system
of rewards and punishments. But, worst of all, she was not
straightforward. Mother Agnes, with her true, honest nature, was cut
to the heart to find that Kate could act a part, and did not scruple to
do so, to shield herself and her little sister from punishment.
Kate was popular now, and yet no one loved her, and she loved no one
except little Frances. She never thought any trouble too great to be
taken for her little sister. If any one said a rough word to Frances,
Kate contrived to punish the offender in a way that was not easily
forgotten. She helped Frances with her lessons; shielded her from
blame; dressed dolls for her through whole long summer afternoons; told
her stories that aimed vaguely at having a good moral; answered her
childish questions with infinite patience.
The summer and autumn passed, and Christmas came and went; and after
Christmas an event happened, the memory of which no lapse of years
could ever efface from poor Kate's mind. A certain morning dawned,
just like other mornings, bright and cold; lessons, house-work and play
went on as usual, only, as the day was drawing to its close, some men
came to the door, carrying a little prostrate figure; and Kate was
standing in the doorway, and saw it all--saw her poor Frances lying
unconscious in the men's arms, her head terribly bruised, and her
pretty, fair curls all tossed over a deathly white face.
She was fond of clambering about by herself, and had slipped from the
roof of a little outhouse, and fallen on her head.
She was put to bed in the sick ward, and the doctor sent for. For
three days and three nights Mother Agnes and Kate watched beside her;
on the fourth day the doctor told them that he could do no more.
Frances wandered much through those last days, talking confusedly of
green fields, and birds singing, and of flowers. Sometimes she would
sing little snatches of the hymns they learnt in school; and she often
spoke--as little dying children do speak of Christ. Mother Agnes'
tenderness to poor Kate almost exceeded her tenderness to the dying
child, but Kate made no response to it. She answered in monosyllables,
and hung down her head with its mass of bushy hair, and dark eyes
gleaming strangely under her overhanging brow.
All was over very soon, and Kate was left with a memory, and with a
tiny little grave to tend.
Mother Agnes felt for her out of the depths of a womanly heart, but
Kate either could not, or would not speak of her sorrow to any living
being.
She gave up all her odd ways, and became quiet, and very gentle; and as
months passed on Mother Agnes began to think that Kate had really
improved in character. She showed signs of talent in so many
directions that the Mother thought of training her for a
schoolmistress, and took real delight in planning for the child's
future, except when now and then some curious little trait of character
would raise an uncomfortable feeling which could not be dispelled.