Poppy's Presents Part 3

'You stop down here, then,' said her brother. 'Poppy and I will go.'

'Oh no,--no,--no!' cried the frightened child; 'don't leave me; I don't want to stop here by myself.'

Very slowly and carefully the three children felt their way up the steep steps, and many a tear fell on the old stones as the girls followed Jack. It seemed a long, long way to them, far farther than it had done before; and the wind, which had been rising all the afternoon, came howling and whistling through the narrow window-slits in the tower, and made them cold and s.h.i.+vering.

At last they reached the open place on the roof, but they found it was impossible to stand upon it; such a hurricane of wind had arisen, that they would have been blown over had they tried to leave the shelter of the tower. So all they could do was to remain where they were, and to shout as loudly as they could for help; but the cathedral close was very large, and no one pa.s.sed through it on that cold, stormy evening, and the street was far away--so far that the voices of the children could not be heard by the pa.s.sers-by, but were drowned by the noisy, bl.u.s.tering wind. They shouted until they were hoa.r.s.e, but no help came, and at last even Jack was obliged to acknowledge that he was afraid there was no help for it, but that they must make up their minds to stay there for the night.

'Oh, dear, whatever will mother do without me!' said Poppy; 'she'll have n.o.body to help her; I _must_ get back to my babies. Oh, Jack, Jack, I _must_ get back to my babies.'

'But you _can't_ get back, Poppy,' said Jack mournfully; 'there's nothing for it but waiting till morning.'

'I'm so cold,' sobbed Sally, 'and I want my tea; whatever shall we do without our tea?'

'It can't be helped,' said Jack, 'and it's no good crying; let's go to the bottom of the tower again, it's not so windy there as it is up here.'

It was hard work getting down in the dark, and with the whistling wind rus.h.i.+ng in upon them at every turn; the old stone steps were worn away in many places, for thousands of feet had trodden them since the day they were put in their places, and the children sometimes lost their footing, and would have fallen had they not held so tightly to each other.

When they reached the bottom of the stone staircase they crouched together close to the door, in the most sheltered corner they could find, and tried to keep each other warm. But it was a bitterly cold night, and the rough noisy wind came tearing and howling down the staircase, and found them out in their hiding-place, and made them s.h.i.+ver from head to foot. And as the hours went by, they felt more and more hungry; their long walk had given them a good appet.i.te, and they had had a very early dinner.

Poor little Sally cried incessantly, and the others did all they could to cheer her; but she refused to be comforted, and at last she was so tired and exhausted that she sobbed herself to sleep. Jack soon afterwards followed her example and fell asleep beside her, and only poor Poppy was awake, crying quietly to herself, and thinking of her mother and of Enoch and Elijah. She was too anxious and too much troubled to sleep, and the hours seemed very long to her. It was such a lonely place in which to spend the night: there was no sound to be heard but the howling of the wind and the striking of the great cathedral clock, which made Poppy jump every time it struck the hour.

How long it seemed to Poppy from one hour to another; the time went much more slowly than usual that night, she thought. Once she became so very lonely and frightened that she felt as if she must wake the others; but she was an unselfish little girl, and she remembered how much poor Sally had cried, and felt glad that she and Jack could forget their trouble for a little time. So she crept quietly away without disturbing them, and climbed slowly up the steep steps to the place where she remembered the first window-slit in the tower came. She thought she would feel less lonely if she could see the lamps burning in the streets, and would feel that the world was not quite so far away as it had seemed to her during all those long, quiet hours.

Poppy did not like to go so far from the other children, and once or twice she turned back, but at length she climbed as far as the slit, and looked out. There were the lamps on either side of the long street which led to the cathedral, but they seemed a great way off, and the cathedral close was quite dark and empty.

'There isn't anybody near,' said Poppy to herself, as she looked down.

And then she looked up,--up into the sky. It was covered with clouds which the wind was driving wildly along, but, as Poppy looked, there came a break in the clouds, and one little patch of sky was left clear and uncovered. And there, s.h.i.+ning down upon Poppy, was a star,--such a bright beautiful star.

It made her think of heaven, and of G.o.d who made the stars. 'G.o.d is near,' said Poppy to herself. 'Mother says He is always close beside us.

Oh, dear, I quite forgot--I've never said my prayers to-night.'

The child knelt down at once on the cold stone steps, and prayed, and her little prayer went up higher than the towers of that great cathedral--to the ears of the Lord, who loves little children to speak to Him.

'O G.o.d,' prayed Poppy, 'please take care of me, and Jack, and Sally, and please don't let mother be frightened, and please make the babies go to sleep; for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen.'

Poppy felt comforted after she had prayed; she crept down the steps again, and wrapping her little red cloak as tightly round her as she could, she lay down beside Sally, and fell asleep.

CHAPTER V.

FOUND AT LAST.

That was a terrible night, and one which would never be forgotten in Grey Friars Court. Hardly any of the people of the court went to bed, for they were all helping in the search for the lost children. The bellman was sent up and down the city till late at night, that he might try to hear tidings of them; the policemen were making inquiries in all directions; the neighbours were scouring the city from one end to the other.

Jack and Sally's father and mother were walking about the whole night, looking for their children in all places, likely and unlikely. And Poppy's poor mother, who could not leave the babies, paced up and down her room, and looked anxiously from her window, and trembled each time that footsteps came down the court.

She could do nothing herself to help her little girl, but she had a strong Friend who could help her. Again and again, through that long anxious night, Poppy's mother asked the Lord to watch over her child, and to bring her safe home again.

Only one trace of the children had been found when morning dawned; Sally had dropped her little handkerchief on the path leading to the river; this handkerchief had been found by a policeman, and it had been shown to Sally's mother, and she had said, with tears in her eyes, that it belonged to her little girl.

Could the children be drowned in the river? This was the terrible fear which the neighbours whispered to each other, as they met together after the night's search. But no one mentioned it to Poppy's mother.

'I wouldn't tell her about that there handkercher, poor thing,' said one to another 'maybe they're not in the river after all.'

In the morning, as soon as it was light, search was to be made in the water for the bodies, and every one in Grey Friars Court waited anxiously for the result.

Very early in the morning the cathedral door was unlocked, and one of the vergers, an old man of the name of Standish, entered with his wife, old Betty Standish, and with his daughter Rose Ann, to make the cathedral fires, and put all in readiness for the services of the day.

As the two women raked out the cinders and ashes from the stoves, the sound echoed through the hollow building, and woke the sleeping children in the tower.

Jack sprang to his feet at once, as he saw the dim grey light stealing down the staircase, and as he heard the voices in the cathedral.

'It's morning at last,' he said; 'now we shall get out;' and he hammered with all his might on the door.

But the women were making so much noise themselves that the sound did not attract their attention; they went on with their fire-lighting and took no notice. Then the children began to call out--

'Let us out--let us out, please; we're locked in!'

The two women paused in their work and listened.

Again the shout came, 'Let us out--let us out; we can't get out; open the door, please.'

'Whatever on earth is it?' said Rose Ann, coming up to her mother with an awestruck face.

'Ay, my dear, _I_ don't know,' said her mother, who was trembling from head to foot. 'I never heard the like; I never did. Call your father, Rose Ann.'

The verger was in the choir, putting the books in order, and making all ready for the service. He came at once when his daughter called him.

'Listen, Joshua, listen,' said old Betty.

And once more the children called. 'Let us out, please; we're locked in; let us out.'

'Do ye think it's a ghost, Joshua?' said his wife, looking fearfully at the old tombs by which she was surrounded on all sides.

'Ghost! Rubbis.h.!.+' said her husband; but he was as white as a sheet, and almost as frightened as she was.

'Let's go and tell the Dean,' said Rose Ann.

'Nonsense,' said the verger, who had recovered himself a little; 'let's listen where the sound comes from.'

'Let us out; unlock the door, please!' shouted the children again.

'It's some one in the tower,' said the old man; 'though how on earth any one could have got there it pa.s.ses me to think.'

So the old people and their daughter went in the direction of the cries, and the verger took the great old key from his pocket which unlocked the tower door. Yet even when the key was in the key-hole he paused a moment, as if he did not like to turn it in the lock.