Mother Meg Part 21

"Was it so bad, Jem? I never saw you take on like that before."

"_Bad?_" echoed Jem. "Why, mother, if any one'd 'a told me about it I wouldn't ha' given it credit.

"I went out last night more to pacify Meg than because I thought as I could do any good. The streets was mighty dark, 'cause ye know it was wet, and when I got to the door, I thought I'd got the right 'un, but I couldn't be sure. But when I pushed it open and listened, I could hear the crying, and up I went to the very top, as quiet as I could, wondering what on earth I could give as a excuse for bein' there if any one interfered with me.

"n.o.body did. They was all settled in to bed, that is, those as had 'em.

Leastways they was settled to sleep. As I got near the top there was a bit of light out of the door, and when I got to the landin' I just paused and took a look in.

"There was a man sittin' over a bit of fire, sulky like; and there was a woman bustlin' about gettin' somethin'; and there was Cherry holdin'

d.i.c.kie, and cryin' as if her heart would break. And while I looks the woman comes to her, and drags d.i.c.kie away, and when Cherry tries to hold her off from him, she lays it on to her with a stick till poor little Cherry lets go at last. Then the woman seizes d.i.c.kie again, and begins to tie somethin' on his eyes, and he fights and screams with all his little might.

"'Take it away,' he moans, 'I s'an't have it. Take me away from 'em, Cherry! Cherry, take it off!'

"Oh, how his screams rings in my ears now. I could ha' rushed in and knocked her down, that I could; but I'm glad I didn't interfere then, for I should ha' lost the little 'un if I had. They'd ha' made off with him fast enough.

"So I was just turnin' away on the dark stairs when the woman came towards the door. I stood back behind it as flat as I could, and she brushed past without seein' me.

"The moment she was gone I could see Cherry creep towards her little brother and lift the bandage. 'You'll get hit agin,' said the sulky man in a low voice; 'there's nothing but the p'lice, Cherry. I wish some 'un would give 'em a wink. I'm goin' down to bed.'

"He shuffled off to one of the lower rooms, and pa.s.sed me as the woman had done without seeing me. Fearin' I should be questioned, and not makin' up my mind whether to let the poor little things know as I was there, I came out to collect my thoughts. The man had given me a hint.

What if I should go in and rescue the children with the knowledge of the p'lice?

"I hastened down-stairs and reached the air without meetin' any one.

Then I came home to you and Meg; but when I saw our own little 'un lyin'

there so still and sweet, and knew that he, anyways, could never know those cruel blows, it wholly overcame me. And you know the rest, mother."

"I don't know how you got 'em, Jem, at last?"

"No more you do. Well, when Meg said as they was to come home here, I rushed out; and the first p'liceman I found I tells him the story.

"He didn't half believe me, but I says to him, 'You come up and stand outside the door, and if I can't persuade 'em, I'll call you. I don't want to have a row if I can get the children peaceable.'

"'Ain't they got no one belongin' to 'em?' he says, as we got to the door.

"'Their mother's dead and their father drinks; he might be anywhere,' I says to him.

"'I'll tell you where _he_ is, then,' he says, 'if this is the house.

He's dyin' in the hospital, he is. He was run over this mornin'.'

"'Is _that_ their father?' says I; and, mother, if you'll believe me, I felt all at once as if they ought to belong to me, since I'd been saved, and this man of my name had been took.

"So we went up, and when we come to the door she'd begun beatin' of Cherry again.

"'Stop that!' I says, goin' in quick, and she looked as if she'd been shot. 'And now I've come to fetch these 'ere little 'uns away. I've seen yer cruelty to 'em, and if you make a fuss I'll expose you, as sure as my name's Jem Seymour.'

"With that she stares at me hard, and I go to d.i.c.kie and untie his eyes once more. They was terrible bad by this time, and he only cried more than ever at the light, and ran to Cherry.

"'Come, Cherry,' I says to her, 'there's them outside as will see justice done this time. Come along with me; put that shawl round d.i.c.kie, and never you fear, my dear.'

"Then I turned to her as they call old Sairy--'As for you,' says I, 'if you're ever seen with such another little 'un as this, I'll give you in charge that instant!'

"Cherry lifted d.i.c.kie up, but she was too sore to carry him. So I took him in my arms, and he clung round my neck, and so we come away. The woman was too scared to say a word, but I think as she caught sight of the p'liceman's helmet as we went down."

Mrs. Seymour sat with her breakfast almost untasted.

"Oh, G.o.d be thanked as they are safe," she said at last. "Jem, you did quite right."

"I think as I did," he answered; "but it's a cruel world, mother."

"And that child, Cherry, said as she was praying for a home?" asked Mrs.

Seymour presently.

"Yes; she told me so as we come along. Her little heart was near breakin'."

Mrs. Seymour said no more, but went into the back room to see if Meg had waked. Still she and d.i.c.kie slept; so leaving the door ajar, she ascended to her own rooms, taking a cup of tea in her hand for her lodger.

She found her awake, and very glad of the tea and the latest news. While they were talking Cherry raised her head from her pillow and looked round startled. Then she saw Mrs. Seymour's kind face, and understood it all.

"Have you slept long enough, my dear?" she asked.

"I think so; when I opened my eyes at first I thought it was two years ago, and that this was our home before father took to drink so bad."

"Did your mother die since then?"

"Yes," said Cherry; "I forget exactly, but one thing I know, she was dreadfully ill on Christmas Day--not this last one, nor the one before that, but two years ago--and she died in a few days. Soon after that father got bad; he used to drink afore, but not so much; and then our things went one by one, and at last----" Cherry shuddered.

"At last?" questioned Mrs. Seymour.

"He got tired of me askin' for food for me and d.i.c.kie, and we'd been a long time livin' in that big room where's there's such a lot of 'em, and then he agrees with old Sairy to take d.i.c.kie out with her, and let him share the profits; and he was out with 'em for I should say nigh on six months. At last d.i.c.kie was took so ill that he couldn't walk another step, and for a long time I thought he'd 'a died; I wished he had."

"And was that when you began to know my Meg?"

"Yes. Oh, she was awful kind to us. And then we went hoppin', and father and me earned a lot; but he hadn't been home but a little while afore he'd drunk up every bit of it, and then he thinks of sendin' d.i.c.kie out ag'in; and then they was that cruel to us both. Look here!"

She undid some of her poor little dress, and bared her thin, deformed shoulders. They were scarred with red seams and black and blue lines.

"Why did they beat you?" asked Mrs. Seymour, her face turning white at the sight.

"'Cause I wouldn't let 'em hurt d.i.c.kie, not while I could hold 'em back; but it weren't of no use, they always got the best of me at the end."

"Poor little girl," said Mrs. Seymour, stroking Cherry's head tenderly; "poor little motherless girl!"

Cherry's eyes looked up gratefully.

"Oh, ma'am," she exclaimed earnestly, "if they'll keep d.i.c.kie safe from old Sairy I'll do anything for 'em--anything in the world that I can. I can learn things pretty quick--mother used to say so. Do you think as you could teach me anything?"

"I think we can, Cherry, if you're a good girl."