Alone in London Part 8

"Would Dolly like to go to that nice place, where the little girls had the dolls and the music?" asked Tony, in a quavering voice which he could scarcely keep from sobs; "the good place where Tony got well again, and they gave him his new clothes? Everybody 'ud be so wery kind to poor little Dolly, and she'd come home again, quite cured and strong, like Tony was."

"Yes, yes!" cried Dolly, eagerly, raising herself up in his arms; "it's a nice place, and the sun s.h.i.+nes, and Dolly 'ud like to go. Only she'll be sure to come back to gan-pa."

It was some time yet before they were quite ready to start, though Dolly could not be coaxed to eat the hot mince-pie, or anything else. Old Oliver had to get himself into his drab overcoat, and the ailing child had to be protected in the best way they could against the searching wind. After they had put on all her own warmest clothing, Tony wrapped his own thick blue jacket about her, and lifting her very tenderly in his arms, they turned out into the streets, closely followed by Beppo.

It was now quite night, but the streets were well lighted from the shop windows, and throngs of people were hurrying hither and thither; for it was boxing-night, and all the lower cla.s.ses of the inhabitants were taking holiday. But old Oliver saw and heard nothing of the crowd. He walked on by Tony's side; with feeble and tottering steps, deaf and blind, but whispering all the while, with trembling lips, to One whom no one else could see or hear. Once or twice Tony saw a solemn smile flit across his face, and he nodded his head and raised his hand, as one who gives his a.s.sent to what is said to him. So they pa.s.sed on through the noisy streets till they reached quieter ones, were there were neither shops nor many pa.s.sers-by, and there they found the home where they were going to leave their treasure for a time.

CHAPTER XVIII.

NO ROOM FOR DOLLY.

Old Oliver rang the house-bell very quietly, for Dolly seemed to be asleep again, and lay quite still in Tony's arms, which were growing stiff, and benumbed by the cold. The door was opened by a porter, whose face was strange to them both, for he had only come in for the day while the usual one took holiday. Old Oliver presented himself in front, and pointed at his little grandchild as Tony held her in his arms while he spoke to the porter in a voice which trembled greatly.

"We've brought you our little girl, who is very ill," he said, "but she'll soon get well in here, I know. I'd like to see the doctor, and tell him all about her."

"We're quite full," answered the porter, filling up the doorway.

"Full?" repeated old Oliver, in a tone of questioning.

"Ay! all our cots are full," he replied, "chockfull. There ain't no more room. We've turned two or three away this morning, when they came at the right time. This isn't the right time to bring any child here."

"But my little love is very ill," continued old Oliver; "this is the right place, isn't it? The place where they nurse little children who are ill?"

"It's all right," said the porter, "it's the right place enough, only it's brimful, and running over, as you may say. We couldn't take in one more, if it was ever so. But you may come in and sit down in the hall for a minute or two, while I fetch one of the ladies."

Old Oliver and Tony entered, and sat down upon a bench inside. There was the broad staircase, with its shallow steps, which Dolly's tiny feet had climbed so easily, and it led up to the warm, pleasant nurseries, where little children were already falling asleep, almost painlessly, in their cosy cots. Tony could not believe that there was not room for their darling, who had been so willing to come to the place she knew so well, yet a sob broke from his lips, which disturbed Dolly in her sleep, for she moaned once or twice, and stirred uneasily in his arms. The old man leaned his hands upon the top of his stick, and rested his white head upon them, until they heard light footsteps, and the rustling of a dress, and they saw a lady coming down stairs to them.

"I think there's some mistake here, ma'am," said Oliver, his eye wandering absently about the large entrance-hall; "this is the Hospital for Sick Children, I think, and I've brought my little grandchild here, who is very ill indeed, yet the man at the door says there's no room for her. I think it must be a mistake."

"No," said the lady; "I am sorry to say it is no mistake. We are quite full; there is not room for even one more. Indeed, we have been obliged to send cases away before to-day. Who is your recommendation from?"

"I didn't know you'd want any recommendation," answered old Oliver, very mournfully; "she's very ill, and you could cure her here, and take better care of her than Tony and me, and I thought that was enough. I never thought of getting any recommendation, and I don't know where I could get one."

"Mr. Ross 'ud give us one," said Tony, eagerly.

"Yet even then," answered the lady, "we could not take her in until some of the cots are empty."

"You don't know me," interrupted Tony, eagerly; "but Mr. Ross brought me here, a year ago now, and they cured me, and set me up stronger than ever. They was so wery kind to me, that I couldn't think of anythink else save bringing our little girl to 'em. I'm sure they'd take her in, if they only knew it was her. You jest say as it's Tony and Dolly, as everybody took such notice of, and they'll never turn her away, I'm sure."

"I wish we could take her," said the lady, with tears in her eyes; "but it is impossible. We should be obliged to turn some other child out, and that could not be done to-night. You had better bring her again in the morning, and we'll see if there is any one well enough to make room for her. Let me look at the poor child for a minute."

She lifted up the collar of Tony's blue jacket, which covered Dolly's face, and looked down at it pitifully. It was quite white now, and was pinched and hollow, with large blue eyes s.h.i.+ning too brightly. She stretched out her arms to the lady, and made a great effort to smile.

"Put Dolly into a pretty bed," she murmured, "where the sun s.h.i.+nes, and she'll soon get well and go home again to gan-pa."

"What can I do?" cried the lady, the tears now running down her face.

"The place is quite full; we cannot take in one more, not one. Bring her here again in the morning, and we will see what can be done."

"How many children have you got here?" asked old Oliver.

"We have only seventy-five cots," she answered, sobbing; "and in a winter like this they're always full."

"Only seventy-five!" repeated the old man, very sorrowfully. "Only seventy-five, and there are hundreds and hundreds of little children ill in London! They are ill in houses like mine, where the sun never s.h.i.+nes.

Is there no other place like this we could take our little love to?"

"There are two or three other Hospitals," she answered, "but they are a long way off, and none of them as large as ours. They are sure to be full just now. I think there are not more than a hundred and fifty cots in all London for sick children."

"Then there's no room for my Dolly?" he said.

The lady shook her head without speaking, for she had her handkerchief up to her face.

"Eh!" cried old Oliver in a wailing voice, "I don't know whatever the dear Lord 'ill say to that."

He made a sign to Tony that they must be going home again; and the boy raised himself up with a strange weight and burden upon his heart. Old Oliver put his stick down, and took Dolly into his own arms, and laid her head down on his breast.

"Let me carry her a little way, Tony," he said. "She's as light as a feather, even to poor old grandpa. I'd like to carry my little love a bit of the way home."

"I'll tell you what I can do," said the lady, wrapping Dolly up and kissing her before she covered her pale face, "if you will tell me where you live I will speak to the doctor as soon as he comes in--for he is out just now--and perhaps he will come to see her. He knows a great deal about children, and is fond of them."

"Thank you, thank you kindly, ma'am," answered old Oliver, feeling a little comforted. But when they stood outside, and the bleak wind blew about them, and he could see the soft glimmer of the light in the windows, within which other children were safely sheltered and carefully tended, his spirit sank again. He tottered now and then under his light burden; but he could not be persuaded to give up his little child to Tony again. These streets were quiet, with handsome houses on each side, and from one and another there came bursts of music and laughter as they pa.s.sed by; yet Tony could catch most of the words which the old man was speaking.

[Ill.u.s.tration: NO ROOM FOR DOLLY]

"Dear Lord," he said, "there's only room for seventy-five of thy little lambs that are pining and wasting away in every dark street and alley like mine. Whatever can thy people be thinking about? They've got their own dear little children, who are ill sometimes, spite of all their care; and they can send for the doctor, and do all that's possible, never looking at the money it costs; but when they are well again they never think of the poor little ones who are sick and dying, with n.o.body to help them or care for them as I care for this little one. Oh, Lord, Lord! let my little love live! Yet thou knows what is best, and thou'lt do what is best. Thou loves her more than I do; and see, Lord, she is very ill indeed."

They reached home at last, after a weary and heartbroken journey, and carried Dolly in and laid her upon old Oliver's bed. She was wide awake now, and looked very peaceful, smiling quietly into both their faces as they bent over her. Tony gazed deep down into her eyes, and met a glance from them which sent a strange tremor through him. He crept silently away, and stole into his dark bed under the counter, where he stretched himself upon his face, and buried his mouth in the chaff pillow to choke his sobs. What was going to happen to Dolly? What could it be that made him afraid of looking again into her patient and tranquil little face?

CHAPTER XIX.

THE GOLDEN CITY.

Tony lay there in the dark, overwhelmed by his unusual terror and sorrow, until he heard the voice of old Oliver calling his name feebly. He hurried to him, and found him still beside the bed where Dolly was lying.

He had taken off most of her clothes, and put her white nightgown over the rest, that she might sleep warmly in them all the night, for her little hands and feet felt very chilly to his touch. The fire had gone out while they were away, and the grate looked very black and cheerless.

The room was in great disorder, just as they had left it, and the gas, which was burning high, cast a cruel glare upon it all. But Tony saw nothing except the dear face of Dolly, resting on one check upon the pillow, with her curly hair tossed about it in confusion, and her open eyes gathering a strange film. Beppo had made his way to her side, and pushed his head under her lifeless little hand, which tried to pat it now and then. Old Oliver was sitting on the bedstead, his eyes fastened upon her, and his whole body trembled violently. Tony sank down upon his knees, and flung his arm over Dolly, as if to save her from the unseen power which threatened to take her away from them.

"Don't ky, gan-pa," she said, softly; "don't ky more than a minute. Nor Tony. Are I going to die, gan-pa?"

"Yes, my little love," cried old Oliver, moaning as he said it.

"Where are I going to?" asked Dolly, very faintly.