Daybreak Part 1

Daybreak.

by Florence A. Sitwell.

CHAPTER I.

LIFE IN THE ORPHANAGE.

Long before it was light, little feet were pa.s.sing 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, pa.s.sionless 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 s.h.i.+ning in the dormitory on many a little empty bed. Who could resist a pillow-fight? The sub-matron was up already tr.i.m.m.i.n.g 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 flas.h.i.+ng, 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 pa.s.sionately 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 pa.s.sed over poor Kate's face when she and her sister were once more alone together. The pa.s.sion 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.

"n.o.body 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 att.i.tude 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 s.h.i.+eld 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 pa.s.sed, 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 s.h.i.+eld 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; s.h.i.+elded 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 pa.s.sed, 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 s.n.a.t.c.hes 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 ma.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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.

CHAPTER II.

THE FLIGHT.

A confirmation was to be held during the spring in the neighbouring village; and the clergyman who prepared the Orphanage children looked upon Kate as a most promising candidate; she was gentle, and attentive, and wrote her papers with so much care.

The Confirmation day dawned as sweetly and as brightly as a Confirmation day should do. The birds were singing their hearts out in the Orphanage garden; primroses and wallflowers were blooming in every corner; the apple-trees were in festive array, and little pink and white petals floated on the breeze, and came in at the open windows.

Then a troop of little girls in grey dresses with white caps a.s.sembled, prayer-book in hand, at the door, waiting for Mother Agnes.

What could keep Mother Agnes so long? The bells have been ringing for nearly half-an-hour, and they would certainly be late! No, here she comes, but with a very grave face--much too grave--and oh, where is Kate?

"Children, we must start," said the Mother sternly, "Kate is not coming." Naturally the children wondered, and questioned amongst themselves what had happened, but they little suspected the real facts.

Mother Agnes had gone to look for Kate in the dormitory, feeling that she should like to take the child's hand in hers, and say something to comfort and to strengthen her. But Kate was not in the dormitory. Her grey Sunday dress lay, neatly folded on the bed, the Confirmation cap arranged on the top of it, and by its side a note, addressed in a bold, round hand to Mother Agnes.

What on earth could this mean? Mother Agnes stared at the dress, fingered the note, and then unfastened it with a hand that trembled a little. The contents were these--

"DEAR MOTHER AGNES,--You have been good to me, so I will tell you that I am leaving, and not going to come back any more. And it is not because I do not like you, for I do, though I have never loved any one but Frances; but I cannot stay in this place any more. Oh! you do not know what the pain is that I bear. When the birds sing, I seem to hear Frances' voice singing with them as she did last spring, and I see her running amongst the flower-beds, and I cannot look at the apple-tree without seeing her little fair face peeping at me from between the blossoms. Perhaps you will not care whether I go or stay, but I hope you will not mind about me, for I shall go to London to find a place.

There's many younger than me in places already. But if I do not find a place, perhaps I will drown myself in the river, for I am sick of life, and I hope you will not think about me, or mind.----KATE DANIELS."

Mother Agnes' face grew very white as she read this letter--but no time was to be lost--she sat down and wrote a little note giving information to the police, and sent it by a servant; and then she went downstairs to join the waiting children. She tried to comfort herself by thinking that Kate could not have got very far in so short a time. At the most she could only have been gone an hour, and surely she would be quickly found? And yet, strange misgivings took possession of Mother Agnes'

mind.