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! Rubbish!' 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 passes 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.
'I wonder whoever it can be,' he said timidly.
'It's a ghost; I'll be bound it's a ghost,' said old Betty; 'they say they do haunt all these queer old places.'
'Well, we'll have a look,' said her husband, summoning up all his courage; 'so here goes.' He turned the key, the door flew open, and out came the three poor children, weary, pale, and shivering with cold.
'Well, I never!' said the verger's wife, holding up her hands in amazement.
'Wherever on earth have you come from?' said her husband.
'I know, father,' said Rose Ann; 'these must be the three children of Grey Friars Court. I heard the bellman crying them last night.'
'Poor little cold things!' said old Betty, 'and have ye been locked in the tower all night?'
'Yes, ma'am,' said Poppy, 'all night.'
'But however did you get there?' said the verger. 'That's what I want to know.'
'Please, sir, don't be angry,' said Jack; 'we found the door open, and we went in.'
'Well, I never heard the like,' said Rose Ann. 'I declare they're shaking from head to foot. Such a night as it has been, too; it'll be a wonder if it isn't the death of them.'
'Come along, my poor bairns,' said the old woman. 'I've got some hot coffee on the hob at home; you shall have a drink at once.'
'Oh no, thank you,' said Poppy; 'I must go home to mother.'
'So you shall, my dear; so you shall,' said old Betty; 'but you'll go all the quicker for getting a bit of warmth into you; why, you're stiff with cold, I declare. Poor lambs, you must have had a night of it! Bring them across, Rose Ann.' And the kind old woman trotted on in front to stir her fire into a blaze, and to pour out the hot coffee for the poor children.
She made them sit with their feet on the fender whilst they were drinking it, and she gave them each a piece of a hot cake, which she brought out of the oven. And all the time they were eating it she and Rose Ann were crying over them by turns, and the old verger was shaking his head and saying: 'I never heard the like; it's a strange business altogether, it is.'
As soon as they were warmed and fed, the verger, and his wife, and Rose Ann took the children home; and I wish you could have seen their arrival in Grey Friars Court. There was such a kissing, and hugging, and crying; such an excitement and stir; such a rejoicing over the children, who had been lost but were found again, and such a thanksgiving in the heart of Poppy's mother, as she saw the answer to her prayer.
No one could make too much of the three children that day. They were invited out to tea to every house in the court, and sweets, and cakes, and pennies were showered upon them, till the two mothers declared they would be quite spoilt, and till Jack announced he would not much mind spending another night in the tower, if they got all these good things when they came home. But Poppy and Sally shook their heads at this, and would not agree with him.
CHAPTER VI
POPPY WRITES A LETTER
Poppy, I want you to write a letter for me, darling,' said her mother one day.
'Is it to my father?' asked the child.
'No, Poppy; it isn't to your father.'
'Why do you never write to my father, mother?' asked Poppy.
Her mother did not answer her at once, and Poppy did not like to ask her again. But after a few minutes her mother got up suddenly and shut the door.
'Poppy, I'll tell you,' she said, 'for I am going to leave you, and you ought to know.' And then, instead of telling her, the poor woman burst into tears.
'Don't cry, mother, don't cry,' said the child; 'don't tell me if you'd rather not.'
'But I must tell you, Poppy,' she said, as she dried her eyes and looked into the fire. 'Poppy, I loved your father more than I can tell you, and he loved me, child; yes, he did love me; never you believe any one who tells you he didn't love me. He loved me, and he loved you, Poppy; he was very good to you, wasn't he, my child?'
'Yes, mother, very good,' said Poppy, as she remembered how kind he always was to her when he came in from work.
'But he got into bad company, Poppy, and he took to drinking. I wouldn't tell you, dear, only I'm going away, and so I think you ought to know. Well, bit by bit he was led away. Sometimes, dear, I blame myself, and think perhaps I might have done more to keep him at home; but he was always so pleasant with all his mates, and they made so much of him, and they led him on—yes, Poppy, they led him on—they did, indeed. And I saw him getting further and further wrong, and I could not stop him, and there were things which I didn't know about, dear—horse-racing, and card-playing, and all that sort of thing. And one day, Poppy,' said her mother, lowering her voice ('I wouldn't tell you, my dear, if I wasn't going away), one day he went out to his work as usual. I made him a cup of hot coffee to drink before he started; I always made him that, dear, if he was off ever so early.
'Well, he was ready to go, but he turned round at the door, and says he, "Is Poppy awake?" "No, the bairn was fast asleep when I came down," says I. He put down his breakfast-tin by the door, and he crept upstairs, and I could hear his steps in the room overhead, and then, Poppy, I listened at the foot of the stairs, and I heard him give you a kiss. I didn't say anything, child, when he came down, for I thought maybe he wouldn't like me to notice it, and he hurried out, as if he was afraid I should ask him what he was doing.
'Well, dear, dinner-time came, and I always had it ready and waiting for him, for I think it's a sin and a shame, Poppy, when them that works for the meat never has time given them to eat it. But the dinner waited long enough that day, child, for he never came home. I began to think something must be wrong, for he always came home of a dinner-hour. I thought maybe he had had some drink; but, Poppy, it was worse than that, for oh! my darling, he never came home no more.'
'What was wrong with him, mother?'
'He was in debt, child, and had lost money in them horrid races; and there were more things than that, but I can't tell you all, my dear, nor I don't want to tell. Only this I want to say: if he ever comes back, Poppy, tell him I loved him to the last, and I prayed for him to the last, and I shall look to meet him in heaven; mind you tell him that, Poppy, my dear.'
'Yes, mother,' said the child, with tears in her eyes; 'I won't forget.'
'And now about the letter; I wish I could write to your father, Poppy, but I've never had a word from him all this cruel long time—not a single word, child; and where he is at this moment I know no more than that table does.'
'Then who is the letter to be written to, mother?' asked the child.
'It's to your granny, Poppy, I want to write; his mother, your father's mother. I never saw her, child, but she's a good old woman, I believe; he always talked a deal about his mother, and many a time I've thought I ought to write and tell her, but somehow I hadn't the heart to do it, Poppy. But now she must be told.'
'When shall I write it, mother?'
'Here's a penny, child; go and get a sheet and an envelope from the shop at the end of the street, and if the babies will only keep asleep, we'll write it at once.'
The paper was bought, and Poppy seated herself on a high stool, and wrote as her mother told her:—
'My dear Grandmother,
'This comes, hoping to find you quite well, as it leaves my mother very ill, and the doctor says she'll never be no better, and my Father went away last year, and nobody knows what has become of him, and he never writes nor sends no money nor nothing, and Mother has got two little babies, and they are both boys, and she wants me to ask you to pray God to take care of us, and will you please write us a letter?
'Your affectionate grand-daughter,
'Poppy.'
It was well that the letter was finished then, for that very night Poppy's mother was taken very much worse, and the next morning she was not able to rise from her bed.
And now began a very hard time for the little girl. Two babies to look after, and a sick mother to nurse, was almost more than it was possible for one small pair of arms to manage. The neighbours were very kind, and came backwards and forwards, bringing Poppy's mother tempting things to eat, and carrying off dirty clothes to wash at home, or any little piece of work which Poppy could not manage. And often, very often, one or another of them would come and sit by the sick woman, or would carry off the crying babies to their own homes, that she might have a little rest and quiet.
But, in spite of all this kind help, it was a very hard time for Poppy. The neighbours had their own homes and their own families to attend to, and could only give their spare time to the care of their sick neighbour. And at night Poppy had a weary time of it. Her mother was weak and restless, and full of fever and of pain, and she tossed about on her pillow hour after hour, watching her good little daughter with tears in her eyes, as she walked up and down with the babies, trying to soothe them to sleep.
Sometimes she would try to sit up in bed, and hold little Enoch or Elijah for a few moments: but she had become so terribly weak that the effort was too much for her, and after a few minutes she would fall back fainting on her pillow, and Poppy had to take the baby away and bathe her mother's forehead with water before she could speak to her again.
So it was a weary and anxious time for the child. The neighbours said she was growing an old grandmother, so careworn and anxious had she become, and Poppy herself could hardly believe that she was the same little girl who had gazed in the toy-shop window only a few months ago and had longed for one of those beautiful wax-dolls. She felt too old and tired ever to care to play again.