Post Haste, R. M. Ballantyne [sad books to read .TXT] 📗

asked the letter-carrier.

“Yes, sir; I’ve got both of ’em. And oh! I’m so miserable. I don’t know what to do.”

“Why, what’s wrong with you?”

The child’s eyes filled with tears as she told how her father had gone off “on the spree;” how her mother had gone out to seek him, promising to be back in time to relieve her of the baby so as to let her keep an appointment she had with a lady; and how the mother had never come back, and didn’t seem to be coming back; and how the time for the engagement was already past, and she feared the lady would think she was an ungrateful little liar, and she had no messenger to send to her.

“Where does the lady live, and what’s her name, little woman?” asked Solomon.

“Her name is Miss Lillycrop, sir, and she lives in Pimlico.”

“Well, make your mind easy, little woman. It’s a curious coincidence that I happen to know Miss Lillycrop. Her house lies rather far from my beat, but I happen to have a messenger who does his work both cheaply and quickly. I do a deal of work for him too, so, no doubt, he’ll do a little for me. His name is Post-Office.—What is your’s, my dear?”

“Tottie Bones,” replied the child, with the air of a full-grown woman. “An’ please, sir, tell ’er I meant to go back to her at the end of three days, as I promised; but I couldn’t leave the ’ouse with baby inside, an’ the fire, an’ the kittle, with nobody to take care on ’em—could I, sir?”

“Cer’nly not, little woman,” returned the letter-carrier, with a solemn look at the overburdened creature who appealed to him. Giving her twopence, and a kindly nod, Solomon Flint walked smartly away—with a reproving conscience—to make up for lost time.

That evening Mrs Bones returned without her husband, but with an additional black eye, and other signs of bad treatment. She found the baby sound asleep, and Tottie in the same condition by his side, on the outside of the poor counterpane, with one arm round her charge, and her hair tumbled in confusion over him. She had evidently been herself overcome while in the act of putting the baby to sleep.

Mrs Bones rushed to the bed, seized Tottie, clasped her tightly to her bosom, sat down on a stool, and began to rock herself to and fro.

The child, nothing loath to receive such treatment, awoke sufficiently to be able to throw her arms round her mother’s neck, fondled her for a moment, and then sank again into slumber.

“Oh! God help me! God save my Abel from drink and bad men!” exclaimed the poor woman, in a voice of suppressed agony.

It seemed as if her prayer had been heard, for at that moment the door opened and a tall thin man entered. He was the man who had accosted George Aspel on his first visit to that region.

“You’ve not found him, I fear?” he said kindly, as he drew a stool near to Mrs Bones and sat down, while Tottie, who had been re-awakened by his entrance, began to bustle about the room with something of the guilty feeling of a sentry who has been found sleeping at his post.

“Yes, Mr Sterling; thank you kindly for the interest you take in ’im. I found ’im at the old place, but ’e knocked me down an’ went out, an’ I’ve not been able to find ’im since.”

“Well, take comfort, Molly,” said the city missionary, for such he was; “I’ve just seen him taken up by the police and carried to the station as drunk and incapable. That, you know, will not bring him to very great trouble, and I have good reason to believe it will be the means of saving him from much worse.”

He glanced at the little girl as he spoke.

“Tottie, dear,” said Mrs Bones, “you go out for a minute or two; I want to speak with Mr Sterling.”

“Yes, mother, and I’ll run round to the bank; I’ve got twopence more to put in,” said Tottie as she went out.

“Your lesson has not been lost, sir,” said the poor woman, with a faint smile; “Tottie has a good bit o’ money in the penny savings-bank now. She draws some of it out every time Abel brings us to the last gasp, but we don’t let ’im know w’ere it comes from. To be sure, ’e don’t much care. She’s a dear child is Tottie.”

“Thank the Lord for that, Molly. He is already answering our prayers,” said Mr Sterling. “Just trust Him, keep up heart, and persevere; we’re sure to win at last.”

When Tottie Bones left the dark and dirty den that was the only home she had ever known, she ran lightly out into the neighbouring street, and, threading her way among people and vehicles, entered an alley, ascended a stair, and found herself in a room which bore some resemblance to an empty schoolroom. At one corner there was a desk, at which stood a young man at work on a business-looking book. Before him were several children of various ages and sizes, but all having one characteristic in common—the aspect of extreme poverty. The young man was a gratuitous servant of the public, and the place was, for the hour at least, a penny savings-bank.

It was one of those admirable institutions, which are now numerous in our land, and which derive their authority from Him who said, “Gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost.” Noble work was being done there, not so much because of the mere pence which were saved from the grog and tobacco shops, as because of the habits of thrift which were being formed, as well as the encouragement of that spirit of thoughtful economy, which, like the spirit of temperance, is one of the hand-maids of religion.

“Please, sir,” said Tottie to the penny banker, “I wants to pay in tuppence.”

She handed over her bank-book with the money. Receiving the former back, she stared at the mysterious figures with rapt attention.

“Please, sir, ’ow much do it come to now?” she asked.

“It’s eight and sevenpence, Tottie,” replied the amiable banker, with a smile.

“Thank you, sir,” said Tottie, and hurried home in a species of heavenly contemplation of the enormous sum she had accumulated.

When Solomon Flint returned home that night he found Miss Lillycrop seated beside old Mrs Flint, shouting into her deafest ear. She desisted when Solomon entered, and rose to greet him.

“I have come to see my niece, Mr Flint; do you expect her soon?”

The letter-carrier consulted his watch.

“It is past her time now, Miss Lillycrop; she can’t be long. Pray, sit down. You’ll stay and ’ave a cup of tea with us? Now, don’t say no. We’re just goin’ to ’ave it, and my old ’ooman delights in company.—There now, sit down, an’ don’t go splittin’ your lungs on that side of her next time you chance to be alone with her. It’s her deaf side. A cannon would make no impression on that side, except you was to fire it straight into her ear.—I’ve got a message for you, Miss Lillycrop.”

“A message for me?”

“Ay, from a beautiful angel with tumbled hair and jagged clothes named Tottie Bones. Ain’t it strange how coincidences happen in this life! I goes an’ speaks to Tottie, which I never did before. Tottie wants very bad to send a message to Miss Lillycrop. I happens to know Miss Lillycrop, an’ takes the message, and on coming home finds Miss Lillycrop here before me—and all on the same night—ain’t it odd?”

“It is very odd, Mr Flint; and pray what was the message?”

The letter-carrier, having first excused himself for making arrangements for the evening meal while he talked, hereupon related the circumstances of his meeting with the child, and had only concluded when May Maylands came in, looking a little fagged, but sunny and bright as usual.

Of course she added her persuasions to those of her landlord, and Miss Lillycrop, being induced to stay to tea, was taken into May’s private boudoir to put off her bonnet.

While there the good lady inquired eagerly about her cousin’s health and work and companions; asked for her mother and brother, and chatted pleasantly about her own work among the poor in the immediate neighbourhood of her dwelling.

“By the way,” said she, “that reminds me that I chanced to meet with that tall, handsome friend of your brother’s in very strange circumstances. Do you know that he has become a shopman in the bird-shop of my dear old friend Mr Blurt, who is very ill—has been ill, I should have said,—were you aware of that?”

“No,” answered May, in a low tone.

“I thought he came to England by the invitation of Sir Somebody Something, who had good prospects for him. Did not you?”

“So I thought,” said May, turning her face away from the light.

“It is very strange,” continued Miss Lillycrop, giving a few hasty touches to her cap and hair; “and do you know, I could not help thinking that there was something queer about his appearance? I can scarce tell what it was. It seemed to me like—like—but it is disagreeable even to think about such things in connection with one who is such a fine, clever, gentlemanly fellow—but—”

Fortunately for poor May, her friend was suddenly stopped by a shout from the outer room.

“Hallo, ladies! how long are you goin’ to be titivatin’ yourselves? There ain’t no company comin’. The sausages are on the table, and the old ’ooman’s gittin’ so impatient that she’s beginnin’ to abuse the cat.”

This last remark was too true and sad to be passed over in silence. Old Mrs Flint’s age had induced a spirit of temporary oblivion as to surroundings, which made her act, especially to her favourite cat, in a manner that seemed unaccountable. It was impossible to conceive that cruelty could actuate one who all her life long had been a very pattern of tenderness to every living creature. When therefore she suddenly changed from stroking and fondling her cat to pulling its tail, tweaking its nose, slapping its face, and tossing it off her lap, it is only fair to suppose that her mind had ceased to be capable of two simultaneous thoughts, and that when it was powerfully fixed on sausages she was not aware of what her hands were doing to the cat.

“You’ll excuse our homely arrangements, Miss Lillycrop,” said Mr Flint, as he helped his guest to the good things on the table. “I never could get over a tendency to a rough-and-ready sort o’ feedin’. But you’ll find the victuals good.”

“Thank you, Mr Flint. I am sure you must be very tired after the long walks you take. I can’t think how postmen escape catching colds when they have such constant walking in all sorts of weather.”

“It’s the constancy as saves us, ma’am, but we don’t escape altogether,” said Flint, heaping large supplies on his grandmother’s plate. “We often kitch colds, but they don’t often do us damage.”

This remark led Miss Lillycrop, who had a very inquiring mind, to induce Solomon Flint to speak about the Post-Office, and as that worthy man was enthusiastic in regard to everything connected with his profession, he willingly gratified his visitor.

“Now, I want to know,” said Miss Lillycrop, after the conversation had run on for some time, and appetites began to abate,—“when you go about the poorer parts of the city in dark nights, if you are ever attacked, or have your letters stolen from you.”

“Well, no, ma’am—never. I can’t, in all my long experience, call to mind sitch a thing happenin’—either to me or to any other letter-carrier. The worst of people receives us kindly, ’cause, you see, we go among ’em to do ’em service. I did indeed once hear of a letter being stolen, but the thief was not a man—he was a tame raven!”

“Oh, Solomon!” said May, with a laugh. “Remember that