Mother Meg Part 11

It did not occur to Meg to explain where her home was at the moment, though afterwards it cost her many a pang that she had not done so. She was busy thinking about the blanket; and just as she had promised to do as Cherry wished about the p.a.w.n-ticket, Cherry's father came up the stairs and entered the room.

It was the first time Meg had met him, and he stared in surprise at such a sweet vision in that desolate place.

"This is a friend what came to see d.i.c.kie when he was ill, father," said Cherry in a deprecating tone.

"Eh! Oh, well, d.i.c.kie's all right now; and the train 'ull be gone if you don't come at once. We shan't be back again for many a long day."

He looked askance at Meg, and evidently waited for her to go. She bade a hasty good-bye to the children, and went down-stairs with a sad heart.

So Meg lost sight of her little friends, and though in a month or two's time she went several times to their attic, she could hear nothing of them. The attic had other occupants, and the child and his crippled sister seemed forgotten.

Meanwhile, the winter came and was pa.s.sing away, while Meg was busy from morning till night. If she were not rendering efficient help to her mother-in-law, she had some work of her own, over which she bent with a happy look in her face which made it like sunshine.

One morning as she was returning from fetching some yeast for her bread-making, for Meg had set up a regular practice of supplying her husband with her own baking, she entered the doorway just as the toddling girl belonging to the woman on the ground floor did the same.

The little one was running at full speed, and before Meg could put out her hand to save her, she tripped over a bit of brick which was lying in her path, and down she came with her head against the stone doorstep.

Meg quickly picked her up, and recognizing her, knocked at the door just as the child's mother ran to see what the screams were about.

"I'm afraid she's hurt," she said, entering; "her head came right against the corner."

"Dear, dear, dear!" exclaimed the mother, with an inward feeling that here was another misfortune; "I never did _see_ such children! There, child, leave off screaming and I'll see to yer."

Though the words were rough, the face of the woman was not unkindly.

Somehow Meg had never come across her before, and had been too shy to make any advances without being asked, though she had often pitied the poor woman as she pa.s.sed and heard the crying babies and general hubbub.

"Thank you, Mrs. Seymour," said the woman, taking the child from Meg's arms. "My! ain't it bleeding! Whatever shall I do?"

"I should lay a wet rag on it," said Meg; "and then we can see how big the place is. Perhaps it isn't so much as it looks."

"Dear, dear, dear!" said the mother again; "I haven't one bit of rag handy; I have had to use all mine up for my boy's leg what was bad so long."

Meg ran up-stairs, and soon returned with a nice clean piece from a store of old linen which had been given her at the Hall. She looked round for a basin, and soon had a little lukewarm water in it, and the rag put on the child's forehead. She sat holding it, the mother looking on at Meg's swift gentle ways with evident surprise and pleasure.

When the crying grew less, and the little thing, pale and miserable, was laid on the little bed in the corner, Meg bethought herself of her bread, and took up her basket to go.

"Thank you _kindly_," said the woman gratefully; "you've quite cheered me up a bit. This is a hard life for us poor mothers."

Her eyes, which had once perhaps been as bright as Meg's, were sunken and tired. She glanced at the deserted breakfast-table, and said wearily--

"Work as me and him do, you may say, night and day, we can't satisfy their mouths. I can't tell you how I long for somethin' different from bread, Mrs. Seymour!"

Meg's eyes had followed hers, and she could see that there had been nothing on that table that morning but milkless tea and dry bread.

Nothing remained but a few small crumbs.

"My 'usband says as it's hard to work and bring 'ome all he've earned, and then not to have enough after all. But what can I do? They've eaten a loaf and a half this mornin', and not one of 'em but could ha' eaten double!"

"You have six children, haven't you?" said Meg, sympathizing truly, but feeling powerless to help.

"Eight," answered the woman, "and all under twelve year old. Here's the baby."

She led the way into the back room, where in a good-sized bed a baby still slept soundly.

"You must have your hands full," said Meg kindly; "I wish I could think of anything to help you. Where are they all?"

"Gone to school. They take even my biggest girl away from me, her as might be some 'elp, and I'm sure she don't want schooling as bad as she wants food."

"It comes very hard on you. And so you have to stay at home with the babies?"

"That's just it. I might put 'em out to be 'minded,' but I'm not going to have 'em starved under my eyes, and burnt and neglected and slapped!

Not but what I slap 'em myself sometimes," she added with compunction, "when I'm that tired--but not so often considering; and I'm not going to put 'em out for n.o.body."

She seemed glad to have some one to pour out her griefs to, and Meg hardly liked to hurry away.

"I thought when I see you first as you'd soon get untidy like the rest of the girls, but you ain't yet!" remarked the woman, as they went back to the other room.

Meg smiled.

"I hope not," she said gently; "but you know I have not got a lot of children to feed and see to. I should have no excuse now."

Just as she was turning to the door she thought of something.

"I wonder if you ever make oatmeal porridge for your children?" she asked.

The woman made a wry face.

"Law, my dear, they wouldn't touch it!"

"I think they would if it were made nicely."

"I'm sure you've been so kind and clever, that I ought to think of what you say," apologized the woman; "but I'm afraid--"

"What have you for dinner to-day, if I may ask?" said Meg, hesitating, in her shy way.

"Bread," answered the mother emphatically; "and I meant to pour some boiling water on it, and put some salt, and make believe it was soup.

It's so bitter cold to-day."

"I wonder if you'd be offended if I offered to make some porridge for you?"

"I shan't be _offended_; but I know they won't touch it!"

Meg laughed.

"You see!" she said brightly. "Tell them a friend brought them some, and you give them their choice of that or bread, and I expect--"

"I haven't any oatmeal," said the woman.

"But I have; I'll go and fetch some. My husband has it every day for breakfast."