The Children's Pilgrimage Part 12

Lydia was helping herself to another mutton-chop, and began to feel a little uncomfortable.

"When was Mrs. Bell last in the attics?" she said.

"I was with her," continued Jane. "I used to play a good bit with Missie Mercy in those days, you remember, ma'am? Mrs. Bell was poking about, but I was anxious for Mercy to come home to go on with our play, and I went to the window. I looked out. There was a fine view from that 'ere attic window. I looked out, and I saw--"

"What?" asked Lydia Purcell. She had laid down her knife and fork now, and her face had grown a trifle pale.

"Oh! nothing much. I saw you, ma'am, and Missie Mercy going into that poor mason's cottage, him as died of the malignant fever. You was there a good half hour or so. It was a day or two later as poor Missie sickened."

"I did not think it was fever," said Lydia. "Believe me, believe me, Jane, I did not know it certainly until we were leaving the cottage.

Oh! my poor lamb, my poor innocent, innocent murdered lamb!"

Lydia covered her face with her hands; she was trembling. Even her strong, hard-worked hands were white from the storm of feeling within.

"You knew of this, you knew this of me all these years, and you never told. You never told even _me_ until to-night," said Lydia presently, raising a haggard face.

"I knew it, and I never told even you until to-night," repeated Jane.

"Why do you tell me to-night?"

"May I take away the supper, ma'am, or shall you want any more?"

"No, no! take it away, take it away! You _don't_ know what I have suffered, girl; to be the cause, through my own carelessness, of the death of the one creature I loved. And--and--yes, I will tell the truth--I had heard rumors; yes, I had heard rumors, but I would not heed them. I was fearless of illness myself, and I wanted a new gown fitted. Oh! my lamb, my pretty, pretty lamb!"

"Well, ma'am, n.o.body ever suspected it was you, and 'tis many years ago now. You don't fret. Good-night, ma'am!"

Lydia gave a groan, and Jane, outside the door, shook her own hand at herself.

"Ain't I a hard-hearted wretch to see her like that and not try to comfort? Well, I wonder if Jesus was there would He try a bit of comforting? But I'm out of all patience. Such feeling for a child as is dead and don't need it, and never a bit for a poor little living child, who is, by the same token, as like that poor Mercy as two peas is like each other."

Jane felt low-spirited for a minute or two, but by the time she returned to the empty kitchen she began to cheer up.

"I did it well. I think I'll get the purse back," she said to herself.

She sat down, put out the light, and prepared to wait patiently.

For an hour there was absolute stillness, then there was a slight stir in the little parlor. A moment later Lydia Purcell, candle in hand, came out, on her way to her bedroom. Jane slipped off her shoes, glided after her just far enough to see that she held a candle in one hand and a brandy bottle in the other.

"G.o.d forgive me for driving her to it, but I had to get the purse,"

muttered Jane to herself. "I'm safe to get the purse now."

CHAPTER XV.

GOING ON PILGRIMAGE.

It was still quite the middle of the night when a strong light was flashed into Cecile D'Albert's eyes, and she was aroused from a rather disturbed sleep by Jane, who held up the Russia-leather purse in triumph.

"Here it is, Cecile," she said, "here it is. I guess Jesus Christ heard your bit of a prayer real wonderful quick, my lamb."

"Oh, Jane! He did not answer me once," said Cecile, starting up and too surprised and bewildered to understand yet that her lost purse was really hers again. "He never heard me, Jane; I suppose He was asleep, for I did ask Him so often to let me have my purse back."

"There wasn't much sleep about Him," said Jane; "the Lord don't never slumber nor sleep; and as to not answering, what answer could be plainer than yer purse, Cecile? Here, you don't seem to believe it, take it in yer hand and count."

"My own purse; Lovedy's own purse," said Cecile, in rather a slow, glad voice. The sense of touch had brought to her belief. She opened her eyes wide and looked hard at Jane. Then a great light of beauty, hope, and rapture filled the lovely eyes, and the little arms were flung tight round the servant's honest neck.

"Dear, dear Jane, I do love you. Oh! _did_ Aunt Lydia really give the purse back?"

"You have got the purse, Cecile, and you don't ask no questions.

Well, there, I don't mind telling you. She had it in her hand when she dropped asleep; she wor sleeping very sound, it was easy to take the purse away."

"My own and Lovedy's purse," repeated Cecile. "Oh, Jane! it seems too good of Jesus to give it back to me again."

"Aye, darling, He'll give you more than that if you ask Him, for you're one o' those as He loves. But now, Cecile, we ha' a deal to do before morning. You open the purse, and see that all the money is safe."

Cecile did as she was bid, and out fell the fifteen sovereigns and the four Bank of England notes.

"'Tis all there, Jane," she said, "even to the little bit of paper under the lining."

"What's that, child?"

"I don't know, there's some writing on it, but I can't read writing."

"Well, but I can, let me read it, darling."

Cecile handed the paper to her, and Jane read aloud the following words:

"'This purse contains fifty-five pounds. Forty pounds in Bank of England ten-pound notes, for my dear and only child, Lovedy Joy; fifteen pounds in gold for my stepdaughter, Cecile D'Albert. To be spent by her in looking for my daughter, and for no other use whatever.

"'Signed by me, Grace D'Albert, on this ninth day of September, 18--'

"Cecile," said Jane suddenly, "you must let me keep this paper. I will send it back to you if I can, but you must let me keep it for the present. What I did to-night might have got me into trouble. But this will save me, if you let me keep it for a bit."

"Yes, Jane, you must keep it; it only gives directions; I know all about them down deep in my heart."

"And now, little one, I'm sorry to say there's no more sleep for you this night. You've got to get up; you and Maurice and Toby have all three of you to get up and be many, many miles away from here before the morning, for if Lydia found you in the house in the morning, you would not have that purse five minutes, child, and I don't promise as I could ever get it back again."

"I always meant to go away," said Cecile quietly. "I did not know it would come so soon as to-night, but I'm quite ready. Me and Maurice and Toby, we'll walk to London. I have got half a sovereign that Mr.

Preston gave to Maurice. We'll go to London first, and then to France. Yes, Jane, I'm quite ready. Shall I wake Maurice, and will you open the door to let us out?"

"I'll do more than that, my little lamb; and ain't it enough to break one's heart to hear the poor innocent, and she taking it so calm and collected-like? Now, Cecile, tell me have you any friends in London?"

"I once met a girl who sat on a doorstep and sang," answered Cecile.

"I think she would be my friend, but I don't know where she lives."

"Then she ain't no manner of good, deary. Jane Parsons can do better for you than that. Now listen to what I has got to say. You get up and dress, and wake Maurice and get him dressed, and then you, Maurice, and Toby slip downstairs as soft as little mice; make no noise, for ef _she_ woke it 'ud be all up with us. You three come down to the kitchen, and I'll have something hot for you to drink, and then I'll have the pony harnessed to the light cart, and drive you over to F--- in time to catch the three o'clock mail train.