Mother Meg Part 10

"Did you hear that about the bread?"

"Yes, I did. I don't know as I could 'a done it; only married hardly a week. That's what I call thinking of others afore yerself."

Mrs. Seymour nodded and went back to clear her table for dinner, Miss Hobson's eyes watching her with interest meanwhile. On the whole, she did not feel sorry that she had given up her room to Meg.

When Jem came in at dinner-time and went to peep into the red pan, clean emptiness reigned there, and Meg sat quietly working by the window. As he understood nothing about bread-making, he concluded it must be in the oven. But when Meg went to that to lift out the pie, and he saw no bread there, he was fairly puzzled.

"Where's the baker's shop?" he asked playfully.

"Oh, Jem, I'm so sorry; but Jenny went out, and mother wanted the ironing done. I could not manage the bread too--so it's not done."

Meg looked so concerned that Jem had to get up and kiss her.

"Never mind," he said, "We must try again on Monday."

"Yes; but I'm afraid the yeast may not be good this hot weather. Still, we can see. Jem, I did think it was what my hand found to do--"

"I haven't a bit of doubt about that, little woman," he answered. "How did you find time to make this nice pie, or did a fairy come in?"

Meg shook her head, while she was delighted with his praise.

"This is for to-morrow as well," she said, "because you know we agreed we'd only cook potatoes on Sunday."

"So we did; it could not be a better dinner."

"How nicely this oven will bake our potatoes while we are at service, Jem!"

"Everything's nice," answered Jem, smiling. "Meg, I shall not be home till four o'clock this afternoon; but if you'll be ready we'll take a penny boat, and have a turn up the river. This is our honeymoon, you know."

Meg blushed and smiled.

"Oh, Jem," she said, leaning her head on his shoulder, "I hope I shall be all you wis.h.!.+"

He looked down at her with eyes that said a great deal, but he only answered--

"Mind you're ready, little woman."

So Meg set to and made her rooms as clean and beautiful for Sunday as she could devise. It was true, they were already nearly as clean as they could be; but London smoke penetrates everywhere, and Meg knew that a little sweeping and scrubbing would do no harm. When it was nearly four, she went up to ask a favour of her mother-in-law.

"Jem's going to take me up the river," she said, smilingly; "but I'm afraid the fire will go out, and there'll be no hot water for tea. Would you think it a trouble to look to it for me, mother?"

"Not a bit, my dear. But if Jem and you are going out, let out your fire this hot day, and come up and have tea with me when you come in. I was thinking I'd come and ask you."

Meg promised to do so if Jem were agreeable, and hastened away to take off what little fire she had, and to lay it again to be ready whenever it might be needed. And then she stood looking out of the window watching for Jem.

The look-out was not as cheering as the look-in. Tall sombre houses across the narrow street, with dirty tattered blinds, bedsteads half across windows, dirty children leaning out and risking their necks, here and there a few sickly plants. Such was her outlook in front. Behind it was still worse. A double row of forlorn little courts, where stunted fowls were kept, where badly-washed clothes were hung from Sat.u.r.day to Sat.u.r.day all the week round, where rubbish was thrown, where children made mud-pies, where old boxes and firewood were heaped, and every imaginable untidiness congregated to depress the spirits and health of the crowded houses ab.u.t.ting on it.

Meg never looked out if she could help it. People must live in London, she supposed, and Jem had asked her to come and make London bright for him, and she meant to do it if she could. And then her eyes went up above the narrow street, and looked into the clear June sky, and she whispered: "They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength: they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER VIII.

GONE.

And so time went on happily and swiftly. The summer days came and went, while Meg and her young husband worked cheerily at their allotted tasks.

Many a time did Meg visit the forlorn attic, carrying not only dainties for poor suffering d.i.c.kie, but cheer and suns.h.i.+ne for his devoted little sister. If Meg had discovered in Cherry traces of "a disciple," she did not fail to do her part in giving her many "a cup of cold water."

This she did in various ways, so tenderly and un.o.btrusively, as to be almost unnoticed by Cherry at the time. She brought her some soap and an old towel, and coaxed d.i.c.kie "to feel how nice the warm water was," and when his ablutions were done, to their joy he had a long sound sleep.

Cherry made up her mind she would try it again another day.

Then Meg begged a bowl without a handle, which her mother-in-law had done with as useless for was.h.i.+ng; this she carried round to Cherry and taught her to wash over her floor, so that if the old boards might not look white, they would at least be fresh. And once Meg put on her oldest dress and scrubbed the room from end to end. She also took home the old shawl one hot August day and returned it in the evening clean and sweet.

She was rewarded, if reward she needed, by Cherry's brightened face, and by d.i.c.kie's creeping off his mattress and up into her arms, where he would lie peacefully while she told him story after story of the little lamb who was lost on the mountains, and was sought by the Good Shepherd, until He carried it home rejoicing.

By-and-by d.i.c.kie began to run about the bare room with fresh energy; but as he began to revive, so Cherry seemed to get despondent. There was a look of alarm on her face which puzzled Meg; but the child would never give any explanation. She resolutely kept d.i.c.kie up-stairs, hus.h.i.+ng him from making any extra noise, and Meg heard her once whisper to him in a warning voice--

"d.i.c.kie, they'll know yer well again if yer don't mind; and then--I hope they've forgot you, d.i.c.kie, for a bit."

He seemed to comprehend, and turned to the bits of toys and broken crockery which he called tea-things as contentedly as before.

"Is he ever naughty?" asked Meg softly.

Cherry nodded.

"What do you do then?"

"I talk to 'im, and tell 'im how sorry mother'd ha' been, and how sorry _He_ is," reverently; "and then he soon gets right again, and says he's 'good now.'"

One day when Meg went she found Cherry with an old hat on, and d.i.c.kie also with some apology for walking things.

"Are you going out, dear?" she asked, surprised, for Cherry's aversion to leave her room had been so great.

"We're goin' hopping," answered the child. "Father's goin' to take us; and I think it 'ull be the best thing for d.i.c.kie. He'll be able to run out in the air, and so--"

She placed in Meg's hand a p.a.w.n-ticket, as if she would perfectly understand.

"What is this, dear?"

"That's the blanket. I don't know no one as would keep it for us, and so I put it there. Here's the money, and you can get it out for me, if you will, when we come back. I'd ha' come to you about it, only I didn't rightly know where you lived."