CHAPTER IV.

WHAT TO DO WITH AILIE?

SOMEWHAT late the following evening, John Forsyth walked into his room, and sat down at the table. Esther opened her lips to speak, but shut them again hastily, as she noted his moody expression. He glanced at the younger children, huddled in a heap upon the floor, and frowned at the sight of Ailie Carter, curled up asleep in a corner, Lettie being seated by her side, as if keeping guard over the forlorn little stranger.

"What's that child here for?" he demanded.

"She's got nowhere else to go to," responded Esther.

"Got no supper for me, I s'pose," said John gruffly.

Esther went to the cupboard, and brought thence a hunch of bread and a lump of cheese. John disposed of them both in silence, with the expedition of a man who has not broken fast for many hours.

"How did you get it?" he asked shortly, pushing aside the cracked plate.

"Hor earned a shillin' with runnin' of errands and doing jobs. I've give the children some, and there's some over for to-morrow. It won't do to eat up all, John," as she detected a hungry gleam in his eyes.

"An' there be the rent as well," said John despondingly. "You've been a-giving more to that there child, Esther."

"Would ye wish to see her starvin' afore our faces?" asked Esther. "What of her mother?"

"Two months in jail," said John laconically. "Went to the station-house myself, an' heard it all. There was a deal o' talk, an' one man he wanted to make out as she was a hardened offender, but that wouldn't stand. She hadn't never been in trouble before, she said, and they found it was true, leastways they couldn't find no proof to the contrary. She pleaded guilty to taking the loaf, but wouldn't agree to the purse—she didn't know why she touched it at all, and she was certain sure she had never meant to take it. There was a laugh at that, an' 'twas easy to see no one believed the poor thing. She sobbed a bit, when they first brought her up, but after that she stood quiet, an' they said—one on 'em—that she was sullen, and he didn't believe as it was her first offence."

"She were as honest as the day till then," said Esther.

"They couldn't tell that, an' they didn't know how she had been nigh crazed by all she had borne. 'Twasn't done in her sober senses, I do believe. There was a long tale made out o' the purse, an' the lady wanted to prove as there was an accomplice as called off her attention, so as Mrs. Carter might whisk it off the counter where it was laid; but nobody hadn't seen no accomplice, unless 'twas little Ailie, an' when some one spoke o' the child, the poor thing called out quite indignant, an' seemed as if she couldn't bear the thought. They questioned her more then, an' she answered steady and sensible, that she had never thought what she was going to do, but she'd sold all she had, an' walked about all day a-huntin' for work, and she and her child was half-starved, an' her husband a-dyin'.

"'Aye, an' he's died in the night, has poor Jem Carter,' says I, speakin' up loud, 'died for want o' the food which none o' you gentlemen knows what it is to be without.'

"They did look shocked at that, all of 'em, an' Mrs. Carter, she gave a little cry, an' turned white-like. They was sorry for her, all on 'em. I could see that plain enough, and they didn't talk no more of puttin' off her trial to the Quarter Sessions, which was the thing as she had seemed to dread most. Some wouldn't have give her more than a month, I fancy, but one old gentleman, he muttered out that people couldn't be let steal, if they was starvin', and examples must be made.

"Mrs. Carter seemed like one nigh stupid, an' never lifted her head, not even when they told her her punishment. And the lady, whose purse it was she took, came near to crying, and said she wished the poor thing could ha' been let off altogether—she was so sorry for her, left a widow alone like that."

"An' how ye could go and tell her all of a sudden!" said Esther, reproachfully.

"I didn't think when I spoke, and it did good too, for they'd ha' given her longer imprisonment but for that. 'Twas her being caught, ye see, with the loaf in one hand, an' the purse in the other, which made so much o' the matter, an' she wouldn't plead guilty to the purse—she didn't scarce know she had touched it, she said, an' others declared she was a-carryin' it off. An' what do they know of the home and the misery as drove her to it?" said John bitterly. "I've felt nigh bein' driv to something desperate myself, before now of late. Anyway she's caged up now for two months, till fourth o' November. That child ain't going to stay here, Esther."

"Where be she to go?" asked Esther in a compassionate tone.

"She ain't a-going to stay here," repeated John, doggedly. "I've give way once, as ye know, to takin' in other folks' children—no need to go into that now. I never grumbles at what's done, and I loves her now like to my own; but I ain't a-going to do it a second time. We've enough an' to spare of our own."

"What'll we do with her?" asked Esther.

"There's the work'us," said John. "I'll take her there myself to-morrow. Ye needn't say a word against it."

"And her poor mother, as prided herself on never takin' a grain of help from the parish," said Esther.

"She must take the consequence o' her own deed," said John, somewhat less indulgent towards her himself, than he had perhaps expected the magistrates to be. "Starvin' or no starvin', 'twas stealin', and she must put up with the consequence. There's no one left as belongs to the child, an' to the work'us she'll go."

Ailie never moved or spoke, but she was not asleep. Every word had fallen on her ears like a blow. Mother in prison for two months—two whole months. O what a long time it seemed to poor little Ailie! She could scarcely have felt more hopeless at the prospect of two years' separation. And then to be sent away herself—away to the workhouse—away, all alone; among utter strangers. She had been brought up with such a horror of the workhouse; prison itself sounded hardly worse to her. Not that she knew anything about what kind of a place it was, except that her mother's one great dread for months past, and her father's too, had been that of "coming to the workhouse." What would mother think of her being there? Poor Ailie forgot or did not understand that the lesser disgrace of dependence on the parish would be swallowed up in the far deeper disgrace of trial and imprisonment for theft.

Worst of all to Ailie was the thought of her mother coming home at the far-off end of those two months, and finding her child gone. What if she didn't know where to go, and never found Ailie, and Ailie never saw her again! Ailie cried silently at the thought. She could not, could not go. She must wait here for mother; she would be a trouble to no one, and eat so little, and sleep anywhere, and creep into corners—only she couldn't go away.

How to avoid it, Ailie did not know. At first she thought she would beg John Forsyth to change his mind, but when she opened her eyes softly and peeped at him, he looked so moody that she dared not speak. Then she thought that she would slip off, and hide herself in some dark secret place, until—oh, until there was hope that they might change their minds. She knew of many a hole and corner in the old rambling house, but to escape at present, without remark, was impossible, and she determined to bide her time.

What was to be done with her this night she did not know; neither did Esther. There was certainly no vacant space for her in the overcrowded apartment. A young widow living in the next room, with only three small children of her own, offered to take in Ailie, much to the relief of all parties. She slept there quietly on her heap of straw, and shared the children's scanty breakfast; but, after that, she watched for the first opportunity to slip unobserved out of the room, and to run down-stairs.

What she meant to do with herself Ailie had no very clear idea. Her one aim was to escape from John Forsyth, in dread of being walked off to the workhouse. A house of terror it was to her, in truth, and her greatest terror of all was the childish dread that if she once went away her mother would never find her again. Her one wish now was to be where John Forsyth could not discover her. The old court at the back of the house would not do. He would naturally look for her there, among the crowd of neglected little ones who spent hours every day in playing and quarrelling together over the mud, stones, and old oyster-shells there to be found. She dared not be seen on the staircase or in the passages. He might walk down any one of them. She would not loiter about in the street, for he would be sure to pass there.

Creeping at length into a dark corner, under the pile of lumber, refuse, and ruin which blocked up the empty space under the staircase, she settled herself into as easy a position as possible, and there decided to remain. They were not likely to seek for her in such a spot.

She congratulated herself not a little on her hiding-place, half an hour later, when she heard a heavy step coming down over her head, and John Forsyth's voice demanding, in evident annoyance—

"I say, can any o' you tell me what's become o' Carter's little girl?"

"Ailie Carter," croaked the old woman who had kept watch by her dying father's side. "No, not I. Where have she been all night?"

"Sleepin' with Mrs. Crane. If I catch her, she shan't forget the trouble she's a-giving us—running away and a-hindering like this! But I can't wait in no longer. If she thinks she's going to live on us, she's mistaken."

He went away grumbling, and Ailie did not breathe freely till he was out of hearing. She dared not let herself be seen even then, though aware that he would now be absent for hours on the search for work. If found, she would doubtless be watched till he returned, and then taken off to the workhouse. Ailie had set her whole heart upon not going there. She sat on resolutely in her dark close corner—hungry, cramped, and miserable, but enduring all, hour after hour, with a steadfast patience, unknown to more tenderly-nurtured children. It was nothing unusual to her to fast during a whole day.

But time passed slowly, and Ailie grew wretched and forlorn, as the hours went on. She slept a good deal, and listened to what went on overhead, and sometimes cried quietly; but she never thought of giving way, and coming out. She would do or bear anything in her power to escape going to the workhouse. She must wait for mother—poor mother, away in jail! Ailie longed so to see her again.

And poor father, too—not twenty-four hours dead. Ailie's little heart swelled and ached at the thought of him, and of that short midnight waking, which seemed now so very far away. How she wondered if the story told by Esther had come true, and if he had been remembered—by—Ailie did not exactly know whom. She had been brought up in such utter ignorance, that she knew scarcely more than the Name of God. She had never heard the Name of Jesus till it fell from the lips of Esther in her hearing.

Still, she knew her father had feared something, had wanted something, had asked to be remembered by some one, and she wondered much if he had had his wish, and how he could have had it. Ailie wished some one would remember her. Not the Forsyths; she only wanted to keep out of their way. But some rich kind person—if such a person would come and look after poor little Ailie, and give her plenty to eat, and let her stay where she was till mother came back, and give her a clean frock, instead of these rags—oh, how nice it would be!

Not much hope of all that, but it soothed Ailie to sit and fancy it. It made her forget her hunger and thirst for a while. And, in the middle of her fancying, she fell asleep, and dreamt that little Lettie came running up, and took her by the hand to lead her away. Ailie was frightened at first, and tried to draw back, but Lettie pulled her forward, and then took her a long walk, through many streets, till Ailie was footsore and weary, and wanted to rest. But all at once they stood before a door, which somebody opened, and Ailie found herself in a bright room, with nicely-dressed ladies smiling on her, and a long table covered with tea and bread and butter and cake. And then, just as a great plateful was set before Ailie, and she was going to begin to eat, the table and the ladies and the room faded away, and Ailie woke to find herself in her dark dusty corner, more hungry than ever.

How bitterly poor Ailie sobbed to herself, and how she did wish that she had slept a little longer, so that she might at least have dreamt that her hunger was satisfied!

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