Our Winnie and The Little Match Girl by Evelyn Everett-Green - HTML preview

CHAPTER VI.
 CONCLUSION.

 shall go with you, Madge,” said Bertram; “I do not like your visiting such places alone. My work is quite slack now, since the vacation has commenced. It matters little enough whether I appear at chambers or not.”

So brother and sister went into town together, and soon found the steamy, airless court which was the home of little Allumette. Madge gave a little shudder as she passed into it.

“Oh, Bertram,” she exclaimed suddenly, “I shall never forgive myself if harm has come to her from my neglect! I had been here before. I ought to have remembered what it would be like after taking her out of it for so many weeks.”

“It made her very happy; but perhaps it was a mistake. It is difficult to judge in some cases. One of the lessons we have to learn in life is that there is an element of danger in intermeddling too much with the lives of others, unless we can do something permanent and substantial. We must not rush into responsibilities which are not given us to bear without due thought and consideration; but then we must not, on the other hand, hold back from any effort, lest we should not be quite successful.”

“I rushed my attempt at benevolence!” cried Madge. “When Allumette was with us I was always teaching her and making much of her, and I was quick to promise another holiday, without thinking whether I could be as good as my word. And when I was down there so busy and happy I let it go out of my mind, and could not take any trouble over it. I always put it off till I could carry out my big scheme. Oh, Bertram, I feel as though I were not worthy to attempt anything!”

“Cheer up, Madge! though perhaps that is a better frame of mind than to feel able to attempt anything and everything. There is a worthy old soul signalling to you over there. She seems to know you.”

“It is Mrs. Gregg!” cried Madge eagerly; “she will tell us about little Allumette!”

“Oh, thank God you have come, missie!” cried the woman, hastening up. “I was just saying to Gregg that I would go off to try to find you. Though he did say as fine folks was never at home this time of year. The poor lamb keeps calling and calling for Miss Madge, till it’s pitiful to hear. It don’t seem as though she could go quiet till she’s seen you again!”

“Do you mean little Allumette?” cried Madge breathlessly. “Is she ill?”

“I’m afeard she’s dying, miss. She’s had the fever on her a long while now, but she wouldn’t give way. She kept saying as Miss Madge was a-goin’ to send for her into the country, and she fought and fought against it, till she could fight no more. If she could only ha’ bin got away a week or two earlier—ah! that would ha’ made all the difference. But maybe the Lord knows best. ’Tis a hard world we live in. The tender lambs are best in His keeping maybe!”

Madge felt as though a cold hand were clutching at her heart.

“Can I see the child?” she asked in a low voice.

“Yes, miss, for sure; the fever ain’t one of the catching kind—not to folks as don’t live down about here. The children get it, but grown-up folks take no harm from them. There’s abin a many little one die down here this summer, and the poor lambie up there will be the next!”

They went into that wretched attic, and stood beside the child’s bed. She was the only sick one there now, the other children having either died or recovered.

Madge felt the hot tears rising in her eyes as she saw the white, wasted face, and saw the restless, fever-stricken tossings of the child she had always seen before with a laugh in her eyes and a bright responsive smile upon her lips. She would have spoken her name as she bent over her, but no voice came. The dim eyes were roving round and round in the listlessness of fever. Words began to form upon the parched lips.

“Please, dear Lord Jesus, let Miss Madge remember! Please let her remember. I do try to be patient; but I am so tired! If I could go where she said I should be able to rest. Please help her to remember!”

“Allumette! Allumette!” cried Madge, with a note of almost passionate entreaty in her voice. “Little Allumette, don’t you know me?”

The voice seemed to penetrate the child’s dimmed understanding. Something like the shadow of the old smile crept over the pinched face; the little transparent hands made a groping movement as though trying to stretch themselves out.

“Miss Madge! Miss Madge!” she gasped feebly. “Miss Madge has come! Oh, Mrs. Gregg, are you there? You see you were right. You said Jesus always heard, and that He would answer by-and-by!”

She spoke the words in feeble gasps, trying to raise herself up; but the excitement and exertion were too much, and she fell back in a state of unconsciousness.

“Ah, poor lamb! she’s going! But she’s got her wish. She is happy now!” breathed Mrs. Gregg, drawing Madge away from the bedside. The girl turned to her brother, and caught his arm almost fiercely.

“Bertram, we must save her! we must save her!” she cried. “Don’t tell me she is dying! I won’t—I can’t believe it!”

“Not actually dying, I think,” he answered gravely, “but in a very critical condition. If she remains here she will certainly die. We must bestir ourselves if we are to save her.”

“Oh, tell me what to do! What can be done? Bertram, you will help me! You will not let me have this burden to carry about with me!”

She was growing painfully excited. He led her away, promising Mrs. Gregg that they would make speedy arrangements for the removal of the little patient to some better place, and asking the good woman to have her ready for the bearers when they should come.

“You must not give way, Madge,” he said, when they were in the street. “It has been rather a sad experience for you; but we will still hope for a happy ending. I trust and hope we may save this little life, and make it a happier one in the future. But think of the thousands of children who are growing up in dens like that! It almost crushes the life out of one to think of it!”

“I won’t think of it!” cried Madge, clenching her teeth to choke back the wave of emotion which threatened to overcome her. “I will think of the individual little ones whom I shall be able to help and cheer and make happy for a little while in their small lives. I must be careful, I see. I must not unfit them for the battle of life. I must not promise or attempt more than I can perform, or make pets and playthings of the little ones. All their surroundings must be plain and homely. But they shall have their fill of fresh air and sunshine and liberty. Oh, Bertram, my heart bleeds for them! You will not think that I ought to give up my scheme because I have been so foolish once. I have had such a lesson. And there I shall have wiser heads to counsel me.”

“I would never give up anything planned for the help and benefit of our suffering brethren—least of all of suffering children,” answered Bertram gravely, “and I think you are building on a better foundation now, Madge! The less we trust in ourselves, the more we ask help where it is to be found, the firmer our building will be, and more abiding will be the results.”

Madge nipped her brother’s arm fast. She understood much that was implied in that speech. He was not a man to speak readily of his deeper feelings; but Madge knew that they were there, and that they had been deeply stirred to-day.

“Now for some hospital where they will take the child,” he said in a different tone after a long silence. “I think I know one place where they will take a case in which I am specially interested, and make a nook for the little one somewhere, whether they are full or not.”

“St. Luke’s summer, my lamb! Just the day for Miss Madge to come home! But we mustn’t call her Miss Madge any longer. We must learn to say Mrs. Brook; and one day it will be Lady Brook, when the old gentleman is gone; but he’s wonderful hale and hearty still!”

Mrs. Gregg was bustling about the cheerful kitchen of the old-fashioned farmhouse, of which mention has been made before, and Allumette was sitting curled up on an antique oak settle in the ingle-nook, with a book open beside her. She was still a little white, frail bit of humanity—“a bag of bones,” Mrs. Gregg had called her when first she appeared at the farm, just after her own installation there as caretaker of the infant experiment. She had picked up a little flesh since then, but was still very weak and wan; only the light was coming back into the wistful eyes, and the lips were ready to smile with pure happiness and joy of life.

Life had indeed become a very wonderful thing for little Allumette since her awakening to the consciousness of her surroundings in the cheerful hospital ward. Everything since then had been so beautiful—so wonderful! Nothing but kindness had been her portion; and to crown all had come Miss Madge’s visits, upon the last of which she had heard that the cobbler and his wife—her best friends—had been sent down to live in a farmhouse close to the lady’s future home, and that Allumette herself was to go there as soon as she was well enough to leave the hospital, to live in the country always with her old friends, and by-and-by to be trained for service in Miss Madge’s own house, with the prospect of becoming her little maid in the future.

Miss Madge had told her all this just before she was to be married; and since then the child had not seen her. For, when she reached this delightful place, Mr. and Mrs. Brook were away upon their wedding trip, and only to-day were they to return.

“Hark to the bells!” cried Mrs. Gregg suddenly. “That means that the carriage is in sight of the village. Run, ducky! It will pass the place I showed you this morning. Take your posy and run and see them go by!”

A huge and very tasteful arrangement in brightly-tinted autumn leaves and flowers, tied with a white riband, lay upon the table. Little Allumette started up, tied on her hat, seized her bouquet, and started off like an arrow from a bow. She was strong enough to run a short distance now, and she knew just where the carriage would pass.

“They be a-coomin’, ducky!” cried the old cobbler, who was now working busily in the garden, rejoicing in the sort of toil to which he had been brought up, and which seemed to infuse new vigour into his bent frame. He and his wife both appeared to have taken a new lease of life since coming down into the country. It had been one of their unfulfilled dreams to save enough to leave the cruel city and make a little home in some quiet country place such as both remembered in their youth. But they had long given up hoping for it, when the unexpected offer from Miss Madge brought about its realisation.

The child ran swiftly down the sloping meadow to the stile at the end. The road ran along just below, and from that vantage ground she would see the carriage pass, and be able to throw her posy into Miss Madge’s lap. She could not yet think of her as anything but Miss Madge, though she practised the new name conscientiously with Mrs. Gregg.

But hardly had she reached the stile before she uttered a little exclamation of rapture, for there was a tall familiar figure standing beside it, his face turned away, watching for the arrival of the carriage.

At the sound of the pattering feet he turned and smiled.

“Little Allumette!” he exclaimed; and, lifting her up, he set her upon the stile, where she could see everything to the greatest advantage.

“Oh, sir!” she exclaimed in a sort of ecstacy; and he laughed as he said—

“I had to come down on business. I was in the down train, and walked up. I thought I should get to Brooklands before the bridal party arrived. But I heard the bells begin, and decided to let them pass me. So you are down here for good, are you, little Allumette? But we shall have to find a new name for you now. Matches don’t belong to you any longer.”

“No, sir,” she answered shyly; “but I shall always like the name you gave me better than any other!”

The roll of the carriage wheels began to be heard.

“They are coming!” said Bertram Clayton, and stood the child up on the broad ledge of the stile, holding her with one strong arm. Two or three mounted tenants trotted past on horseback, and then the carriage dashed into sight round the bend.

Allumette was quivering all over with excitement and a sort of vague fear lest Mrs. Brook might not be quite the same person as Miss Madge had been; but when she saw the smiling face in the carriage all fear left her, and, holding up her posy, she waved it in the air and threw it deftly into the lady’s lap.

But Madge had already seen the pair, and was signalling to the coachman to stop.

“Bertram, this is too delightful! Get into the carriage, and tell me all the news at home!”

But though she spoke first to her brother her eyes were on the child too, and when he led her up to the carriage she held out her hands, and bending down, kissed the little quivering upturned face.

“Little Allumette!” she said softly, and there was a sparkle of tears of thankfulness in her eyes.

The carriage drove off; the child stood looking after it. Happiness was written on every line of her face. Her lady had seen her, had spoken to her, had kissed her. It was more than enough for little Allumette.

THE END.