CHAPTER X.

Sally hesitated before she made her first move. Playing at trances was a new game to her, and she was in the dark in more ways than one. But the crisis was an imminent one, and she was vaguely conscious that none but bold measures would help her safely through it. Yet she approached her subject warily, unaware that Seth's accustomed eyes could plainly discern the working of every muscle in her face.

"I went off all of a sudden, didn't I?" was her first inquiry.

"You did, Sally," replied Seth, "without saying with your leave or by your leave."

"And you tried to bring me to."

"And couldn't."

"Right you are, Sally."

"Then you carried me down here."

"How do you know that?" asked Seth, so abruptly as to shake her nerves.

"You must have done," she said in feverish haste. "How could I be here, else? People don't walk in trances, do they? Joanna didn't walk when she was in a trance, did she?"

"Well, no," answered Seth, the corners of his eyelids wrinkling up with amusement. "I never heard that she did."

A sigh of relief escaped Sally's bosom at this confirmatory evidence, and was followed by a chuckle from Seth.

"It stands to reason, Sal, that if Joanna had walked, you'd have done the same."

"In course I should," said Sally innocently. "Did I go off like Joanna?"

"I should say there wasn't a pin to choose between you." A cunning smile played about Sally's lips. "You put somethink on my face."

"Water, Sal, to bring you to."

"But somethink else," said Sally, with a slight shudder, "somethink that crept and frightened me."

"You see, Sally, you were so bad, and wanted such a deal of bringing to, that I had to take the water from my aquarium----"

"What's that?"

"You'll know by-and-bye. There's fish in it, and all sorts of things, and when I dipped the cup in, out came a water-beetle. There isn't a bit of harm in the little creatures, but they do creep! Now for the vision, Sally."

Sally puckered her eyebrows, and tightly interlaced her little fingers.

"It was dark and it was light," she slowly commenced. "Not both at once. That could hardly be--though we don't quite know what happens in trances."

"No, we don't, do we? It wasn't light and dark together. First it was dark, and then it was light. I couldn't see a wision in the dark, could I?"

"I should say not, Sal; but I never was in a trance, you know. I'm not one o' the prophesying sort."

"So it must ha' been light when it come. There was all sorts o' things flying about--birds, and angels, and spirits. It was splendid. Then all of a sudden a king comes to me done up in a bundle."

"Pharaoh," suggested Seth, in the midst of a quiet fit of laughter.

"Yes, Pharer, it was," said Sally, eagerly adopting the suggestion.

"Because that's the only old king you ever heard of."

"Yes. Well, Pharer come----"

"Stop a minute, Sal. What was he like?"

"Didn't you never see him?"

"I never set eyes on the old gentleman."

A deeper puckering of Sally's eyebrows, and a tighter interlacing of her little fingers.

"He was done up in a bundle, you know, and I didn't see much of him."

"Was he like the doll outside old Adam's rag and bone shop?"

"A little bit."

"Only he didn't have a black face,"

"No," said Sally, following the cues with heaving bosom.

"But his face was painted."

"In course it was."

"In stripes. Red, and yellow, and green."

"Yes, he looked so rum! And he had a big gold crown on his head."

"Ah," said Seth, in a tone of sly satisfaction, "now I can say I've seen Pharaoh if anybody asks me. Go on, Sal."

"Well, he come, and said----"

"Ho! ho! Sally! he spoke to you, did he?"

"Yes, he said a lot."

"Now," mused Seth, hugging himself in great enjoyment, "how did he speak?"

"With his tongue," replied Sally, with precocious sharpness.

"Yes, yes, with his tongue, of course. But in what language? It couldn't be Hebrew, because he hated the Jews, and wouldn't have lowered himself to it. Besides if he had, you wouldn't have understood him."

"Not in a trance?" asked Sally in a cunning tone.

"I should say," replied Seth very gravely, "not even in a trance."

"Why, then, he spoke what I'm speaking to you, and what you're speaking to me--jist the same. 'Git up, Sally,' he says, 'and come along o' me; I'm going to show you somethink.' I got up and went along of him."

"The people must have stared, Sal, to see you and Pharaoh walking together."

"We didn't mind that. We walks straight to the horspital, and there's father laying in bed. 'Shall I ever git better?' says father to Pharer. 'No,' says Pharer, 'you'll never git better. Do you hear, Sal? Father'll never git better.' Then we goes out of the horspital, me and Pharer, and walks miles and miles into the country, and we come to a big, big place with stone walls. 'Mother's in there, Sal,' says Pharer; and I peeps through and sees poor mother working and working."

"Was it a prison, then, that mother was in?"

"No, it was a workus. 'If you was to go to her,' says Pharer, she'd be turned away. She's got eighteen pound a year.' Is that a lot?" asked Sally, suddenly breaking off.

"It's a lot taken in a lump," replied Seth, upon whose face a more thoughtful expression was gathering, "and a year's a lot, too, Sally."

"Is three-and-sixpence a week a lot for a gal's keep?" asked Sally, pursuing her inquiries.

"What sort of a girl? One who would make herself handy?"

"Oh, yes; and do anythink, never mind what. Clean and scrub, and git up early and light the fire and go of errands----" Thus Sally breathlessly ran on.

"But this girl's so small--not strong enough to do all that."

"She'd git bigger, and stronger, and older, every day. And you don't know, oh, you don't know what she wouldn't do, if you wanted her to! And she'd be as good as gold."

"Then this girl's liable to fainting dead away, without notice----"

"She wouldn't do it!" cried Sally, beating her hands together and creeping closer to Seth; "she wouldn't do it, if you didn't want her to!"

"--And of falling into trances--"

"She'd never do so agin, this gal wouldn't, if you didn't want her to!"

"Three-and-sixpence wouldn't go far, Sal, but it's something. What next did Pharaoh say?"

"'She's got eighteen pound a year,' says Pharer, 'and she's been obliged to go away from you 'cause she's so poor, and couldn't git nothink to eat; but she's giving somebody three-and-sixpence a week for your keep.'"

"Ah, ah, Sally, now we're coming to it."

"After that, Pharer looks at baby----"

"Saying anything about her keep, Sal?"

"Oh, no; there's no need to. I keep her, you know; I take care of her. I nurse her, and wash her, and dress her, and put her to bed, and she's no trouble to nobody."

"Not even to you, Sal, I suppose."

"Not to me--oh, no, not to me, 'cause I love her, and she's the beautifullest baby there ever was! Pharer looks at her, and says, 'When baby grows up, she'll be a lady, and 'll have fine clothes, and 'll give everybody money who's been good to her.' That's sure to come true, that is."

"Pharaoh says?"

"No, I say. It's sure to come true. You mind, now! Whoever's good to baby'll be done good to."

"A good Christian sentiment, Sal. And then?"

"Then," said Sally abruptly, "Pharer goes away."

"Walks away?"

"No, flies away, and is swallowed up like. That's all of it."

And with her heart beating as fast as if she were in a high state of fever, Sally, whose hand was resting on Seth's knee, waited in the deepest anxiety to learn her fate. Seth put his hand down, and it touched Sally's face. He gave a start as he touched her cheek, which was wet with her tears, fast and silently flowing.

"Sally," he said, "you've got a brother."

"I'll tell you somethink," rejoined Sally quietly and solemnly; "but you mustn't tell him, or he'd beat me."

"I won't tell him, my child."

"I don't think," sobbed Sally, "as he's any good."

"Why?"

"It was him as made father ill, and him as made mother poor. And last night, when I was abed, pretending to be asleep, I sor him eating up all the bread and drinking up all the tea. And when he went away, mother cried and cried."

Many moments passed in silence. Then Seth rose, and lit a candle, Sally following his movements with undisguised anxiety.

"Look about you, Sal."

Sally gazed with longing, admiring eyes at the treasures of the cellar, which was a veritable Aladdin's cave in her sight. It was with difficulty she removed her eyes from the aquarium, which was something so entirely outside her experience as to make it a marvel indeed.

"Here's my bed, Sally; and here's my cupboard; and here's my frying-pan and saucepan and kettle, all clean and tidy." As he seemed to expect an answer, Sally nodded. "Now here," he continued, lifting a blanket which, hung on a line, divided off a portion of the cellar, "is a place where two children might sleep, supposing such an out and out-of-the-way circumstance should ever occur to Seth Dumbrick as taking two ready-made, mischievous girls----"

"Oh, no," interrupted Sally positively, "not mischievous. Good."

"You're not fit to judge. Supposing, I say, such an extraordinary and ridiculous circumstance were to occur to Seth Dumbrick as his taking two girls, one of 'em a baby----"

"Such a beauty!" again interrupted the irrepressible Sally. "Kiss him, baby."

She put baby's face to his, and, utterly confounded and unable to resist, Seth Dumbrick kissed a pair of lips for the first time for Heaven knows how many years.

"If I believed in the Bible," he muttered, "which I don't, it'd be almost like kissing that. Sally, will you stop here, quiet, while I go out a bit?"

"Yes," replied Sally joyfully.

"You won't move, you won't touch a thing?"

"No, I won't--I won't!"

"And you won't mind sitting in the dark?"

"N--no," said Sally, with a little shiver.

"One soon gets used to it."

" I would," said Sally, becoming suddenly brave.

"I can't afford to burn candles all day long. You won't touch the aquarium, or put your fingers in the water?"

"No--no; I'll never!"

"Because my fish bite, Sally."

"I won't move from here, Mr. Dumbrick," protested Sally, grouping mentally for some strong affirmation. "I hope I may never move at all if I do!"

"Very well; I sha'n't be gone long."

Seth Dumbrick went straight towards Mrs. Chester's lodgings. He met that good woman on his way, inquiring anxiously of her neighbours whether they had seen anything of her child.

"She's at my place," said Seth, "with her baby, and has been there ever so long."

"You've lifted a weight off my heart," said Mrs. Chester.

"I was afraid Sally was run over. I'll give it her when she comes home!"

"Home!" echoed Seth.

"Yes, home," repeated Mrs. Chester.

"For how long," asked Seth, "will it be a home for her?"

Mrs. Chester turned very white, and looked at Seth Dumbrick for an explanation.

"Mrs. Chester," he said with a curious hesitation, "what sort of a man do you consider me to be?"

"I don't know any harm of you, Mr. Dumbrick."

"That's neither one thing nor the other. It don't matter, though. I'd like to hear the rights of the story about Sally's baby, if you've no objection."

Mrs. Chester related what she knew, and Seth Dumbrick listened thoughtfully and attentively.

"And you've never since set eyes on the man who brought the child to your house?"

"Never before or since, Mr. Dumbrick."

"There's a mystery in it," mused Seth, "and I'm partial to mystery. Here we are at your place. May I come up?"

Without waiting for permission, he pushed his way upstairs, and entered Mrs. Chester's room. In the first glance he saw the state of poverty to which she was reduced. Unceremoniously he went to the cupboard and opened it; there was no food on the shelves. Then he turned to Mrs. Chester, and fixed his great grey eyes on her so piercingly that she began to grow frightened.

"You're a married woman. Where's your wedding-ring?"

She placed her left hand quickly behind her.

"I don't mean any harm. Where is it?"

"In pawn?"

"That's always the last thing to go, Mrs. Chester."

Weak and sick, she sank, panting, into a chair.

"Your husband's in the hospital?"

"Yes," she sighed.

"And you're going to take a situation in a workhouse?"

"Who told you?" cried Mrs. Chester, her tears beginning to flow.

"Some distance from here it is, and you'll get eighteen pound a year. And you don't mind giving three-and-sixpence a week to anyone who'll take care of Sally."

"I don't know where you found out all this," sobbed Mrs. Chester, "but it's true. I've been trying all the morning to get a place for Sally--she's a handy little thing, Mr. Dumbrick--but can't find one. Everybody's full enough of trouble as it is, without wishing for more. I don't blame 'em, I'm sure, but I feel that desperate that I'm fit to make away with myself. Do you think I'd part with my child if I could possibly help it?"

"I never had one," replied Seth gravely, "so I'm no judge. Mrs. Chester, I'm a lonely man, and have lived a lonely life. You know me and what I am. I'm never out of work, and I never intend to be, if I can help it. I don't set myself up as a good man, but I dare say I'd pass in a crowd. Do you see what I'm driving at?"

"Not exactly, Mr. Dumbrick."

"I've felt sometimes lately, when I've been alone in my cellar, as if I'd like some one to talk to, some creature like myself about me to look at. I'd as soon set fire to my place as take a woman in it, and a boy'd plague the life out of me. But a little girl, or a little girl and a baby, I wouldn't so much mind. She could make herself handy, and might grow into my ways. Now do you see what I'm driving at?"

"You mean that you'd take Sally, and keep her, if I paid you three-and-sixpence a week."

"Partly right and partly wrong. I mean that I've no objections to take Sally and the little creature as seems to be cast upon the world without a friend, and give 'em both their meals and a bed. So far you're right. But you're not as to the three-and-sixpence a week."

"Would you want more, Mr. Dumbrick?" asked Mrs. Chester imploringly.

"I've been reckoning up as I came along how much a year three-and-sixpence a week is, and I make it out to be more than nine pound. That's a big hole in eighteen pound. You wouldn't be able to save a shilling out of it."

"I don't want to; I only want to live. God help us! Poor people must live as well as rich."

"They've as much right to, certainly, but that's not to the point. This is. I'm not willing to take three-and-sixpence a week. I'll take half-a-crown."

"God bless you, Mr. Dumbrick! How shall I ever thank you?"

Seth made a wry face at the blessing.

"But I've got a bargain of another kind to make. There's Sally's baby. She comes too, of course, and we don't reckon her. She's thrown in, as a body might say--a kind of make-weight. Now Sally is your child, and I reckon you are fond of her."

Mrs. Chester sighed an eloquent assent.

"One of these fine days," continued Seth, "you might make your fortune sudden." (Mrs. Chester thought of her lovely lad and his lucky mole, and listened with greater interest.) "You might pick up a purse of money, or an old pauper might die, and when you ripped up her clothes you might find 'em stuffed with bank-notes. In that case you'd come to me and take Sally away."

"It ain't likely any of them things'll happen, Mr. Dumbrick."

"I've heard of stranger things. Now I go on again. I should by that time have got used to Sally, perhaps, and shouldn't like to part with her. That wouldn't matter to you. You'd take her. But there's the other. She's not your child, and you've no claim on her."

"No more than you have."

"Very well, then. Now I make this bargain with you, Mrs. Chester. If ever anything should happen as'd make you want to take Sally away, you wouldn't take the baby away as well. She'd be mine, and you'd have no right to her. You understand?"

"Perfectly, and I'm quite agreeable. A mother's got enough to do with her own children, without being saddled with strange ones. Though this little one is a beautiful child, Mr. Dumbrick, and my heart warmed to her so that if I could afford it I'd be glad to keep her. God help those who've deserted her so cruelly!"

"Then it's a bargain, and I'll go and send Sally to you. You'd best keep the children with you till you go away. Then you can bring 'em to me, and make 'em over."

"You'll be kind to Sally, Mr. Dumbrick."

Seth rasped his chin with his horny hand. "As kind as it's in my nature to be; I can't promise more than that."

"And you won't mind her fainting away now and then; she'll get over it as she grows, I hope."

"I've had a sample, and I don't mind it much. To tell you the truth," he added grimly, "it amuses me."

Mrs. Chester looked doubtful; Sally's fainting dead away had not been an amusement to her, and she was fearful that Seth was disposed to make light of her child's misfortune; but the quaint smile which came to Seth's lips after his remark had so much of kindness in it that she was reassured.

"I can trust you, I think, Mr. Dumbrick."

"If I wasn't sure you could, I wouldn't have come to you," was his reply, and then he paused for a moment or two. "Mrs. Chester, I can spare you two shillings if you're in need of it."

This was sufficient evidence, and Mrs. Chester gratefully pressed his hand. Seth placed two shillings on the table, and walked off quickly.

That night everything was settled; Dr. Lyon advised Mrs. Chester not to delay, and she agreed to go to her situation on the following day. He spoke well of Seth Dumbrick also.

"He has a rough outside," said the sensible doctor, "but it covers a kernel of goodness, if I don't mistake. The strawberry, you know, Mrs. Chester, grows underneath the nettle."

"Yes, sir," replied Mrs. Chester, seeing but vaguely the application.

Mrs. Chester had no heart to bid farewell to her neighbours. She left Rosemary Lane almost by stealth, going first to Seth Dumbrick with the two children.

"You'd like to see my place, perhaps," said Seth, and led the way to his cellar.

Mrs. Chester was dismayed somewhat by the gloomy look of the apartment.

"It is very dark, Mr. Dumbrick."

"Not when one's accustomed to it," was the reply; "besides there's a bit o' light behind the cloud."

He went to the back, and opened a door which disclosed a flight of steps, leading up to a yard in the rear of the house. The sun happened to be shining brightly, and the light struggling in gave the cellar a more habitable appearance.

"I've sometimes thought of having a window let in," said Seth; "perhaps I'll do it after a bit. And there's nothing to be said against it at night."

In fact there was an undiscovered window in the back wall, hidden by shutters. Seth seemed to wish not to make the bargain an attractive one in Mrs. Chester's eyes. She knelt before Sally, and kissed her and cried over her. "You're sorry I'm going to leave you, my pet--say you're sorry."

Sally required no prompting. She loved her mother, but her practical little wits had gauged the situation, and she had done the best she could in the circumstances. Seth, with delicate forethought, left the mother and the children alone, and mounted to his stall, where he continued his work of soling and heeling and patching. Presently, Mrs. Chester stood by his side. He walked with her down the street.

"Don't take on," he said; "I'll look after Sally, and you can always write to me here, if you've anything to say. I'm settled in Rosemary Lane for life. Goodbye; I wish you better days."

He left her in the company of her lovely lad, Ned, the cause of all her trouble. She was to take coach to the country, and her son accompanied her to the yard it started from, grumbling all the way at his hard lot; for now his mother was leaving him, he had no loving nature to impose upon.

"If ever you're in trouble, my dear boy," sobbed Mrs. Chester, "don't keep it from me."

"I won't," he replied, with much sincerity.

"And if ever you grow rich, Ned----"

The contemplation of this happy certainty in the future lightened her heart, and with kisses and tears she bade farewell to him and to the neighbourhood endeared to her in many ways, notwithstanding the hard fortune she had experienced there.

In the meantime Seth Dumbrick retraced his way to his stall, somewhat unsettled in his mind as to the wisdom of the step he had taken. In his cellar he found Sally very industriously washing up some dirty plates; comfortably propped on a chair was the treasure-baby. Seth glanced suspiciously round to note if anything which should not have been disturbed was out of its place; Sally's eyes followed his with sly satisfaction. She had finished washing the crockery, and was now ostentatiously wiping her bare arms, like a little old woman of sixty.

"I keep my eyes wide open," said Sally, "as wide as wide can be, and the things come out of the darkness to meet me. Jist look; I can walk all about, without touching a thing."

Sally brought this to proof by winding her way quickly about the dark room, round the table, in and out of the chairs, round the aquarium, and all with such precision and anxious desire to please as could not fail to elicit approval.

"You're a cunning little sinner," said Seth, "and I don't doubt that we shall get along pretty well together."