BACK IN LONDON.

When Juliet awoke in the early morning she could not at first remember where she was. It was not the old home in London, crowded with father, mother, and children. It was not the new home at Littlebourne, where Emily’s bed lay beside that of her cousin. Oh, but it was the prison in which the dreadful Mrs. Bosher and her bonnet had shut up an unhappy girl and kept her all night!

Looking round the room, Juliet saw on the boards close to the door the same basin of bread-and-milk which she had refused to eat on the previous evening. Mrs. Bosher must have put it in noiselessly while her prisoner was asleep. The prisoner could not resist her fare this morning, but ate it all up, though the milk was just what she called “on the turn.”

She did not know what the time was; the sun rose so early that he shone as brightly at five o’clock as at seven o’clock. What did it matter? Juliet could not get out until her jailer chose to release her. As soon as Mrs. Bosher opened the house-door, or sent her out for water, or for a cabbage, or to hang up wet linen, she would make off and run away somewhere. Not through the wood, lest the awful brother might be there again, and the utmost rigour of the law prosecute the trespasser; but somewhere, anywhere.

Juliet lay down and slept again. She was disturbed by the door of the room being opened, and the bonnet nodding in.

“Oh, you are not up. Come down and wash in the scullery.”

The bonnet went down the stairs, and Juliet followed. It stood over her while she washed and brushed her hair, and made herself tidy. Then it gave her a toasting-fork and some slices of bread, and set her in front of the kitchen fire. While thus obeying Mrs. Bosher the mind of Juliet was trying to strike out some plan of escape; but when she saw the brother outside in the road she put off running away. The clock told her that the hour was eight. The Littlebourne family was now at breakfast too. How they must be fretting for want of Juliet!

As it happened, they were not fretting at all, but talking together cheerfully.

Juliet did not want much more in the way of breakfast. She sat, cross and ugly, scowling at Mrs. Bosher.

When breakfast was ended and the dinner put to cook in the oven, Juliet began once more to look about for a chance of escape. The brother was not to be seen from the window. There must come the right moment presently. Mrs. Bosher left the kitchen. Now the right moment had come. Juliet put on her hat, and went into the passage.

“That is a good girl,” said the deep voice, “I’m ready too.”

A strong hand took Juliet by the arm, and the hat and the bonnet went out together. Speechless with terror, the girl could not resist. She was hurried along the road in the direction furthest from Littlebourne, past the brother’s house, and past several other houses. What could it all mean? Whither were they going?

At the corner of a cross-road there stood the brother himself, but without the gun. Mrs. Bosher led Juliet to him, and his hand took the place of his sister’s.

“Here’s the runaway,” said Mrs. Bosher. “She’ll be safe with you.”

“Rather,” said the big man; “or she shall know the rigour of the law.” It was odd how his eyes laughed while his mouth was so awful.

“So you’ll dispose of her, Jim; and I’ll run back, for I’ve left the door open.”

The bonnet went nodding away, and the burly Jim dragged Juliet along faster than she could walk, and almost as fast as she could run. She was soon tired and out of breath. Neither spoke.

They went along one road and turned down another, and crossed the Thames by a bridge, and passed through a street of shops, and then, by a dirty lane among gas-works, arrived at a place which Juliet had seen before.

“Why, it is Littlebourne station!” she exclaimed.

And there, on the platform where the sun was beating down with fierce heat, stood Mr. and Mrs. Webster. The big man took Juliet up to them and placed her in front of them, saying, “Here she is; I’ve done my part of the business, and I place her safely in your charge.”

Mrs. Webster was looking at Juliet with pitying eyes; the vicar of Littlebourne appeared sterner than his wife.

“Very good,” he said to Mrs. Bosher’s brother; “we will take her in charge. It happens very fortunately that we are going to London to-day, and so can dispose of her. How much anxiety and trouble her bad conduct has caused! It was very clever of Mrs. Bosher to guess who the girl was.”

“Yes, sir, so it was. When my sister came in last night to tell me how a young thing from Littlebourne had come to her house, having run away from home seemingly, I should never have seen my way to finding out the truth. But then women are quicker-witted than men, though they are not so steady-headed. And my sister says, ’She must have come across the fields somehow.’ And I says, ’I met a slip of a girl in the wood, and made believe that I was going to shoot her.’ And says Mrs. Bosher, ‘It’s the same girl, take my word for it,’ says she. ’And, you, Jim,’ she says, ’step over to the lock the first thing in the morning, and ask Mrs. Rowles if they have seen a girl coming through the fields in this direction.’ Which I did.”

To all this Juliet was listening eagerly.

“And two words settled it,” said Mrs. Bosher’s brother; “two words with Mrs. Rowles. ‘Why,’ says she, ’it must be our niece Juliet who ran away last night, and we have been in a state ever since.’ And then she described her niece, and I saw plain enough that it was this identical girl. There came an old gentleman in a boat just then, and so I said good-morning and went to tell my sister what I had heard.”

“They did not wish to have the girl brought back to them?”

“Oh, no, sir; they’d had enough of her. They said she must go to her home in London. And Mrs. Rowles knew that you would be going to town to-day, and she promised to send word to you that I would bring this runaway here to meet you; and Mrs. Rowles said she knew you would see her safe home, because you are always ready to help everybody.”

Mrs. Webster smiled. “And what did Mr. Rowles say about his niece?”

“Oh, he said she was a regular bad un; went off alone in the boat and got shipwrecked. He said she had a father who never thought of getting up to work until other folks were going to bed, and what else could you expect from the daughter of such a man as that? But the old gentleman who had got out of the boat said, ‘Tut, nonsense!’ and seemed to want to have an argument with Rowles after I had left. And now, sir, I see your train coming, and I have talked myself out; so good-morning to you and to your good lady.”

Lifting his hat, Mrs. Bosher’s brother went away, and Juliet saw no more of him. She was pushed into a carriage with the vicar and Mrs. Webster. Indignant she was, and unhappy; all her folly and all her wickedness were coming back upon her now.

During the long, hot journey up to London Mr. Webster several times spoke very severely to Juliet. He knew enough of her story to be aware that she was selfish and conceited, unwilling to be taught, and resolved to have her own way. He told her how she might have lived most happily at the lock until a nice little situation had been found for her; but she had spoilt everything, and made her uncle and aunt glad to get rid of her. He told her that unless she could become more humble and teachable she would never learn anything good; that it is the childlike, humble souls which grow in wisdom and in favour with God and man.

Mrs. Webster did not say much, but looked so gently at Juliet that her looks had almost as much effect as her husband’s words. The experience of the last few days, her frights, her misfortunes, the gun of Mrs. Bosher’s brother, the locking up in Mrs. Bosher’s house, this sudden journey home, all showed Juliet that she had tried the patience of grown-up people more than they could bear. She looked with hazy eyes on the country that they were passing through; she hardly saw the fields and trees. But at length she noticed that the houses were more numerous, and then that the fields were gone, and then that she was in London hot, smoky, noisy London once more.

“It is very annoying for you,” said Mr. Webster to his wife in a low tone, which yet was distinct enough to Juliet’s young ears “very annoying for you to be obliged to go to the other side of the city, when your mother expects you at eleven o’clock. But there is no help for it. I have to go down to Westminster. I don’t suppose I shall see you till we meet at Paddington to come back by the 7:45 train. I will put you and the child into an omnibus in Praed Street, and when you get out Juliet Mitchell must guide you to her home.”

Even the West-end was hot and steamy on that broiling August day. Never before had Juliet thought London so unpleasant; the reason being that this was the first time she could contrast the town with the country. It seemed to her that the further she went through the streets the thicker the air became, the dimmer the light, the dingier the houses. And so indeed it was. And when she brought Mrs. Webster into the street which contained N, she wondered how that lady would like to exchange Littlebourne vicarage for an East-end vicarage.

An almost similar thought was passing through Mrs. Webster’s mind, or rather, the same thought reversed.

“Juliet,” she said, “I wonder how your father and mother would like to leave London and come and live at Littlebourne?”

“I don’t know, ma’am,” answered Juliet.

“I have heard a good deal about them from Mrs. Rowles. Your father would have better health if he lived in the country.”

By this time they had reached N. Juliet’s heart was beating at the sight of the well-known door-step of her home. She forgot all about Mrs. Webster, and ran on. There were lots of boys and girls playing in the street; some called out to her, some stared at Mrs. Webster. But Juliet took no notice; only ran on, climbed up the dear old dirty, steep stairs without bannisters, and got to the door of the back attic, followed closely by her companion.

The girl did not knock, but rushed in, and then stood aghast. A strange woman was there but no one else.

“Where is mother?” cried Juliet.

“Whose mother?” responded the strange woman.

“My mother.”

“Ain’t she got e’er a name?”

“Yes; she’s Mrs. Mitchell.”

“Oh, the Mitchell lot has gone into the front room, if you please. Going up again in the world, I can tell you.”

Juliet turned and dashed into the front room. There she found another surprise.

Her father lay sleeping; her mother was sewing at some black hats and bits of crape. The other children, all but Albert, stood round about the room; some crying silently, some watching their mother, who paused every now and then in her work to wipe away tears which quickly returned.

But there was one whom Juliet missed.

“Mother,” she said, as Mrs. Mitchell’s arms clasped closely round her, “where is baby?”

Tears poured down from the mother’s eyes. “Oh, baby, baby, our darling baby is gone! He was took with the croup yesterday morning, and he just went off in the evening. There was too many of you, and now he’s gone!”

A sad silence fell upon the room. Thomas Mitchell moaned in his sleep, as if his dreams were painful. Outside in the street there was a sound of angry voices two women quarrelling. Mrs. Webster had once had a baby of her own; it had died. She felt, she knew, all that Mrs. Mitchell was feeling now.

The bits of black on which the mother was at work were poor and skimpy, but they betokened a real sorrow. And though Mrs. Mitchell knew that the “home for little children” was far, far better for them than the busy, hard world, yet she could not bring her heart to be thankful that baby was taken; all that she could say was, “Thy will be done!”

In the mortuary belonging to the church lay the little, thin, pale body of baby Thomas Mitchell. Life, though short, had been very hard for him, and he had gone out of it at the first call from his Father in heaven at the first sound of that voice which is sweeter and more drawing than the voice of a mother.

Other children had gone before him; but because he was the baby his loss was more acutely felt than that of the others had been. Juliet sat and thought of the many times she had bumped his tender head against the wall, and how often she had let him slip off her lap, or left him lying in the rain or in the fierce sunshine. And now the darling baby had died, and she away from home! She had not watched his last sigh, she had not given him one farewell kiss! Already he was in his tiny coffin, and she would never in this life see him again, save in those blessed dreams which now and then restore to us for a time our loved and lost ones.

Juliet could not have explained perhaps it could not be explained how it was that the death of baby during her absence seemed to be connected with her bad conduct. It is certain that this sudden shock affected her greatly. It was, as it were, a break in her life; her old ill-tempered, unteachable childhood went into the past, and a gentle womanhood sprang up in the future. For the present there was a sad, humble, penitent girl.

When she began once more to know what was going on in that room, she found that Mrs. Webster was telling Mrs. Mitchell, in very mild terms, of the reasons why Juliet was sent home.

“I am quite a stranger,” said the lady, “and I feel myself an intruder in your time of sorrow. You have my deepest sympathy. And I trust that Juliet will henceforth do better. She has had some severe lessons. Do you think your husband would be stronger if he lived in the country?”

“Yes, ma’am; the doctor at the dispensary says that country air would do wonders for him. But then he can’t leave his work; it is no use to live in the country and have a good appetite if you have no means of getting victuals for your appetite.”

“No, of course not,” said Mrs. Webster.

“We are doing better now,” continued Mrs. Mitchell. “He’s at work again, and Miss Sutton that’s a kind lady is trying to bring us women face to face with our employers and no middleman between. But I don’t know how it will act. I’ve done work for Miss Sutton and her friends, but the same people don’t keep on wanting mantles. I could have borne anything if I hadn’t to make up crape for ourselves!”

Mrs. Webster pressed Mrs. Mitchell’s hand kindly, and took her leave.