Jack's Two Sovereigns

by A. S. Fenn

It was all like a strange dream. Who would have thought a week ago yesterday, when Mr. Kayll went out, promising not to be late, that he would never stand under that roof again.

Yet Madge, philosophical as ever, felt that it did not matter, that nothing really mattered since they were all alive and well, so long as father came back. They would all work hard, and if they could earn enough to live upon, surely they need not be unhappy. The troubles of having to pinch, and save, and wear shabby clothes that used once to look too heavy to be borne, seemed so absurdly light, now that she had faced the far worse troubles of nearly losing first one, then another of those she loved more than she herself knew.

Madge had only the two little girls and the baby to share her suspense, for Bob and Jem knew that they could not do better than go to their work; and Jack, who had a holiday, as he was to appear as a witness, had gone with his mother to the police-court. She felt very lonely and nervous. It had seemed so hard not to be able to go too.

The little girls had been for a long ramble, and had succeeded in finding a few sickly Londony wild-flowers, which they were putting in a glass on the table to give a more cheerful look to the bare unfurnished room. Madge herself had done all she could to brighten it, trying meanwhile not to think regretfully of the little old parlour with its shabby furniture and threadbare carpet full of holes.

It was dull work waiting. There was so much depending on the result of this “hearing.” The question in the balance was, whether an hour or two would see them a reunited family, able through their love for each other to bear all hardships while they were together, or whether the same lapse of time would leave them crushed and broken by a blow greater than any they had ever felt—temporarily fatherless—disgraced—ruined, with no idea how or where in future they were to live.

It was little wonder that quiet stolid Madge was pale and flurried, and could not talk connectedly to her sisters, but answered their remarks almost at random.

She busied herself for a while in setting out the tea-things—a very mixed gathering of cups, mugs, and saucers, that were certainly not the most distant relations—then looked anxiously from the window. Next she sent Edie and Bessie up to wash their faces and brush their untidy hair. Then she cut some bread in readiness, looked at the baby critically, decided that for such an occasion as this he certainly ought to wear that clean pinafore which she washed out and “got up” so carefully this morning, carried him upstairs, put it on, and smoothed the yellow down that she called his hair.

“Oh, dear, if they would only come!” she sighed, as she coaxed this yellow down to stand up in a little crest from baby’s forehead to his crown with a peculiar twist round of the brush which she stroked upwards from the parting over his ears. “How nice you look, you darling! I hope they’ll come before you crumple the pinafore and make yourself untidy again. There, now, don’t put the brush-handle in your mouth, or you’ll make yourself ill as you did before.”

She stopped and looked at him, then held her breath and listened, for she thought she heard an exclamation in Bessie’s voice. An instant’s pause, and this was followed by a rush of feet into the passage, for the two little girls had been watching from the window, and here were the expected arrivals at last. Her heart beat fast, but she stood still, listening. Had they returned with or without father?

With! There was his voice! Madge snatched the baby from the chair on which she had placed him while she improved his personal appearance, and, kissing him ecstatically in her delight, she darted down the stairs as fast as she dared with such a burden.