Part 17 (2/2)

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER XII.

”INASMUCH.”

March was nearly over, when one night Jem woke to see Meg standing at the window. It was moonlight, and he could see her outline distinctly against the bright sky.

”Is anything the matter, Meg?” he asked anxiously.

”Hus.h.!.+” exclaimed Meg earnestly. ”Jem, night after night I hear the same. I thought it must be my fancy, but I'm certain it's not. There!

can't you hear those screams?”

Jem got up and came to the window, more with the intention of soothing Meg than of listening to his neighbours. He had too long been used to London sights and sounds to be alarmed at a little crying in the night.

Meg held her breath, and on the night air were certainly borne unmistakable cries of some child, either in great fear or pain.

”Jem!” said Meg again in a frightened whisper, ”which house did you say d.i.c.kie used to live in?”

”D'ye mean d.i.c.kie's attic?”

”Yes; where we went,” said Meg, with her teeth chattering.

”Get into bed!” he implored. ”Meg, you'll catch your death o' cold, my dear. I'll stay and listen here, if it 'ull do any good.”

Meg retreated, and Jem gazed out into the dimness. Still he could hear what had so affected Meg, and as he looked, and his eyes became accustomed to the moonlight, which could not s.h.i.+ne down into the depths of the courtyard below, but still shed a hazy light on it all, he began to see which-were-which of the houses behind; and could trace--there the back windows of a certain public-house--there the blank darkness of an empty building--and there the twinkling lights in houses which he knew to be general lodgings.

It was from one of these he fancied, up the next court, that the cries came; and as he stood reckoning it up, he turned to Meg and said,

”It _is_ d.i.c.kie's attic, I believe! There's a light there, and people movin' back and forwards. Perhaps some one's ill.”

”No,” said Meg, sitting up, ”it's n.o.body ill. It's some child being beaten or hurt. Oh, Jem, _could_ you go and see--could you get in there, do you think?”

”Not to-night, my girl. But to-morrow I'll see if I can hear anything of it. It's the house where I worked, so they'll know me most like, and not think I'm intrudin' on 'em.”

”Jem! that blanket weighs on me,” said Meg with a sob. ”Those children ought to have had it all this time; but whenever I've been up to the attic to see, the people have been so rough to me, and the other rooms were all let out to several families in each.”

”I know,” said Jem, coming away from the window, ”and very likely he'd have took the children elsewhere, especially if he didn't want you to interfere with 'em, Meg.”

Poor Meg, with a weary sigh she lay down on her pillow and tried to sleep. The house where they fancied the sound came from was so near theirs at right angles, that a conversation could be carried on from the back windows if any one had chosen.

As Meg lay wakeful and sad, she fancied she could still hear the cries, growing fainter and fainter, till either they ceased, or Meg ceased to be able to catch them.

The next morning Jem and she consulted as to what could be done; Jem averring, very truly, that ”folks wouldn't stand people coming to make inquiries after crying children.”

”I should not so much mind if it were not for Cherry's hints,” said Meg; ”but, Jem, I could make something, or you could buy a few oranges to take in your hand, and say you had brought them for d.i.c.kie if you could find him. Would that do?”

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