IT was market-day, and everyone in that busy town was even busier than usual. The market-place was crowded with people of all ages and occupations, hurrying along as if every moment was of consequence to them, and pushing and jostling against everyone else, as if it were quite impossible that any one's business could be of as much importance as theirs.
It was a curious old market-place; not a large open square, with plenty of room to move about between the various stalls, as in most of our more modern towns, but a long, narrow, old-fashioned street, with a row of stalls on each side of the road, close to the pavement, and only just room enough between the rows for the carts and carriages to pass through.
All sorts of things might be bought at these little stalls. There was the cap stall, with innumerable caps of all sizes and shapes—caps for old men, caps for young men, caps for big boys, caps for little boys, and caps for baby boys.
There was the stocking stall, where were displayed, in tempting rows, blue stockings, white stockings, grey stockings, brown stockings, black stockings, and striped stockings. There was the boot-lace stall, with its hundreds of boot-laces, hanging side by side on strings which were stretched from one side of the stall to the other. There was the basket stall, at which you could buy a clothes-basket, a market-basket, a fish-basket, a cap-basket, a fruit-basket, or a dinner-basket. There was the sweets stall, which was always surrounded by children, who seemed to be trying to devour its contents by means of their greedy glances.
There was the gingerbread stall, which was hardly less popular, with its rows of gingerbread cats with pink eyes, and gingerbread dogs with blue eyes, and gingerbread men with no eyes at all. There was the picture stall, which was a favorite resort for young men and women who were setting up housekeeping, containing a number of pictures of ladies and gentlemen dressed in every color of the rainbow, and surrounded by most brilliant and startling frames.
And then there were numberless toy stalls, standing side by side, and all of them very much alike.
At one of these stood a man and a child, watching the faces of the people as they passed by, and holding up one thing after another from the stall to tempt them to buy. The man was tall and thin, and one of his coat-sleeves hung empty at his side, for he had lost his right arm.
The child had an anxious, thoughtful face, and looked older than her years. She was not more than ten years old, though she might have been taken for twelve or thirteen.
Crowds of people passed the stall, but no one stopped to buy. A few turned over the things, asked their price, and then walked on again, and did the same at the next stall. The man seemed very anxious to secure a purchaser, and very clever in trying to suit the tastes of the various passersby: the old men and women were invited to stop to examine the quality and cheapness of a pipe or a spectacle-case ; the mothers of families were pressed to take "just a pretty penny toy or two to the bairns at home " ; the young girls were invited to buy the long strings of yellow and blue beads which were hanging across the top of the stall, and which could be made into necklaces, or bracelets, or chains, according to taste ; the young men were shown cheap knives, cheap pocket-combs, cheap breast-pins, and cheap shirt-studs ; whilst the children were called, again and again, to look at the trumpets, the dolls, the tops, the balls, and the boxes of toys with which the stall abounded.
But none of them fell into the traps so carefully laid for them. No one seemed to want anything that Friday morning ; the little girl tinkled the penny bells to show how well they sounded, and made Jack jump out of his box again and again, but all in vain ! A child came and bought a halfpenny slate-pencil, but not another halfpenny did they take the whole morning.
“Bad luck to-day, Faith," said the man, as they sat down on a box behind the stall to eat their scanty dinner.
Oh, maybe it will be a bit better this afternoon," said the child; “the country folk don't care about carrying a lot of things about with them all day —we mostly take more of afternoons than mornings."
"We never take a deal at any time," said the man, gloomily, as he got up to show off his wares again.
The afternoon was cold and wet. The rain came down in torrents, and Faith shivered as she wrapped her thin faded shawl round her, which was becoming more drenched every moment.
“Here, Faith, child," said the man, putting a piece of sacking around her,” keep thyself warm, bairn; I can hold on as long as thou art well."
It seemed of very little use their stopping in the market-place. The people who passed along were hurrying on to get shelter from the rain, and scarcely glanced at the stall as they went by. The country people had all gone home, and the market-place was becoming very empty. The owners of the cap stall, of the basket stall, and of the boot-lace stall were hastily packing up their wares and preparing to depart.
But still the man and the child held on. The toys were not getting wet—that was one good thing. The covering of the stall was waterproof, and there was no wind. So hour after hour they waited, hoping to the last that customers might come to the stall.
It was quite dark now, and the few stall-keepers who remained had lighted their naphtha lights and hung them up under cover of their stalls. The passers-by became very few and far between as the night went on; and at last the great church clock over their heads struck eleven, and the market-keeper came to see the lights put out and the street cleared.
The man and the child packed up the unsold articles in their various cases, without saying a single word to each other, and put out their lights. Then the man put the boxes on a hand-cart, and took them to a house near, where a friend of his lived, who took charge of them till the next market-day.The child was white and tired, and seemed as downcast as the man. He gave her his hand when all was stowed away, and then they walked on towards their home. The streets were very quiet now, for it was half-past eleven, and they met very few people on their way. They had gone down several streets before either of them spoke. The man was the first to break the silence.
“Only sixpence the whole day, Faith," he said. “We never had such bad luck as that before!”
“What will Mrs. Gubbins say?” said the child.
“Ay!” he said; “what will Mrs. Gubbins say? Well, well, we can't help it; we've done our best, anyhow."
But he was evidently as much afraid of Mrs. Gubbins' displeasure as she was.
At last they stopped at a door in a dirty, miserable street. The door was unbolted, so the man went in, and Faith followed him up a long rickety staircase, which seemed as if it would give way beneath their weight. They passed two landings, and then they reached a door at the top of the high house. The man paused for a moment, as if he were almost afraid to enter.
“Can’t be helped," he said, almost with a groan, as he went in. The child followed him with a timid, shrinking step.
It was a dirty, forlorn room. The floor was rough and uneven, and full of holes, and the rotten boards creaked and strained as they walked across them. The walls were damp and discoloured, and covered with filth; the little window had not a whole pane to boast of, but was patched up with rags and newspaper.
There was hardly any furniture in the room, only a small round table, two or three broken boxes, and one dilapidated arm-chair. In this chair, with her feet on the fender and her hands stretched out over the fire, sat an old woman. Her back was turned to the door, and she never looked round as the man and the child came in.
Faith crept quietly past her to a corner of the room where three children were lying asleep under a dirty blanket. They had lain down to sleep with their clothes on, unwashed, uncombed, and uncared-for. They had no mother.
“Oh! if she could see them! “said Faith to herself, as she stooped down to kiss a little grimy, sticky hand which was peeping out from a corner of the dirty blanket.
“Oh! if she could only see them, whatever would she say! It's to be hoped folks in heaven doesn't know what goes on."
The man sat down on a box by the table, and leaned his head on his hand. There was a strong smell of gin in the room; the old woman had been having her supper just before they came in.
“Well," she said, without turning round, “the same old tale, I suppose?”
“Yes," he said, " we've been very unlucky to-day, Mrs. Gubbins, very
Unlucky!"
“Unlucky! You always are unlucky," said the woman, bitterly.
“Can’t help it," said the man, as he tossed the sixpence across the table; “that’s every penny I got, Mrs. Gubbins, every penny."
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, John Robinson," said the old woman, turning round at last, and glaring at him with her bloodshot eyes ; " you ought to be ashamed of yourself, taking the bread out of your own bairns' mouths and a-giving of it to them as hasn't no sort of a claim upon you ! "
“Not a word of that, mother," said the man;” it's of no use you saying aught about that: haven't I told you so afore? "
“But I will say summat about it," said Mrs. Gubbins, "and I say it's a sin and a shame, it is; and what's more, I won't have it, I won’t!”
“Hold your tongue," said the man, angrily, as he heard the sound of a little stifled sob from the corner of the room; “my Mary loved that bairn, and I'm not a-going to let her go."
“We’ll see about that," said Mrs. Gubbins. “I’ll have a word with the parish officer when I sees him next. What's the good of the House, I should like to know, if bairns as hasn't got nobody to look to 'em can't go there? I'll manage it, John Robinson, don't you be a-bothering of your head about it."
"But I tell you she shan't go “said John, as he smote the table angrily. " I'll see you go first."
“Will you indeed?” said the woman, scornfully, as she covered herself with an old shawl, and laid down to sleep; “I’d like to see you, I would."
The man sat quite still, till the sound of her loud snoring broke the silence of the room. Then he crept to the corner where the children were sleeping. Faith was still awake, her hands were over her face, and she was crying quietly.
He bent over her and whispered softly: —
"Don't you take on so, little Faith; don't take no notice of her; they shan't never take you away from me, bless you! Don’t, don't cry, little Faith."
The child felt his hand on her hair, stroking it very gently, and she felt something warm and wet fall on her hand! Could it be a tear?