Over and over again, till the neighbors were tired of hearing her; over and over again, till her head ached at the sound of her own voice; over and over again, as the church clock struck one hour after another, Old Grumpy repeated the same words, “Nobody loves me, nobody does! Nobody loves me, nobody does!”
But at last, one day there came a change. She was leaning against the churchyard wall, watching the neighbors filling their pails at the pump in the middle of the court. She was thinking of her cat, and muttering to herself, hardly hearing what they were saying, when suddenly she found herself listening to their talk.
“There’s nothing to be done,” said one woman, “she must go to the workhouse at once. Mrs. Perkins has sent for the officer to come and see about it.”
“Poor bairn; it’s a pity!” said another.
“She’s such a pretty little thing; I saw her standing at the door just now. I’d have kept her, I’m sure I would, if my Bob had been willing; but my Bob wasn’t willing; he wouldn’t hear of it. He says we’ve got plenty of them already!”
“And so you have, Mrs. Wilkins,” said an old woman, who was waiting with her jug. “Why, you’ve six of ’em, haven’t you? And no good ever comes of doing for other folks’ children; nobody thanks you for it!”
“What’s that?” said another woman, who had just come up.
“Why, it’s a woman that has just died at Mrs. Perkins’ lodging house, over the way there; she went there last night—very bad she was when she arrived. They carried her to bed at once and fetched a doctor, but she died in the night; and there’s a little girl left. Mrs. Perkins has just sent to the workhouse for them to send on and see about it.”
“Is it a baby?” asked the new-comer.
“No, it’s a little girl about as big as our Kate, going on five, I think Mrs. Perkins said; and so clean she is, and nice little clothes, too!”
“Who are they?” asked the woman.
“Mrs. Perkins doesn’t know; they don’t belong to this part at all. By what I understand, she was traveling through to her own parish, so expect they’ll send the child on there.”
“Poor bairn!” said the woman. “I must go and have a look at her.” And she hastened out of the court and went across to the other side of the street where Mrs. Perkins’ lodging-house stood.
Old Grumpy got up and came nearer the pump where the other women were still standing, talking it over.
“Would they give her to me?” said the old woman, coming forward and suddenly clutching one of them by the arm.
“Who’s that?” said the woman, starting and turning round, for she had not seen her coming.
“Why, its Old Grumpy! What does she say?”
“Would they give the bairn to me?” repeated the old woman.
“No, I shouldn’t think so,” said the women in a chorus. “Why, whatever would you do with a bairn? You wouldn’t know how to look after her!”
“She looked after the cat well enough, anyhow,” said a man who was standing at a door, smoking his pipe.
“Well, to be sure, so she did!” said one of the women. “But what would she keep her on? She couldn’t keep a child out of her parish pay.”
“I would work for her,” said the old woman lifting up her thin, bony hands. “I would work for her as long as I could crawl about. Oh, let me have her, let me have her! I’ll be ever so good to the bairn. Nobody loves me; nobody does!”
“She’s half mad,” said one of the neighbors. “I don’t think she ought to have a child given up to her.”
“She had sense enough to look after the cat,” said the man with the pipe. “Let her try.”
“Well, I’ll go and see Mrs. Perkins about it,” said the woman who had been the chief speaker.
Old Grumpy stood at the entrance of the court watching Mrs. Perkins’ house anxiously. It was a high house with many rooms in it, and it looked, if possible, more forlorn and dirty than the row of forlorn and dirty houses in which it stood. The dirty ragged blind was drawn down in one of the upper rooms, and Old Grumpy fancied the mother of the child must be lying there; and she wondered what she was like, and if she was at all like her own mother was, when she had been laid, dead, in a ward of the workhouse hospital. The poor child, she thought, was left motherless, just as she had been; but if only they would let her have it, then she would never have to say, as she had said, oh, so many times, “Nobody loves me, nobody does.” She would love the child as much as if it were her own, that she would! Ah, how she would love it!
It was a long time before her neighbor appeared again, and when she did it was to beckon Old Grumpy to come in.
“Her!” said the landlady contemptuously, when she saw her.
“Let her try, poor old thing!” said the woman of Ivy Court. “We can send the bairn to the house if she doesn’t look after her; and we will all keep an eye on the child and see no harm comes to her.”
“Well, have your own way,” said Mrs. Perkins, “it doesn’t matter to me. But you’d better take her and be off before the officer comes down. It’s not very likely he’ll let that crazed old body take her. I needn’t tell him there is a child if you’re off at once.”
“Where is she?” asked the woman.
“She’s in the kitchen, playing with my Sally Jane and Anna Maria; she doesn’t know her mammy’s dead. I told her she was poorly and wanted to be quiet, and sent her downstairs.”
“I’ll go and fetch her then,” said the woman. She soon returned, leading by the hand a tiny child, with soft dark brown hair, and large dark brown eyes, very pretty, as the neighbors had said, but very thin and pale—so thin and pale that there were tears in the woman’s eyes as she brought her in; and she whispered to Mrs. Perkins that it was clear it wouldn’t be for long. The bairn would soon be with her mother again.
“I’ll be ever so good to her,” said Old Grumpy as she took her hand. “Don’t you be afraid of me; I’ll be ever so good to her.”
Ivy Court turned out, as they walked through, to see Old Grumpy’s child. Some said it was a shame to let the child go to such a place as that; the workhouse would have been far better for her. Others, and the man with the pipe was among their number, said it would settle the old woman’s mind and keep her from having to go to the asylum. Old Joel, who was standing with Tiger on his shoulder, thought it a good joke, and laughed so loud as Old Grumpy passed by that the man with the pipe came across the court to bid him to be quiet, and to mind his own business.
The old woman walked on, heeding neither the remarks of the neighbors nor the laughter of old Joel. She felt as if she were in a dream. Now, at last, she had found something to love; now, at last, she would be happy. None should rob her of this darling; nothing should ever part them. The child would love her, and would grow up to be a comfort and a joy to her, and they would be so happy together. Old Grumpy saw all the future spread out before her, in a very bright and beautiful picture, as she opened the door for the child to go in.
And the One who was still standing outside her door, the living, loving Lord, of whom the old woman still knew but little, and cared less, was adding another link to the chain that was to lead her to Himself.
When would the chain be finished? There were more links yet to follow, sorrowful links for Old Grumpy before the last link came, which led her to the Lord Himself.