A Girl of the People | Page 5

their eyes they were motherless.
Mrs. Granger died between five and six in the morning; and when the
breath had quite left her body Bet arose, stretched herself,--for she was
quite stiff from sitting so long in one position,--and going downstairs,
woke a neighbor who occupied a room on the next floor.
"Mrs. Bennett, my mother is dead; can you take care of the Cap'n and
the Gen'ral this morning? I'll pay you for it when I sell my papers
to-night."
Mrs. Bennett was a wrinkled old woman of about sixty-five. She was
deeply interested in tales of death and calamity, and instantly offered
not only to do what she could for the boys, but to go upstairs and assist
in the laying out of the dead woman.
"No, no; I'll do what's wanted myself," replied Bet; "ef you'll take the
boys I'll bring them down asleep as they are, and I'll be ever so much
obligated. No, don't come upstairs, please. Father'll be in presently, and
then him and me and mother must be alone; for I've a word to say to
father, and no one must hear me."
Bet went back to the room where her mother had died. She was very
tired, and her limbs were stiff and ached badly after the long night's
vigil she had gone through. No particular or overwhelming grief

oppressed her. On the whole, she had loved her mother better than any
other human being; but the time for grief, and the awful sense of not
having her to turn to, had not yet arrived; she was only conscious of a
very solemn promise made, and of an overpowering sense of weariness.
She lay down on the bed beside the dead woman, and fell into a sound
and dreamless slumber.
In about an hour's time noisy steps were heard ascending the stairs. The
littleboys, cuddling close to one another in Mrs. Bennett's bed, heard
them, and clasped each other's hands in alarm; but Bet sound, very
sound, asleep did not know when her father reeled into the room. He
had been out all night--a common practice of his--and he ought to have
been fairly sober now, for the public-houses had been shut for many
hours, but a boon companion had taken him home for a private carouse.
He was more tipsy than he had ever been known to be at that hour of
the morning, and consequently more savage. He entered the room
where his dead wife and his young daughter lay, cursing and
muttering,--a bad man every inch of him--terrible just then in his
savage imbecility.
"Bet," he said, "Bet, get up. Martha, I want my cup of tea. Get it for me
at once--I say, at once! I'm an hour late now for the docks, and Jim
Targent will get my job. I must have my tea,--my head's reeling! Get up,
Martha, or I'll kick you!"
"I'll get you the tea, father," said Bet.
She had risen instantly at the sound of his voice. "Set down in that chair
and keep still; keep still, I say--you'd better."
She pushed him on to a hard wooden chair, shaking him not a little as
she did so.
"There, I'll put the kettle on and make the tea for you--not that I'll ever
do it again--no, never, as long as I live. There, you'd better set quiet, or
not one drop shall pass your lips."
"Why don't the woman get it for me?" growled Granger. "I didn't mean

you to be awoke, Bet. Young gels must have their slumber out. Why
don't the woman see to her duty?"
"She has done her duty, father. You set still, and you shall have the tea
presently."
The man glared at his daughter with his bloodshot eyes. She had been
up all night, and her hair was tossed, and her eyes smarted; but beside
him she looked so fresh, so upright, so brave and strong, that he himself
in some undefinable way felt the contrast, and shrank from her. He
turned his uneasy gaze towards the bed; he would vent his spite on that
weak wife of his--Martha should know what it was to keep a man with
a splitting headache waiting for his tea. He made an effort to rise, and
to approach the bed, but Bet forestalled him.
"Set you there, or you'll drink no tea in this house," she said; and then,
taking a shawl, she threw it over an old clothes-screen, and placed it
between Granger and his dead wife.
The kettle boiled at last, the tea was made strong ang good, and Bet
took a cup to her father. He drained it off at one long draught, and held
out his shaking hand to have the cup refilled. Bet supplied him with a