Chapter II: Who Knocks?

THE mangle went on, backwards and forwards, until very late that night. Little Angel's arms and back ached terribly when the work was finished and she and her mother crept close to the flickering fire.

"Now go to bed, Angel," said her mother.

"Oh, mother, please let me stop a little longer with you. Are you going to sit up?"

"Yes, I must wait till he comes," said the mother wearily, glancing at the large clock which was ticking solemnly in the corner of the little kitchen. "Oh dear, oh dear! what a lot of trouble there is in the world!"

"Mother," said little Angel suddenly, "did you ever have a birthday?"

Mrs. Blyth did not answer at first, but bent lower over the fire. Little Angel fancied she was crying.

"Yes," she said at last, "when I was a little girl, and my father was alive. I wish I was a little girl now."

"Was it so very nice having a birthday, mother?"

"It was very nice having a father," said Mrs. Blyth. "Ay, and he was a good father too; he was a real good man, was your grandfather, Angel."

"What did you do on your birthday, mother?" asked the child.

"Oh, it was a real happy day. My mother made a plum-pudding for us, and my father took us all to the park for a walk after tea. And then, he used always to give me a present. I have one of them yet."

"Where is it, mother?" said little Angel; "do let me see it."

"Oh, it's up on that shelf," said her mother, pointing to some little shelves at the top of the kitchen. "It's a shame to let it lie there when I promised him to read it every day. But what can a woman do that's got a drunken husband, five children, and a mangle?" she said, more to herself than to the child.

"Please let me look at your birthday present, mother," said little Angel again.

Mrs. Blyth stood upon one of the broken chairs, and took down from the shelf an old and shabby book. The cover was half off, and it was thickly coated with dust. One of the spiders had been busy in its neighbourhood, and had fastened one end of a large cobweb to its cover.

She wiped it with her dirty apron, and handed it to the child; then she sat down again, and bent over the fire.

"Here's writing at the beginning, mother," said Angel; "what does it say?"

Mrs. Blyth took the book, and a tear fell on the soiled leaves of the Bible as she opened it.

"Given to Emily Brownlow by her dear Father on her birthday, with the hope that she will remember her promise."

"And what was the promise, mother!"

"That I would read it, child," said her mother shortly.

"But you never do read it, mother."

"No, it's a shame," said her mother; "I must begin."

"Read me just one little bit before I go to bed," said Angel, sitting on the stool at her mother's feet.

Mrs. Blyth turned over the leaves, and in a mechanical way began to read the first verse on which her eye fell.

"'Behold, I stand at the door and knock: if any man hear My voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with Me.'"

"Who is knocking, mother?" asked Angel.

"It means Jesus Christ, I think," said her mother. "'Behold, I stand at the door and knock.' I expect it means Jesus. I learnt a hymn at the Sunday school about it. I went to the Sunday school when my father was alive. I remember it began—"

"Behold a Stranger at the door,
He gently knocks—has knocked before;"

"and then—I can't remember what came next—something about using no other friend so ill."

"I never heard Him knock," said Angel; "does He come when I'm in bed at night?"

"No," said her mother; "I don't think it's that door He knocks at. I don't rightly know what it means."

"Read it again, please, mother."

So Mrs. Blyth read the text again.

"I hope He won't come in to-night," said little Angel, when she had finished.

"Why not, child?" asked her mother.

"Because we've got nothing for supper to-night, only those crusts Billy and Tommy left at tea. I'm afraid He wouldn't like those."

"Oh, it doesn't mean He's really coming to supper," said the mother; "I wish I could remember what it does mean. But it's lots of years since I read it. My father died when I was only ten, and nobody never took any trouble with me afterwards."

Little Angel was very sleepy now, so her mother took her upstairs, and put her into the bed with her little brothers and sisters, and then she sat down on a chair beside her, and buried her face in her hands. Recollections of a father's love and of a father's teaching were coming into that poor, ignorant mind. Imperfect, childish recollections they were, and yet quite distinct enough to make her sigh for what had been and for what might have been.

And so she sat, this poor wife, as the clock ticked on and the children slept. Then, after long hours of waiting, came a great noise at the door, and she rose, trembling, to open it.

Little Angel started from her sleep, and, sitting up in bed, called out, "Mother, He's come; I heard Him knock."

"Yes," said her mother, who was lighting the candle, "I'm going to let him in."

"Oh, please let me go down and see Him."

"No, nonsense, child," said her mother; "your father's sure to be in drink. I'll get him quickly to bed."

"Oh, dear!" said little Angel, in a disappointed voice, as she lay down, "I thought it was Jesus knocking at the door!"