Chapter XII: Kathleen Is Saved

DAY faded into night, but Kathleen did not come. It grew so late that Molly, feeling certain that her sister could not intend to return home before going to the theatre, resolved to go thither in search of her.

She put on her cloak and hat and went down-stairs. An icy wind, laden with tiny snowflakes, blew in her face as she opened the house door. It was a dreary night. Already the pavements were white, and the gloomy sky, without a star, threatened more snow.

But Molly was not to be deterred by the weather. She hurried along, bravely struggling with the fierce wind, which took away her breath, and drove her backwards.

Once she slipped and fell, but scarce conscious of her bruises, picked herself up, and hurried on. She reached the theatre at last, but looked in vain for Kathleen, who was already within the building. As she stood at the side door, she asked some of the players who passed her if she might see her sister for a few minutes before the play began. But they said they did not know, and advised her to wait or to come again when the theatre closed.

Molly would not go away, lest she should miss some chance of saving her sister.

It was painful waiting in that bitter cold. The child's limbs grew numb, and to warm them she began to walk to and fro in front of the theatre. On such a rough night, the playgoers were few. But Molly saw some carriages drive up, and their occupants, warmly muffled, alight, and hurry into the theatre. Amongst these was a young lady with whose appearance Molly was particularly struck. She was a dark handsome girl, whose bright face bore a strong resemblance to Kathleen's.

She wore elegant and costly attire, such as Kathleen coveted, and was accompanied by a gentleman who was evidently her father.

Molly noted the loving care with which he helped his daughter from the carriage, and took her into the hall.

The sight gave Molly a pang of envy—not on her account, but on that of her sister.

Why should that girl be so loved and guarded, whilst Kathleen, equally pretty and graceful, was all alone in the world, with no one to protect her from danger, save her weak and helpless little sister? Was it fair? Why did God suffer such differences to be? Could He not make things more equal, if He liked? It seemed as if He did not care. Was it indeed true that there was One who loved the poor and friendless?

Once more, the old doubt stirred in Molly's heart, but she would not give it place.

"'Lord, I believe; help Thou my unbelief!'" she cried.

And faith grew strong again.

But soon it began to snow in real earnest, and the misery of Molly's situation was doubled. The snow covered her like a cloud, and wetted her to the skin. She must have perished of cold, had not a cabman, who had been watching her as she wandered up and down, taken compassion on her.

"Why don't you go home, little girl?" he called to her. "You'll be frozen if you stay here in the snow."

"I can't go home," said Molly; "I'm waiting for my sister, who's in the theatre."

"You don't mean that she's gone in and left you outside," said the cabman. "That is a shame."

"She did not know; she could not help it," explained Molly. "She is one of the dancers, and I must wait till she comes out."

"Dear me, that's a pity," said the man; "it's not fit for a little child like you to be in the streets to-night. But come and sit in my cab; you'll be a little warmer here."

Molly gladly availed herself of this invitation. She got into the cab, and the man piled the straw about her feet and ankles, and wrapped a rug around her. Then he ran to a coffee-stall close by, and came back with a steaming cup of coffee, which he made Molly drink. It brought a warmer colour to her blue, pinched little face; her teeth ceased to chatter and her limbs to shake, and she soon declared herself quite warm.

"You do look a bit better," said the friendly cabman, "but now tell me, child, what can your mother be thinking of to let you out such a night as this?"

"I've got no mother," said Molly. "Mother and father are both dead. I've no one but Kathleen."

"Dear, dear!" returned the man, with a look of pity. "Only to think of it! Why, I've got a little girl of my own at home, and I wouldn't let her be out such a night as this, not if the Queen herself was to order it, that I wouldn't."

"I shall not get far to-night, I reckon," he said, after a time. "I was to be at the side door at half-past ten and wait for a gentleman. But I shall want double fare for driving through this snow, if, indeed, I can drive through it. There, it's half-past ten already, and the people are beginning to come out, so I must drive round to the door. You want to go there too, do you? That's right."

In spite of the cabman's persuasions, Molly now insisted on getting out of the cab and standing at the door till her sister appeared.

There was great confusion and uproar as the people came out of the theatre. Every one seemed to want a cab, and there were few cabs to be had, and the drivers of these were in no reasonable mood. So shouting and quarrelling resounded on all sides. Molly's friend grew impatient because his "fare" did not come. He was talking of driving away, when the side door opened and two figures appeared. Molly knew them in a moment—they were Kathleen and Mr. Vavasour.

"Kathleen, Kathleen!" she cried, springing forward and seizing her sister's arm.

"Molly, I told you not to come," said Kathleen, angrily.

"Kathleen, I have come to save you," said Molly, earnestly. "You must not trust this man; he is a bad, wicked man. Oh, Kathleen, come home with me—come home at once."

And she tried to pull her sister along.

But as she spoke, her own arm was roughly grasped. "Hold your tongue!" hissed out Mr. Vavasour, as with cruel force he separated the sisters.

Pushing Molly back, he helped Kathleen into the cab, and his foot was upon the step, when the cabman, seeing that something was wrong, interposed.

"Stay a minute, if you please, sir," he said. "I must know the meaning of this before I take you in my cab."

"Oh, don't let him take Kathleen away!" cried Molly, in piteous distress. "He is a bad cruel man. Madame Ganelli says so."

At the sound of this name, the man's face grew white with rage.

"Take that, you wretched little hunchback!" he cried, turning upon Molly in ungovernable fury, and dealing her a severe blow.

Blinded and stunned by that blow, Molly staggered back, slipped on the edge of the pavement, and fell into the road directly in front of the horse.

With a cry of fear, the cabman sprang forward, but he was too late. The animal, startled by Molly's fall, reared wildly for an instant, then plunged onward, trampling beneath his hoofs the child's unconscious form.