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Title: The Little Gentleman
Author: Eleanora H. Stooke
Illustrator: E. R. Marquand
Release Date: June 14, 2023 [eBook #70978]
Language: English
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE GENTLEMAN ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: A BUNCH OF FLOWERS FOR MELINA.]
THE LITTLE GENTLEMAN
BY
ELEANORA H. STOOKE
AUTHOR OF
"COUSIN BECKY'S CHAMPIONS," "ROBIN OF SUN COURT,"
"GRANFER AND ONE CHRISTMAS TIME," ETC.
WITH FRONTISPIECE BY E. R. MARQUAND
LONDON
NATIONAL SOCIETY'S DEPOSITORY
19 GREAT PETER STREET, WESTMINSTER, S.W.
NEW YORK: THOMAS WHITTAKER, 2 & 3 BIBLE HOUSE
1910
(All rights reserved)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. MELINA MAKES A FRIEND
II. MELINA AT HOME
III. MRS. BERRYMAN's HOARD
IV. GOING TO SUNDAY SCHOOL
V. MRS. BROWN'S INVITATION
VI. GOING OUT TO TEA
VII. LOCKED IN
VIII. GOOD FRIDAY EVENING
IX. ANTICIPATING THE BANK HOLIDAY
X. AN EVENTFUL DAY
XI. THE FIRE
XII. GOOD-BYES
THE LITTLE GENTLEMAN
CHAPTER I
MELINA MAKES A FRIEND
"HULLOA, Melina, where are you going? How is it you aren't at school?
You'd best look out or your Granny'll get the attendance officer around
her again about you, and then she'll give you what you won't like!"
The scene was the corner of Jubilee Terrace, a row of small red-brick
cottages on the outskirts of Hawstock, a large provincial west of
England town, on a cold January morning; and the speaker—William
Jones—was a tall, well-grown boy of about twelve years of age,
comfortably clad, who had that minute emerged from one of the cottages
and encountered an ill-tempered-looking little girl, a year or so his
junior, to whom he had addressed himself.
"D' you think I'm afraid of the attendance officer?" demanded the
little girl, who was called Melina Berryman. She spoke in a high,
shrill voice, the voice of a scold, and her manner was argumentative.
"And I ain't afraid of Gran either, so there!" she added.
The boy laughed unbelievingly, whilst his blue eyes twinkled with
amusement as they travelled over his companion from the crown of her
battered hat, decorated with a draggled plume of cocks' feathers, to
the tips of her toes, which had worn through her stockings and were
peeping out of her shabby boots. He was not really an unkind boy; but
Melina Berryman was the butt of all the children who lived in Jubilee
Terrace, and he found considerable amusement in teasing her. It was
such fun to bait her into an ungovernable passion, to see her thin
white countenance distorted with anger and her big eyes flash, and to
listen to the volley of abuse which would flow so glibly from her lips
when, facing her tormentor, she would look for all the world like a
little wild animal, with her lips drawn back from her gleaming white
teeth, and her shock of tousled hair.
"I ain't afraid of Gran either," she repeated, and she nodded her head
knowingly; "she can't wollop me now." Her tone was triumphant.
"Why not?" asked the boy. "She gave it to you last week. I heard her;
and I heard you afterwards—crying. My, how you did go on!"
Melina flushed and bit her lip, then scowled. She and her grandmother,
her father's mother, occupied the cottage next door to the one in
which William Jones, who was an only child, lived with his parents,
a respectable couple who had but little intercourse with old Mrs.
Berryman, who—the truth must be told—did not bear a good reputation and
was addicted to drink. The inhabitants of Jubilee Terrace were nearly
all of the working classes, people who laboured honestly; therefore
they had been anything but pleased when old Mrs. Berryman, who it was
said earned her livelihood by money-lending to the poorest of the poor,
had a year or so previously taken up her abode at No. 2. She was a
cross-grained woman who never passed a civil word with anybody, and it
was generally thought that she was unkind to Melina, which was indeed a
fact.
"You were at it for the best part of an hour, I should think," the boy
proceeded, "howling like a good 'un! I wondered how you could keep it
up. If you hadn't stopped when you did, mother would have paid Mrs.
Berryman a visit; she threatened to, and—"
"Oh, I'm very glad she didn't," interrupted Melina; "if she had, Gran
would have served me worse than ever afterwards."
"And yet you say you aren't afraid of your grandmother!"
"Not now. She's ill."
"Ill? Perhaps she'll die."
Melina shook her head; there was hopelessness in the gesture. "No such
luck!" she exclaimed callously.
"Oh, Melina, you wicked girl, to speak like that!" William was really
shocked, and looked it. "Has she had a doctor?" he inquired.
"No. She says she can't afford one, and wouldn't have one if she could;
she says it's a bad cold she's got."
"I dare say it is. I've been home from school several days with a bad
cold myself; this is the first time I've been out. I don't stay away
from school for no reason, Melina, like you."
Melina regarded her neighbour with a sneer on her face, then deigned to
explain that her absence from school to-day was accounted for by the
fact of her grandmother's illness.
"I've got to look after Gran," she said; "I'm going to do some errands
for her now, so I can't stay here any longer wasting my time with you."
And, having spoken thus impolitely, she turned the corner of Jubilee
Terrace and disappeared from sight.
In the street adjoining Jubilee Terrace was a small all-sorts shop
which was also one of the branch post offices of the town. There it
was that Melina made her purchases. For a shilling she bought several
packages of groceries—a pennyworth of this, twopennyworth of that, and
so on; and then, carrying her packages, she started for home. She was
turning the corner into Jubilee Terrace when she came suddenly face to
face with William Jones, who deliberately jutted his elbow against her,
with the result that she let most of her packages fall. A cry of dismay
escaped her lips as she perceived that a screw of paper, which had held
two ounces of tea, had broken open, and that the tea was strewn on the
muddy pavement.
"Oh, I say, I'm sorry," William was beginning truthfully, for he had
not meant to do any real harm, when he was cut short by Melina, who
sprang towards him with uplifted hand and dealt him a stinging box on
the ear.
"You wicked, wicked boy!" she panted, and was about to hit him again
when some one grasped her by the shoulder, and a man's voice said:
"Stop, stop! What is the meaning of this?"
Melina tried to free herself from her captor, but in vain; then she
twisted herself around and looked him in the face, her eyes full of
angry tears, her usually pale cheeks aflame. She found she was being
held by a plain, under-sized man, a stranger to her, who was gazing at
her in a nearsighted way through a pair of eyeglasses.
"Let me go!" she cried; "I hate him—ah, how I hate him!"
"Hush, hush!" said the stranger, "I don't think you mean that. Yes,
yes, I saw what he did. It was very rough—very clumsy of him. But see,
he is picking up your parcels for you; I don't think much damage has
been done, except to the tea."
"It was two ounces and it costs tuppence," said Melina, in a voice
which was tremulous with passion, "and it's all spoilt. If Gran
wasn't ill she'd beat me, and he—" shaking her fist at the aggressor—
"wouldn't care; she'll keep me without dinner now, I expect."
"If she does, I'll get mother to give you some," William said hastily.
He had gathered together her packages, and now gave them to her, but
she was not to be easily appeased.
"I'll be even with you yet," she declared, "that I will! You needn't
think I'll forget this! You bumped against me on purpose, you know you
did!"
The boy did not attempt to deny it. He was feeling glad that none of
his friends had been present to witness what had passed, for he would
not have liked it to have been known that Melina had boxed his ears;
but he admitted to himself that he had done wrong, and, not wishing to
prolong the scene, he murmured a few words of apology and turned away.
The little girl gazed after him wrathfully till he disappeared within
the door of his own home, then, overcome with agitation, her tears
broke bounds and ran down her cheeks.
"Oh, don't cry, don't cry!" said the stranger kindly. All this while he
had been holding her by the shoulder, but now he released his grasp,
and, putting his hand into his pocket, produced two pennies, which he
gave her, saying as he did so:
"There, you will be able to buy another two ounces of tea for your
grandmother, and then you won't be kept without your dinner, will you?"
"No," she answered, with a brightening face. "Thank you, sir. I didn't
want to go without my dinner because I'm—oh, so hungry! I only had a
little bit of dry bread for breakfast at eight o'clock."
"And now it is past noon! Do you live alone with your grandmother?"
"Yes," sighed Melina. "My mother died when I was a baby, and father—he
was Gran's son—gave me to Gran. I wish he hadn't, I'm sure."
"Your grandmother is very poor?" he questioned.
The little girl's face clouded again, and she hesitated before she
answered "I don't know."
He looked at her in puzzled silence, noticing her unkempt appearance.
She would have been a pretty child if she had been less painfully
thin, but, as it was, she was a mere bag of bones. Whilst he was thus
scrutinising her, she was no less attentively observing him. He was a
very little gentleman, she thought, but there was something about him
which she found attractive—perhaps it was the expression of good will
with which he was regarding her. No one had ever looked at her like
that before.
"Do you live near here?" he inquired.
"Yes, sir," she replied; "at No. 2 Jubilee Terrace."
"Ah! Then we shall meet again. I have come to live at Hawstock, to be a
lay-helper in the parish."
Melina said "Yes, sir," though she had not the least idea what a
lay-helper was. She was moving away when the little gentleman detained
her.
"I hope you are going to forgive that boy who acted so rudely to you,"
he remarked; "I think he was ashamed of himself, and he apologised, you
know."
"That was only because you were here," Melina said bluntly; "I know
William Jones very well, and—" significantly—"he knows me."
Her pale face had flushed again; but, meeting her companion's eyes
at that moment, something in them—a look of mingled sorrow and
sympathy—caused her lips to quiver suddenly. "I—I am so miserable," she
faltered, "everyone—yes, everyone is against me." She brushed a hand
hastily across her eyes, then added: "Oh, I must hurry back to the shop
for the tea, and get home to Gran!"
But once more the little gentleman detained her.
"You complain that everyone is against you," he said; "won't you tell
me what you mean? Is not your grandmother kind to you?"
She shook her head, and, pulling up the loose sleeve of her blouse,
exhibited a skinny arm covered with bruises. "That's her doing," she
said, with a bitter laugh that sounded strangely from a child's lips;
"no, she ain't kind to me—not when she's in drink anyway. When she's
sober she lets me be."
"And is she your only relative? Your father—what of him?"
"He went away—I don't know where—years ago, when I was a baby. I don't
remember him. Gran's always saying he'll come back some day. I wish he
would; p'r'aps he'd be kinder than Gran."
The little gentleman looked at her pityingly. "Poor little girl," he
said, "you must let me be your friend, will you?"
"Oh, sir!" exclaimed Melina in amazement. "I—oh, you can't mean it! You
are a gentleman, and I—" She broke off with an expressive glance at her
ragged frock.
"I do mean it," he said, smiling; "I hope to make many friends in this
parish before long, and I shall count you as my first. By the way, you
have not told me your name?"
"It is Melina Berryman, sir."
"Well, then, Melina, remember that I am your friend, and you will know
that there is some one in Hawstock who is not against you—some one
who would do you a good turn if he could and will pray for you to our
Father in heaven."
"Do you mean God?" asked Melina.
He assented. "'If God be for us, who can be against us?'" he quoted.
The little girl gave him a quick, shrewd glance. "You ain't a parson,"
she said; "I wonder what makes you talk like that! I don't want to
think of God. I'm afraid—" She broke off abruptly.
"Afraid of Him who gave His dear Son to be the Saviour of the world?
Oh, surely not! Don't you know that Jesus is your Saviour? Don't you
know that He promised 'Him that cometh to Me I will in nowise cast
out'? He wants you to go to Him, to trust Him, to give Him your love,
and then you will never feel lonely or friendless more. He is the one
perfect Friend who never changes, never fails anyone. I can answer for
that."
The little gentleman paused, his face glowing with the light of that
faith which had been his guiding star for many a long year, and, taking
one of Melina's little cold hands, he pressed it kindly.
"Good-bye, little girl," he said, "and God bless you. Before long I
hope we shall meet again."
CHAPTER II
MELINA AT HOME
WHEN Melina returned to her grandmother she found her sitting up in
bed, holding her sides and coughing, looking a miserable object indeed.
Mrs. Berryman was an old woman of between seventy and eighty years of
age, with a lined face, the skin of which looked like parchment; beady
black eyes, exceedingly sharp; and a quantity of coarse white hair.
"You've been dawdling," she said in a harsh voice, as soon as her fit
of coughing was over and she could find breath to speak; "you'd catch
it if I was up and about, you lazy baggage, you! Get me a cup of tea,
do you hear, and be quick about it!" She sank back on her pillow, and
Melina heard her mutter to herself: "I don't know what's taken to me!
I'm as weak as a cat!"
The little girl went downstairs, and, ten minutes later, came back
with the tea. Her grandmother tasted it and made a wry face, but
subsequently drank it.
"How do you feel, Gran?" Melina inquired, with more curiosity than
sympathy in her tone.
"Bad," answered the old woman curtly.
"Don't you think you ought to have a doctor?"
"A doctor? No. I don't believe in doctors. I've told you so before."
Keeping a safe distance from the bed, Melina surveyed her grandmother
meditatively. "What'll become of you if you get worse?" she asked
presently; "you may die, you know."
"Die!" Mrs. Berryman shrieked forth the word with an angry glance at
her granddaughter.
"Yes," nodded Melina, "and then you'd have to be buried, of course. I
was wondering—would it have to be a parish funeral, with the workhouse
hearse, and—"
"You wicked, cruel girl!" broke in Mrs. Berryman. "How dare you talk
like this to me! I'm not going to die—not now, at any rate; but if I
did, what do you think would become of you?"
Melina reflected for a minute, then replied: "I suppose I should go to
the workhouse—I don't know that I'd altogether mind. Mrs. Jones said
the other day that I should be better off in the workhouse."
"The impertinent, interfering creature! And you—oh, you are an
ungrateful girl! After all I 'ye done for you, to talk like that!
Haven't I given you shelter and food for more than ten years, and yet I
don't believe you'd care if I was dead and buried!"
"No," admitted Melina frankly, "I don't believe I should. You've never
been kind to me, Gran; often you've beaten me something cruel, you know
you have! Why, my back and arms are sore and covered with bruises now
from the beating you gave me last week!"
"I'm a bit heavy-handed, perhaps," Mrs. Berryman admitted hastily, "but
you're enough to aggravate a saint sometimes, Melina. When I beat you,
it's for your good—to make you a better child."
"But it doesn't make me better," Melina said. For once in her life she
felt she had the advantage of her grandmother, and she was taking a
naughty pleasure in the fact; she could say what she liked, for the
old woman was too ill and weak to touch her. "The more you beat me the
worse I am," she declared, "and I hate you—oh, you don't know how I
hate you for being so cruel!" Her eyes flashed with indignation, and
her thin frame trembled.
Astonishment kept Mrs. Berryman silent for a minute, then she said in a
tone which was very mild for her:
"That's a nice way to talk to your grandmother! Don't stand there
staring at me like that! Here, take my keys and get your dinner—you'll
find some bacon in the corner cupboard; and don't let me see you again
till I call for you. I'm going to try to get a nap, for I feel just
worn out."
From under her pillow the old woman drew a bunch of keys, which
she extended to her granddaughter, who took it in silence and went
downstairs into the kitchen. The little girl knew which key fitted
the lock of the corner cupboard, and, having unlocked the cupboard,
she took therefrom a lump of fat bacon and a very stale loaf. She cut
herself some bread and bacon, and, being very hungry, made an excellent
meal; having done which she locked away the remains of her repast and
the groceries she had purchased, and slipped the bunch of keys into her
pocket.
It was cold in the kitchen, for the fire had burnt low; so Melina,
making as little noise as possible, fetched some fuel from a cupboard
under the stairs and made up the fire afresh. Soon she was warming
herself before a fine blaze.
"I may as well make myself comfortable now Gran's out of the way," she
reflected; "I wonder what she'd say if she saw how much coal I've used!"
A smile flickered across her face, but it was not a pleasant smile; for
it was full of bitterness, and made her look old beyond her years. The
expression of her countenance changed a few minutes later, however,
as she thought of the little gentleman and recalled how kindly he had
spoken to her, and her eyes—clear, changeful, hazel eyes they were—grew
wonderfully gentle and soft.
"Fancy his wanting to be my friend!" she mused. "I can't understand why
he should! And he said 'God bless you'! I shall never forget it—never,
as long as I live! Oh, I do hope I shall see him again!"
Melina was unaccustomed to kindness, and, hitherto, she had felt at
war with all the world. She was a sadly neglected little girl, and, it
must be admitted, a very naughty one, disobedient to those in authority
over her, and impatient of control. Frequently she would stay away
from school for days, and pass her time in wandering about the streets
gazing into the shop windows, or in taking long tramps in the country;
and on several occasions the attendance officer had brought complaints
to her grandmother: the last time he had called he had warned Mrs.
Berryman that she would be summoned to appear before the magistrates if
she did not see that her grandchild went properly to school. That had
been the previous week; and, subsequently, Mrs. Berryman, who had been
drinking, had given Melina the unmerciful beating which, though it had
left her sore and bruised in body, had not broken her spirit in the
least.
Presently Melina heard a rap at the back door, and went to see who was
there. It was William Jones.
"I say, Melina," he began, "here's tuppence for the tea—I asked father
for it when he came home to dinner. I—"
"Keep your tuppence!" interposed Melina, waving aside his extended hand
and scowling at him in a vindictive manner; "I don't want it. I bought
some more tea."
"Oh, did you? I didn't think you had any money. But, I say, you may as
well take the tuppence—that'll be fair."
Melina hesitated—not about taking it, but whether or not she should
explain that it had not been her own money which had replaced the tea;
she decided against doing so. Thereupon, without answering the boy, she
shut the door in his face, and returned to her former position in front
of the fire.
By and by there came another knock at the back door. This time the
visitor proved to be William Jones' mother, a neat-looking woman with a
fresh-complexioned face, and blue eyes like her son's.
"Good afternoon, Melina," she said, as she met the little girl's glance
of inquiry; "I'm sorry to hear that your grandmother's ill; I've made
her a custard, thinking she may fancy it."
She held out a little basket, covered with a snowy cloth, which Melina
took with a few murmured words of thanks, feeling very surprised, for
as a rule Mrs. Berryman's neighbours refrained from having anything to
do with her.
"I heard your grandmother coughing dreadfully in the night," Mrs. Jones
remarked; "it sounded to me as though she had a very bad cold. She's
wise to stop in bed, I'm thinking. You get her to eat that custard,
and, if she enjoys it, I'll make her another. And oh, by the way,
you'll find a bit of cake in the basket—that's for you, for your tea."
"Thank you," said Melina, moving aside the cloth and peeping into the
basket. "Oh!" she exclaimed, "what a big bit of cake it is, Mrs. Jones,
and how good it looks!"
"Well, I hope you'll find it tastes good," replied Mrs. Jones, smiling;
"and, Melina, if you want any help whilst your grandmother's laid up,
you just speak to me and I'll come in. I don't suppose there's more to
be done than a girl of your age can do about the house; but if Mrs.
Berryman should get worse, or you should require assistance in any
way—well, you'll know who to call upon.' And with a nod she took her
departure.
"Mel—lina! Mel—lina!" called a hoarse voice from above.
"Coming, Gran!" Melina answered, as she shut the back door. She took
the custard in its glass dish out of the basket, and carried it, with a
spoon, upstairs. "Look what Mrs. Jones has brought you," she said, as
she entered her grandmother's room; "she made it on purpose for you,
because you're bad."
"Mrs. Jones? Humph! How did she know I was bad?"
"She heard you coughing in the night," Melina replied, refraining from
mentioning her conversation with William, who had doubtless carried the
news of her grandmother's illness to his mother, lest she should be
accused of gossiping. "Will you have the custard now?" she inquired.
Mrs. Berryman assented. She sat up in bed and commenced to eat it;
but she appeared to have very little appetite, and, after swallowing
a few spoonfuls of the dainty, she told her granddaughter to take the
remainder away.
"I'll finish it to-morrow," she said; "it's very nice, made with eggs I
taste, but somehow I can't relish it." Then, with a suspicious glance
at Melina, she demanded: "Where are my keys?"
"Here," the little girl answered, putting her hand in her pocket and
producing them.
"Give them to me."
Melina did so. The old woman placed the keys under her pillow, and lay
back in bed with a deep-drawn sigh.
"If I'm not better to-morrow I'll have a doctor," she remarked, adding:
"Mind, child, you're not to leave the house."
"All right, Gran; I won't."
Melina was quite content to remain indoors, for it had commenced to
rain. She kept up a beautiful fire in the kitchen, and sat by it.
"It is so nice to be warm all through," she said to herself, as she
enjoyed the pleasant heat; "Gran says she can't afford to keep in a
fire all day, but I don't believe her—I don't believe she's as poor as
she pretends."
By and by she fell to thinking of the little gentleman again, and mused
on all he had said to her about Him he had called the one perfect
Friend. She knew very little of God, and always thought of Him as a
stern, merciless judge who took delight in punishing wrongdoers, never
as a loving father, and, sad to tell, she never prayed. Mrs. Berryman
kept her door shut against clergymen and ministers, and, as she never
went to any place of worship, her granddaughter did not go either, the
consequence being that the child had had no religious teaching except
the little she had received at school, which had made scarcely any
impression upon her.
"The little gentleman said he should pray for me," thought Melina; "I
wonder if he's praying for me now, and, if so, what he's asking God to
do for me—I should very much like to know."
CHAPTER III
MRS. BERRYMAN'S HOARD
THE little gentleman, whose name was Raymond Blackmore, had taken
a house called South View, in Hawstock, a pretty detached villa
surrounded by a garden; he had been in residence there only a week.
Some months previously he had returned to England from India, where he
had spent many years in the employ of a firm of colonial merchants,
and, subsequently, he had paid the Vicar of Hawstock, the Reverend
Paul Wise, who was an old friend of his, a visit, during which he had
discovered that his friend was greatly overworked, and that he could
not afford to pay for a curate out of his meagre stipend. Mr. Blackmore
had not remarked upon these facts at the time; but, after he had left,
he had written to the vicar, and suggested returning to Hawstock as a
lay-helper.
"I want work," he had written; "I know you can find me plenty. Let me
come."
He had come; and now, on the morning following the one on which he had
made the acquaintance of Melina Berryman, he stood at his garden gate,
after breakfast, watching the passers-by, most of whom were children
on their way to the board schools. A great many of the children were
bright-faced little people, warmly dressed, who were talking and
laughing merrily; but some were scantily clad, and looked pinched and
miserable, for the rain had ceased during the night, and early morning
had brought a sharp frost, so that the air was now searching and cold.
Mr. Blackmore had a very soft place in his heart for all children, for
the sake of two little ones of his own, who, with their mother, had
fallen victims to cholera in India, in the early days of his residence
there, more than twenty years previously; and his sympathy was aroused
for the poor little shivering mortals hurrying by.
"It's easy to pick out those who have good parents," he muttered to
himself. The vicar had told him that most of the want and misery in the
place was caused by betting and drink; for employment was rarely scarce
in Hawstock, even in wintertime, as there were several potteries and
brick-works in the neighbourhood, and clay fields where men who were
able and willing to labour could generally find work. "Ah, here comes
the little girl I had the talk with yesterday! Dear me, how very cross
she looks!"
Melina was coming along with her eyes cast down, her expression sulky
in the extreme. Mrs. Berryman had declared herself better this morning,
and had insisted that her granddaughter should go to school. This
had not pleased Melina; but, being in fear of another visit from the
attendance officer, she deemed it wise to go. Now, as she neared South
View she became aware that there was a figure at the garden gate, and
glanced up. Immediately she gave a start of surprise, and coloured with
pleasure. She had not expected to see the little gentleman again so
soon.
"Good morning, Melina," said he cheerily, with a friendly nod.
"Good morning, sir," she answered, the shadow of ill-temper passing
suddenly from her face to give way to a smile which was as pleasant to
see as a gleam of sunshine on a winter's day.
"I suppose you are going to school?" he questioned.
"Yes, sir. I didn't go yesterday because Gran was ill, and I had to
stay at home to look after her; but she's better to-day—leastways she
says so."
"Don't you think she is?"
Melina shook her head. "She looks bad enough," she said, "and she's not
going to get up."
"Not going to get up! But you have not left her in the house alone,
surely?"
"Oh yes! She'll be all right. I've locked her in, and I've got the
door-key in my pocket; she said she'd feel safer if she was locked
in—she's always afraid of being robbed." The little girl laughed,
apparently amused at the idea.
"It hardly seems right that she should be left alone if she's ill," Mr.
Blackmore remarked. Then, after a brief pause, he said: "I have had you
continually in my mind since we met yesterday, Melina; did you think
over our conversation afterwards?"
"Yes, sir," Melina answered. "Did you—please don't mind my asking, and
never mind if you forgot—did you pray for me, sir?"
"I did," was the response.
"Oh!" The child's eyes were full of eagerness and curiosity. "I should
like so much to know what you said—I've been wondering—" She broke off
in some embarrassment, fearing that the little gentleman might consider
her inquisitive.
He was silent for a minute, during which he took off his eyeglasses,
wiped them with his pocket-handkerchief, and put them on again. When he
spoke his voice sounded very gentle, very earnest.
"I said, 'O God, remember my new friend, the little girl I met this
morning, and teach her to know Thy love, which passeth knowledge, for
Jesus Christ's sake,'" he told her. "Do you pray for yourself, Melina?"
"No, sir; never."
"Then for those you love? Surely—" He stopped abruptly, for a smile he
did not understand, half-bitter, half-amused, had flickered across her
face.
"I don't love anybody," she said.
"Oh, my dear, that is very sad."
The hazel eyes softened suddenly, and grew misty with tears. She could
not recollect that anyone had ever called her "my dear" before, and it
touched her that the little gentleman had done so.
"I don't say any prayers," she explained; "what would be the use? God
wouldn't listen to me."
"Oh yes, He would! Why do you think He would not?"
"Because I ain't good. Gran says I'm about as bad a girl as she ever
knew. Oh no, God wouldn't listen to me!"
"You are mistaken, indeed you are. God loves you. You are His child—a
very naughty child, I dare say, who often grieves Him; nevertheless you
must not doubt that He loves you, and you must never imagine that He
will not listen to your prayers. I suppose I must not detain you longer
now, or you will be late for school; but some day I will call at your
home, and—"
"Oh, I think you'd better not!" Melina interposed; "Gran would be sure
to be rude to you if you did. She slammed the door in the vicar's face
once; she won't let you come into the house. Oh please, please don't
call, sir!" Her face was full of distress.
"Very well," he agreed, after a brief consideration. Melina drew a deep
breath of relief, and then they exchanged good mornings, and she went
on to school, her thoughts all about the little gentleman. She wondered
what he was called, and if he had a wife and children—she thought that
very likely he had.
"I expect he is very good and kind to them," she reflected; "it must be
nice to have a father; I wish mine would come back!"
When Melina came out of school at midday she did not dawdle about the
streets as usual, but went straight home. Thinking her grandmother
might be asleep, she entered the house as noiselessly as possible, and
went quickly upstairs. She pushed open the door of her grandmother's
room and peeped in, with difficulty repressing a cry of astonishment
the next moment at the scene which met her view. Mrs. Berryman was out
of bed and kneeling before the fireplace, her back to the door, and on
the hearthstone were several piles of gold and silver coins, which she
had evidently been counting. Whilst Melina stood staring at her, struck
dumb with amazement, the old woman took the money, pile by pile, and
packed it into a small tin box, which, subsequently, she thrust into
the chimney, behind the damper.
"Thirty pounds, ten shillings and sixpence," she muttered, as she
essayed to rise from her knees; "oh, my poor joints! I'm that stiff I
declare I can hardly get up!"
Melina did not wait to assist her. Acting on the impulse of the moment,
she retreated quickly before her grandmother could turn round and see
her, and stole downstairs as cautiously as she had come up. Then she
opened and shut the front door noisily, and went into the kitchen.
"I knew she wasn't as poor as she made out, but I didn't know she was
rich like that," thought the little girl; for the money she had seen
seemed to her quite a fortune. "No wonder she is afraid of thieves!
And oh, how wicked—how cruel of her—to pretend to be poor and not to
give me warm clothes and proper food! Thirty pounds, ten shillings and
sixpence! I must mind not to let her guess that I know where it is! Oh,
I do wonder where she got it all!"
Melina was in total ignorance of her grandmother's present means of
support. Some years before Mrs. Berryman had been an old clothes dealer
and had kept a tiny shop in a squalid back street of the town, but
she had given up that business when she had come to live in Jubilee
Terrace. People called to see her "on business" now frequently, very
poor people they seemed to be, and it was always a puzzle to Melina
what they wanted; but she had never been able to find out, for her
grandmother interviewed her visitors alone in the front downstairs room
of the cottage, and if she ventured to question her about them she was
invariably snubbed.
"Mel—lina! Mel—lina!"
Mrs. Berryman had heard the front door open and shut, as Melina had
intended she should, and was now calling to her granddaughter.
"Yes, Gran," Melina answered; and again went upstairs to her
grandmother's room.
"You're back from school earlier than usual," remarked Mrs. Berryman,
who by this time was in bed; "how's that?"
"Because I ran nearly all the way home," the little girl replied.
"What made you run?"
"I thought you might want me, Gran."
This was the truth, but Mrs. Berryman did not look as though she
believed it. "I don't want you," she said ungraciously; "you can have
your dinner and go again. I'm better and shall get up. I'm expecting
some one here this afternoon to see me on business. Here, get your
dinner!"
She produced her keys from under her pillow as she spoke. Her
granddaughter took them, but did not move.
"Get your dinner!" Mrs. Berryman repeated sharply; "do you hear?"
"Yes, I hear," Melina answered, the expression of her countenance
mutinous and sullen; "but I'm tired of cold bacon, and—"
"Tired of cold bacon! Oh, indeed! Well, you won't have anything else!"
"Give me a penny to buy a bun, Gran—do."
"What next? I shall do nothing of the kind. If you're not content with
what's in the house, you can go without."
"Then I'll go without!" the child declared passionately, and, flinging
the keys on the bed, she turned away and left the room.
She kept her word, and, hungry though she was, went dinnerless to
school that afternoon. On her way home after four o'clock she was
standing looking longingly into the window of a confectioner's shop
when some one touched her on the arm, and, turning around, she saw
William Jones.
"Hulloa, Melina," he was beginning, but something in her look caught
his attention, and he paused to stare at her, then asked: "I say, are
you hungry?"
"Awfully," she admitted.
"Oh, that's too bad!" he exclaimed. "Here, do take that tuppence—"
"No," she interposed stubbornly, "I won't."
"Then let me buy you some buns—"
"I wouldn't touch them if you did."
"Don't say that, Melina. I'm sorry for you—sorry you should be hungry,
I mean—"
The little girl interrupted him again, her heart full of resentment and
bitterness.
"You mind your own business, William Jones," she said; "I don't believe
you're sorry—more likely you're glad."
CHAPTER IV
GOING TO SUNDAY SCHOOL
IT was a Saturday morning, and Mrs. Jones was in the midst of the
important business of ironing one of her husband's shirts when there
came a knock at the back door, and, glancing out of the window, she saw
her little neighbour, Melina Berryman.
"Come in, child!" she called out. "Oh, you've come to return my dish, I
see," she said, as Melina entered the kitchen and laid the article in
question on the table.
"Yes," assented Melina; "and Gran said I was to thank you for the
custard, please, ma'am."
"I hope your grandmother is better?"
"Yes, thank you, ma'am."
"She hasn't lost her cough, though, I hear. Sit down, child, and talk
to me whilst I finish this shirt."
Melina took a chair, secretly very gratified, for she had never been
inside her neighbour's house before. What a comfortable kitchen it was,
she thought, as she looked about her. The walls were colour-washed
a pretty blue; there was linoleum on the floor; and the tins on the
mantelpiece shone like silver. Everything was as clean and fresh as a
new pin.
"I always cook on Saturdays," explained Mrs. Jones, as she put down her
iron for a minute to peep into the oven, in which there was a shelf of
little cakes. "I don't hold with cooking on Sundays if one can help
it; besides, my husband and I like to go to church together, and we
couldn't do that if there was a hot meal to be cooked. If you'll wait a
few minutes, you shall have one of these rock-cakes for your lunch."
"Oh, thank you so much!" Melina said, feeling grateful, but puzzled
too, for Mrs. Jones had hitherto had but little to say or do with
her. "What a nice room this is!" she exclaimed a moment later, in an
admiring tone.
"It's the same size as you grandmother's, isn't it?"
"Yes, but it's very different; it looks so comfortable and is so
beautifully clean."
From this remark Mrs. Jones judged that the kitchen next door was not
beautifully clean. She had resumed her ironing, and for a few minutes
she was silent, thinking, whilst every now and again she glanced at her
companion. At length she said:
"Some one was speaking to me about you yesterday, Melina; guess who it
was."
"William?" suggested Melina hesitatingly, after a brief consideration.
"No. Mr. Blackmore, a friend of our vicar's, who's come to be a
lay-helper—"
"Oh!" interposed Melina, "the little gentleman! I did not know what he
was called before! What is a lay-helper, Mrs. Jones?"
"Some one—not a clergyman—who helps in the parish," explained Mrs.
Jones. "Yes, Mr. Blackmore called to see me yesterday," she went on,
"and a very nice little gentleman he seems to be, so pleasant and
cheerful; and yet it appears he has known a lot of trouble. He told me
he lost his wife and two children years ago, and that he hadn't a near
relation in the world."
"Then does he live alone at South View?" Melina inquired.
"Alone, except for servants. There, that shirt's finished; I'll put it
in front of the fire to air. And now I should think those cakes are
ready."
Whilst Melina was eating the cake which had been promised her, Mrs.
Jones continued to talk of Mr. Blackmore, and by and by she said:
"He's very interested in you, child; he told me so. He asked me to try
and persuade your grandmother to send you to Sunday school, but I said
I couldn't interfere; do you think she'd let you go?"
"I dare say she would, but I don't want to go, Mrs. Jones."
"Why not, Melina?"
The little girl glanced expressively over her shabby frock. "I've
nothing fit to wear," she admitted in a low voice, her cheeks flushing;
"I haven't any Sunday clothes. If I went to Sunday school just as I am
now the other children would laugh at me, and I hate being laughed at."
"But is it necessary for you to go just as you are now?" asked Mrs.
Jones. "Your frock's a good deal the worse for wear certainly, but you
might darn that rent in the skirt and sponge those spots out of the
bodice; and I suppose you could comb your hair and make it a bit tidy,
couldn't you? You have such pretty hair, Melina—that is, it would be if
you kept it in better condition," she added.
Melina made no response, but the colour in her cheeks deepened.
"It is not your fault that you have to wear shabby clothes," Mrs.
Jones proceeded, "but it certainly is your fault if you're untidy and
dirty. Now, do try what soap and water will do towards improving your
appearance, and don't take it amiss my speaking like this. I think
maybe I ought to have done so before. I really felt ashamed of myself
when I had to admit to Mr. Blackmore that you and your grandmother had
lived next door to me for years and how little I knew about you; it
came across me that I must be a poor sort of Christian, and that I'd
neglected my duty towards my neighbours."
"Do you think it would please Mr. Blackmore if I went to Sunday
school?" Melina asked abruptly.
"Yes, I am sure it would," was the confident response.
"Then I'll go. I'll go whether Gran's willing to let me or not."
"No, no," said Mrs. Jones hastily; "Mr. Blackmore would not wish you to
go if Mrs. Berryman forbade you to, but I don't expect she'll do that."
"No," the little girl agreed after a brief reflexion, "I don't expect
she will; I'll speak to her about it to-night."
"That's right."
Having finished her cake, Melina rose to leave; but at that minute
heavy footsteps were heard in the yard outside the back door, and a
few seconds later a big, powerful-looking man, wearing clay-stained
garments, appeared upon the scene. This was Mrs. Jones' husband. He
worked as a clay cutter, often in the pits underground, and earned good
wages. He was a quiet, easy-going man, and he smiled very kindly at
Melina, as he generally did when he saw her, which was not often.
"Why, 'tis the little maid next door!" he said in some surprise; "now,
don't you go because I've come. Why, bless me, Mary!" he exclaimed,
addressing his wife, "she's growing the very image of her father!"
"Did you know my father, Mr. Jones?" questioned Melina eagerly.
"To be sure I did," was the response.
"I wish you'd tell me about him," said the little girl; "Gran never
will. Did you know him well?"
"Yes," assented Mr. Jones, "at one time. He and I went to school
together, and we started work, I remember, on the same day; but he
didn't stick to the clay work long, and then he went to London—to
better himself, he said. I never saw him after he left Hawstock."
"Do you know where he is now?" Melina inquired. Then, as Mr. Jones
shook his head, she added wistfully, "I do wish he'd come back. Did you
know my mother too, Mr. Jones?"
"No," he replied, "I never saw her; she was a Londoner, I've heard."
"She died when I was born," said Melina sadly; "Gran told me that.
Oh dear, there's Gran calling me in our yard. I must go!" And with a
hurried "Good morning" to husband and wife she hastened away.
That evening Melina asked and received her grandmother's permission
to attend Sunday school; but she did not go the next day, because she
had some preparations to make. During the ensuing week she darned and
cleaned her frock, and washed and combed her hair. She found great
difficulty in getting the tangles out of her curls, but she succeeded
at last; and the afternoon of the following Sunday found her starting
for Sunday school, if not well dressed, at any rate tidy and clean.
She had nearly reached her destination when she heard light, hurrying
footsteps behind her, and a minute later she was joined by a little
girl of about her own age called Agnes Brown, a schoolfellow of hers.
Agnes was a nice-looking child, not pretty, but the owner of a pair
of honest grey eyes and a bright smile; she was always well clad, and
to-day she was wearing a pretty dark-blue jacket which covered her all
over, and a dark-blue felt hat to match.
"Where are you going?" she inquired, as she walked on by her
schoolfellow's side.
"To Sunday school," Melina answered, adding with a sudden burst of
confidence: "I've never been before and I don't want to go now; I'm
only going to please some one who's been kind to me."
"Well, you can come with me," said Agnes; "I'll ask my teacher to have
you in her class, and then you can sit next me, you know."
Thus it was arranged. Melina had not had much intercourse with Agnes
Brown previously, but Agnes had never laughed at her or teased her like
many of her schoolfellows were in the habit of doing, and therefore
she was pleased to sit next to her in school, and quite enjoyed the
afternoon; for their teacher, a pretty young lady called Miss Seymour,
possessed the power of chaining her pupils' attention, and Melina, like
the rest, listened to her with the greatest interest.
"You'll come again next Sunday, won't you?" Agnes said, as, school
over, she and Melina left together; but at that minute another girl
joined them, and whispered to her just loud enough for Melina to hear:
"Come with me, Agnes. You surely don't mean to be seen walking with
Melina Berryman? Let her go on alone."
Melina did not hear Agnes' response, but she had heard enough, and,
quickening her footsteps, she hastened to get ahead of the others. She
had not gone far, however, before Agnes overtook her.
"Don't be in such a hurry," Agnes said; "you know my way is the same as
yours for a bit, and I want to talk to you."
"I'd rather be by myself, thank you," Melina replied untruthfully; "I'm
not going to walk with you to—to disgrace you." This was said with an
air of pride, not humility.
"What nonsense!" Agnes cried, flushing, and looking embarrassed.
"It's not nonsense! I know I'm dreadfully shabby, and—" Melina paused,
with quivering lips and a lump in her throat.
Agnes could not contradict her, but she was a tactful little girl with
a very kind heart, so she said:
"I was thinking just now how nice you had made yourself look—I was
indeed. I had no idea before to-day that you had such lovely hair; what
have you done to it? How fine and glossy it looks! Does it curl like
that naturally?"
"Yes," Melina answered, a slow pleased smile creeping over her face. "I
haven't done anything but wash and comb it," she explained; "I never
used to take any trouble with it."
After that they went on together amicably, and Agnes suggested that
they should meet on their way to Sunday school on the following Sunday
afternoon, which Melina agreed to do, and when they separated they were
on the best of terms with each other.
"Well, and how did you like Sunday school?" Mrs. Berryman said when her
granddaughter reached home. She was seated by the kitchen fire—a mere
handful of coals—looking most ill-tempered.
"Very well," Melina answered shortly.
"Who was your teacher?" the old woman inquired.
"Miss Seymour—such a pretty young lady, Gran! She talked to us so
nicely." Melina's face brightened at the remembrance.
"Oh, she talked nicely, did she? What about?"
"About Jesus—how He came upon earth to save sinners—"
"Oh, I've heard all that before!" interrupted Mrs. Berryman.
"It's very wonderful, isn't it?" Melina said thoughtfully.
"What's wonderful?"
"That He should have died for sinners. Miss Seymour said He prayed even
for His enemies—people who had served Him badly and insulted Him. Only
fancy that!"
Receiving no response to this remark, the little girl went upstairs to
take off her hat and jacket, humming the tune of the hymn she had heard
sung at the Sunday school that afternoon. It had been "There is a green
hill far away," and it had made a deep impression upon her. One verse
she remembered word for word, and she thought she would try to sing it,
which she accordingly did.
"There was no other good enough
To pay the price of sin;
He only could unlock the gate
Of heaven, and let us in."
So sang Melina. Her grandmother heard her with surprise, and muttered
to herself:
"What's taken to the child? I never knew her sing before."
CHAPTER V
MRS. BROWN'S INVITATION
"MOTHER," said Agnes Brown one fine spring afternoon on her return
from school, "I wish you would let me ask Melina Berryman to tea next
Saturday. I'm sure she'd like to come."
"Very well," Mrs. Brown agreed, "I shall be very pleased to see her,
poor little girl."
Mother and daughter were together in the comfortable parlour of their
home, which was a small house in a side street of the town, a street
called Gladstone Street. The Brown family comprised father, mother,
and three children, the eldest of whom was Agnes, the other two being
boys. Mr. Brown was a junior clerk employed in the booking-office
at the railway station; and his wife before her marriage had been
a dressmaker, so that she was able to make all her own and Agnes'
clothing, which allowed them to be better dressed than they could
otherwise have been. The Browns had only been living in Hawstock
since the previous autumn, when Mr. Brown had been shifted from a
town some distance away to his present post; consequently they had
few acquaintances in the place. Mrs. Brown had never yet seen Melina,
but she had heard from her little daughter that she lived with an old
grandmother who was anything but kind to her.
"Thank you, mother," Agnes said. She hesitated, then proceeded: "I
wonder what you will think of Melina and if you will like her. You will
say she is very shabby, I know. She's grown out of her winter jacket,
and it's so tight for her that she can hardly fasten it; and she wears
such a dreadful old hat."
"No doubt her grandmother is very poor and cannot afford her good
clothes," remarked Mrs. Brown; "you have never been to her home, have
you?"
Agnes shook her head. "No," she replied, "and I'm sure I don't want to,
because they say at school that Mrs. Berryman is a wicked old woman."
"Wicked!" Mrs. Brown looked rather startled. "What do you mean, Agnes?"
she inquired.
"I hardly know," the little girl admitted, "but I believe she drinks—"
"Oh dear, dear!" broke in Mrs. Brown.
"Melina can't help it if she does, mother," Agnes cried hastily.
"No, poor child, of course not. If this is true I am very, very sorry
for her, but, on second thoughts, perhaps before you ask her here to
tea I had better make some inquiries about her grandmother. I'll speak
to your father, and ask him to find out what is known about her."
"Oh, mother!" exclaimed Agnes, looking very disappointed. "If you find
out that it is true—that Melina's grandmother does drink—what then? You
won't want me to give up going to Sunday school with her, will you? No
one has anything to do with her but me, except to make fun of her."
Agnes had been attracted to Melina at first because she had pitied her,
but there was a warmer feeling in her heart for her than pity now.
During the last two months she and Melina had attended Sunday school
together regularly, and a friendship had sprung up between them which
surprised their other schoolfellows.
"You may be sure I shall not stop your going to Sunday school with
Melina," Mrs. Brown said, "but do not ask her to tea till I have spoken
to your father. You see, my dear, if she comes here you will probably
be invited to her home afterwards, and—"
"Oh no, I don't think so!" Agnes interposed; "Melina says her
grandmother never sees anyone except on business."
"On business? What business?"
"I don't know—Melina doesn't know either."
Mrs. Brown was about to put more questions, but at that minute her
little sons returned from school, and no more was said about Mrs.
Berryman then. Later in the evening she asked her husband to try to
find out all he could about the old woman, which he accordingly did,
with the result that they both felt regretful that an intimacy should
have sprung up between their little daughter and Melina Berryman.
"You say that Mrs. Berryman is addicted to bouts of drunkenness, and
that she is supposed to carry on business as a money-lender!" exclaimed
Mrs. Brown, in accents of dismay, when she had heard all her husband
had to tell. "How shocking! And I thought she was so poor!"
Mr. Brown shook his head. "At any rate she is able to lend money, I
am informed," he said, then went on to explain. "She does business
in this way: she will lend sixpence on Monday and have it repaid to
her with another sixpence added to it at the end of the week. That's
usury, of course, and, as you may imagine, her dealings are all with
very poor people. I'm told she's a grasping, conscienceless old woman;
and I can't help wishing that Agnes had not taken this fancy to her
grandchild."
"I wish the same," Mrs. Brown answered, with a troubled sigh, "for we
know what Agnes is—very affectionate and kind-hearted; she wants me to
ask Melina here to tea on Saturday, but—" She broke off and looked at
her husband doubtfully.
Mr. Brown looked doubtful too. He realised that Mrs. Berryman's
granddaughter could not, by any possibility, be well brought up at
home; but at the same time he felt that they ought not to allow that
fact to prejudice them against her.
"I see what it is," he said at length; "you don't know whether or not
we ought to allow a friendship between our little maid and this Melina.
Well, can't you ask some one's advice upon this point?—some one who
knows the child?"
Mrs. Brown's face brightened at this suggestion.
"I'll speak to Mr. Blackmore," she said; "he knows her. Agnes told
me the other day that it was to please him that Melina first went to
Sunday school, and that he always stops to talk to her when they meet."
Mr. Blackmore, who was doing the work of a curate in the way of
visiting in the parish, had called on the Browns a few days previously.
Mrs. Brown regretted that she had not thought of speaking of Melina
Berryman to him then; but she might possibly meet him out of doors
before very long, she reflected, in which case she would certainly do
so.
"You cannot have Melina Berryman here to tea this Saturday," she told
Agnes, "but I won't say that she shall not come a little later on."
With that Agnes had to be satisfied, but she looked and felt
exceedingly disappointed.
On every occasion now when Mrs. Brown did her shopping she kept a look
out for Mr. Blackmore, but she did not see him for some days. One
afternoon, however, she was tempted by the bright spring weather to
take a walk on the outskirts of the town, and, as she turned the corner
which brought her to Jubilee Terrace, she saw Mr. Blackmore enter one
of the cottages.
"I'll wait about and speak to him when he comes out," she thought, and
proceeded to stroll up and down the pavement before the cottages. By
and by she noticed a shabbily-clad little girl hurrying along towards
her, followed by a group of small boys who were amusing themselves by
laughing at her and calling her names.
Mrs. Brown paused, and the boys noticing the disapproval on her
countenance, grew suddenly silent; but as soon as they had passed
and believed her to be out of hearing, they commenced jeering at the
little girl again, calling her "Saint Melina," evidently in the hope of
provoking her to wrath.
"So that is Melina Berryman," Mrs. Brown said to herself; "what a shame
of those boys to tease the poor child like that!"
She began to retrace her footsteps, intending to interfere; but at that
instant the little girl reached her home, and, turning on the doorstep,
faced her tormentors, her lips firmly closed, though her eyes were full
of tears and her cheeks crimson. For a minute she looked at the boys
steadily, in silence; the next she opened the door and disappeared
within the cottage, whilst the boys, seeing Mrs. Brown intended to
reprimand them, immediately made off.
Mrs. Brown stood outside the closed door of the Berrymans' cottage,
which was next to the one which she had seen Mr. Blackmore enter, and
waited. Presently a blue-eyed, fair-haired boy came whistling round
the corner of the street. He glanced curiously at Mrs. Brown as he
approached her, and, apparently thinking that she was waiting for
admittance, volunteered the information that if Mrs. Berryman did not
wish to be seen she would not answer the door however loudly anyone
knocked.
"Then you know her—and her granddaughter?" questioned Mrs. Brown.
"I know Melina," he answered, "but I've never spoken to old Mrs.
Berryman and don't want to. Melina's not a bad sort altogether—lately
she's quite turned over a new leaf, since she took to going to Sunday
school to please the little gentleman."
"The little gentleman?" Mrs. Brown repeated inquiringly.
"That's what she always calls Mr. Blackmore—the new lay-helper. She's
changed a lot since she knew him. The boys about call her 'Saint
Melina' now, because when they tease her, instead of answering back and
using dreadful language like she used to do, she won't speak a word. I
suppose you know Melina Berryman, ma'am?"
"No, but I mean to," Mrs. Brown replied, suddenly coming to that
determination. "I'm waiting here to see Mr. Blackmore, who's gone in
next door," she explained.
"That's where I live," the boy informed her; "I'm called William Jones.
Have you been waiting long?"
"About ten minutes, I should think. But do tell me all you know about
Melina Berryman, there's a good boy. I hope you don't tease her."
William Jones grew very red, and shuffled his feet uneasily. "I don't
now," he replied, "because—well, I'm sorry for her; so you'd be if you
heard her grandmother beating her sometimes. I can't say that Melina
and I are friends though," he admitted candidly.
At this point the conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Mr.
Blackmore on the doorstep of the Jones' cottage. Mrs. Jones, who had
opened the door for her visitor, retreated at the sight of a stranger,
and Mr. Blackmore, immediately recognising Mrs. Brown, went and spoke
to her, whilst William withdrew a little distance out of hearing.
Mrs. Brown explained to Mr. Blackmore that she had been waiting to see
him and why, and after they had a long talk about Melina, the result
of which was that when Mr. Blackmore moved on Mrs. Brown turned and
knocked, rather timidly it must be admitted, upon Mrs. Berryman's door.
Several minutes passed, but no one appeared in response to the knock.
Then Mrs. Brown knocked again, louder this time, and yet again. At
length the door opened a few inches, and a harsh voice inquired who was
there.
"My name is Brown," Mrs. Brown answered; "I wish to see Mrs. Berryman.
May I speak to her for a minute?"
"I am Mrs. Berryman. Do you want me on business?"
"I want to ask you to allow your granddaughter to come to tea with my
little girl on Saturday. My little girl is called Agnes Brown; she goes
to Sunday school with your granddaughter."
The door opened wider, revealing Mrs. Berryman with Melina close behind
her. The child's dark eyes were sparkling with expectation.
"Do let her come," Mrs. Brown went on persuasively; "you would like to,
wouldn't you, my dear?" she questioned, smiling at Melina.
"Oh yes, yes!" the little girl cried. "Oh, Gran, let me go—do let me
go!"
"You can if you like," the old woman said ungraciously; "you've more
friends than I knew."
She turned away from the door as she spoke, and Melina coming forward,
said very earnestly, with a grateful ring in her voice:
"How kind you are! just like Agnes! I was never invited out to tea
before!"
CHAPTER VI
GOING OUT TO TEA
WHEN William Jones had told Mrs. Brown that Melina had quite turned
over a new leaf he had spoken nothing but the truth; for a softening
influence was at work in her heart—the influence of God's love. Since
she had made the acquaintance of the little gentleman Melina had felt
less lonely and embittered, and, impelled by a sense of deep gratitude
towards him on account of his evident good will for her, she had
continued to attend Sunday school, and had there been taught more
of the Saviour whom Mr. Blackmore had spoken of as the one perfect
Friend. At first the story of Christ's life on earth and His love for
sinners had appeared to her a beautiful romance, too wonderful to be
credited—that anyone could care for her enough to die for her had
sounded incredible; but slowly the amazing truth was being revealed to
her. The circumstances of her life had not changed, yet she herself
was different; for she was learning to have faith in Jesus, and a new,
sweet sense of happiness was creeping into her heart.
It was on a Wednesday when Melina received Mrs. Brown's invitation,
and on Friday evening Mrs. Berryman called her into her bedroom, and,
pointing to a brown-paper parcel on a chair, told her to open it and
see what was inside. Melina did so, and then uttered a little cry of
mingled astonishment and pleasure.
"Oh, Gran!" she exclaimed, "a new frock!—for me?"
"Yes," nodded Mrs. Berryman; "I bought it ready-made, but it's quite
new."
"I see it is." The frock in question was of cheap, coarse blue serge,
and could not have cost more than a few shillings, but Melina's face
was expressive of the greatest delight as she fingered it. "Thank you,
Gran," she said earnestly; "I may wear it to-morrow, mayn't I?"
Mrs. Berryman assented. "You want it badly enough," she admitted; "I
didn't notice the frock you are wearing was so shabby till I saw you
in the sunshine yesterday. It costs something to clothe a growing girl
like you," she added grudgingly.
Melina flushed, and thought of the money hidden in the chimney. She
proceeded to try on her new frock in silence; it fitted her very
nicely, and a smile lit up her thin little face as she looked down over
herself and noted the fact.
"Agnes will hardly know me to-morrow," she said with a pleased laugh;
"she's never seen me anything but shabby yet. I never had a really
new frock before." Hitherto, poor child, she had always been clad in
second-hand clothes.
"Oh, Gran," she went on, "I wish—oh, I do wish I could have a new hat
too! It wouldn't cost much—just a cheap one, I mean. I saw a sailor
hat, with a dark-blue ribbon, ticketed 'sevenpence three-farthings'
in a shop in the town the other day; it would look so nice with this
frock."
"Sevenpence three-farthings? That means eightpence. Let me see your old
hat."
Melina fetched it, and watched anxiously whilst her grandmother
examined it. Perhaps Mrs. Berryman had not realised that it was so
disgracefully shabby as it was, for she quickly laid it aside and,
taking out her purse, presented Melina with a shilling.
"There, child, you can buy the hat you fancy," she said, "and you can
keep the change."
For a minute Melina almost doubted that she had heard aright; then she
gave a little gasp and cried quite excitedly:
"Oh, thank you, thank you, Gran! Why, I shall have fourpence after
buying the hat! Do you know what I shall do? I shall begin to save
towards buying a Bible."
"Towards buying a Bible?" echoed Mrs. Berryman in great astonishment.
"Yes," assented Melina. "Agnes Brown has one of her own—her mother gave
it to her as soon as she had learnt to read. The Bible is God's word,
you know, and it is full of beautiful stories—true stories; and it
tells all about Jesus, too—"
"Yes, yes," interposed Mrs. Berryman, "everyone knows that."
She took her keys from her pocket as she spoke, and unlocked an
old box, covered with wall-paper, which stood in a niche near the
fireplace. Then she lifted the lid of the box, which, Melina saw, held
a lot of faded old garments and several books. One of the books, a
small, thick, leather-covered volume, Mrs. Berryman selected from the
rest and handed to her granddaughter, remarking as she did so:
"There's no need for you to think of buying a Bible; you can have this
one. It's yours by right, for it belonged to your mother."
"To my mother!" Melina took the sacred volume eagerly, and, opening it,
read on the fly-leaf, in a plain, round handwriting, "Melina Mead, her
book." She glanced at her grandmother inquiringly.
"Mead was your mother's maiden name," Mrs. Berryman explained. "Your
father gave me the Bible to keep for you; I'd nigh forgotten it till
just now. That's your mother's writing on the fly-leaf, I believe.
There's her name, isn't there, and a text?—her favourite text, I mind
your father said it was."
"'Him that cometh to Me I will in nowise cast out,'" Melina read aloud.
"Oh," she exclaimed, "she must have been a Christian, my mother! See
how her Bible has been used! Some of the pages are quite worn! Yes, she
must have been a Christian, I feel sure of it!"
"I don't know about that," Mrs. Berryman said; "I never saw your
mother. Your father married her when he was living in London, and she
died a year later when you were born—you've heard me say so before."
"But didn't father ever tell you what she was like?" Melina questioned
wistfully.
"He told me that she was as good as she was pretty," Mrs. Berryman
answered, rather impatiently; "but there, child, don't bother me with
any more questions. Take your book and go."
The little girl moved obediently towards the door, saying as she went:
"Thank you for the shilling, Gran. Oh, I do hope that sailor hat hasn't
been sold!"
The sailor hat had not been sold, and the following morning Melina
became its purchaser. She felt very happy and light-hearted as she
carried it home in a paper bag. On reaching Jubilee Terrace she found
Mrs. Jones cleaning the doorstep of her cottage, and she stopped to
speak to her, really to allow her a peep at the new hat.
"It's very pretty and neat," Mrs. Jones remarked, after she had looked
into the paper bag; "to my mind it's just what you want."
Melina nodded. "I've a new frock too," she said confidentially, "and
this afternoon I'm going to tea with a friend of mine called Agnes
Brown. If you look out of the window at three o'clock you'll see me
start."
"Poor child," Mrs. Jones muttered to herself, when the little girl had
left her, "it's a novelty for her to have anything new. How bright she
looks! She has certainly improved very much of late!"
Punctually at three o'clock Melina started for Gladstone Street, which
was nearly half an hour's walk from Jubilee Terrace. Mrs. Jones, from
her parlour window, waved her hand and nodded to her; and at the corner
of the terrace she met William Jones in company with a friend. She
noticed that the two boys stared at her very hard, and William was
surprised into remarking on her personal appearance.
"Why, Melina," he cried, "what a swell you look! Where are you off?"
The little girl coloured, but not with displeasure. "I'm going out to
tea," was her response.
Her way took her past South View. The garden in front of the house was
gay with spring flowers, and she lingered to admire a clump of golden
daffodils which grew near the gate. She was moving on when she heard
her name called behind her, and, looking back, saw the slim, upright
figure of the little gentleman.
"Good afternoon, Melina," he said; "were you admiring my flowers?"
"Yes," she assented, adding half apologetically, fearful that she had
been guilty of a breach of good manners, "just for a minute."
"Wait, and I will give you a nosegay."
"Oh, sir, how kind of you!"
She stood at the gate and watched whilst he gathered some blooms of
narcissi and daffodils, and thanked him gratefully when he returned to
her and put the flowers into her hands.
"May I do what I like with them?" she asked, her face aglow with
pleasure.
"Certainly; they are your own," he replied, smiling. "Perhaps you would
like to give some to your friends, the Browns, as you are going to tea
with them?"
"Oh yes! That was just what I was thinking! But how did you know that—"
She broke off, looking at him in a puzzled fashion.
"How did I know where you are going? Because I met Mrs. Brown this
morning, and she told me she expected you to tea this afternoon. I hope
you will have a pleasant time. I am so glad you are making friends,
Melina. Now, run along or you'll be late. Good afternoon."
"Good afternoon," Melina returned, "and thank you very, very much."
She walked on quickly now, and did not stop again until she reached the
Browns' house in Gladstone Street. There she found Agnes and Mrs. Brown
on the look out for her, and was welcomed most cordially by them both.
She retained a few of the flowers Mr. Blackmore had given her, for
herself; but the rest she gave to her hostess, and subsequently they
graced the centre of the tea-table.
Melina was rather shy at first, but not for long, and she had become
quite at home by the time Mr. Brown and his two little sons appeared
upon the scene, when they all had tea. Melina enjoyed her tea, which
was served in a fashion to which she was wholly unaccustomed, for Mrs.
Berryman never cared whether the cloth was clean or otherwise—indeed,
she often dispensed with it altogether.
Here, however, the cloth was clean and uncrumpled, and the tea things
laid with care; whilst the wooden bread platter was spotless, and the
butter was in a pretty glass dish. Before the meal commenced Melina was
surprised to see her companions bow their heads reverently, whilst Mr.
Brown thanked God for the meal they were about to take: she had never
heard grace said before.
"You must come and see us again, my dear," Mrs. Brown said a while
later, when her little visitor was about to leave; "you would like to,
wouldn't you?"
"Oh yes, please," Melina answered, her dark eyes meeting Mrs. Brown's
with an expression of wondering gratitude in them. "I can't imagine
why you are so kind to me!" she added, thinking that she liked Agnes'
mother very much.
Mrs. Brown did not know what response to make to this. She put an arm
around Melina and gave her a warm, impulsive kiss; but, instead of
returning it, Melina drew back and looked at her in astonishment.
"What is the matter?" inquired Mrs. Brown; "don't you like to be
kissed?"
"Oh yes," the little girl replied quickly, fearful of being
misunderstood, "but I—I am so surprised. You see, I can't remember that
anyone ever kissed me before."
"Oh, poor child!"
"Gran never has—no, never! But I don't want to be kissed by Gran!
You—oh, I do like you! I wish you were my mother, that I do!"
"Your own mother is dead, is she not?"
"Yes. If she had lived she would have loved me, wouldn't she?—just like
you love Agnes?"
"Just like that."
Melina sighed. "I wish she had not died," she said, with trembling lips
and a sudden rush of tears to her eyes.
"You must not wish that, my dear. God took her, and all He does is for
the best; you will, I hope, realise that some day. Now good-bye. Agnes
and the boys will go part way home with you—they will like the walk."
Mrs. Brown kissed her little visitor again, and this time the caress
was returned.
"Good-bye," Melina whispered, in a voice which was tremulous with deep
feeling; "oh, you don't know how much I shall look forward to coming
again!"
CHAPTER VII
LOCKED IN
ONE afternoon, a week or so after Melina's visit to Gladstone Street,
on returning from school at half-past four o'clock the little girl was
met at the front door of the cottage by her grandmother and pulled
roughly into the kitchen.
"Oh, Gran, don't!" she cried imploringly; "you're hurting me!" Then, as
Mrs. Berryman's grasp of her shoulder did not relax, she gave herself
a sudden twist and freed herself. "What have I done to make you angry
again?" she demanded.
"You've been telling tales to that woman next door," Mrs. Berryman
said wrathfully,—"telling tales of me—your grandmother! You wicked,
ungrateful girl! Mrs. Jones had the impertinence to stop me in the
street just now and take me to task for boxing your ears last night
when you smashed that teacup; you must have complained to her or she
wouldn't have known!"
"I did tell her about it," Melina admitted; "I was in the
yard—crying—and she spoke to me over the wall. I didn't mean to break
the teacup, it slipped from my fingers when I was wiping it; and you
hit me so hard that my head's been aching ever since. You had no right
to do it—no, you hadn't! It was shameful of you!" She spoke defiantly,
but took care to keep out of her grandmother's reach.
"I've the right to do as I please where you're concerned," Mrs.
Berryman declared, "and so I let Mrs. Jones know!"
"I hope you weren't rude to her," Melina said, her voice betraying
anxiety; "she's been very kind to me lately, and she was kind to you
when you were ill. Don't you remember what a nice custard she made you,
and—"
"We've no need of her kindness," Mrs. Berryman broke in; "and look
here, my girl, if I ever find out that you've been telling tales to her
again, I'll—I'll beat you as long as I've strength to hold a stick!"
The old woman looked as though she was quite capable of putting her
threat into action, and Melina, cowed and trembling, slipped out of
the kitchen and ran upstairs to her own room, her heart beating with
mingled indignation and fear; for she saw that her grandmother had been
drinking and was, in consequence, in a quarrelsome mood. A short while
later she heard the front door open and shut, and guessed that Mrs.
Berryman had gone out—most probably to get more drink.
The little girl now went downstairs, and ascertained, as she had
expected, that she was locked into the cottage. She did not mind that,
but what she did mind was the fact that she could not find anything to
eat. Tears of self-pity filled her eyes, for she was hungry.
"It's too bad of Gran to go off like this," she muttered; "I suppose
she means to keep me without tea for punishment for telling Mrs. Jones
how hard she hit me last night. I wonder what Mrs. Jones said to her—I
should have liked to have heard."
She went upstairs to her room again, and, taking her mother's Bible
from the drawer in which she kept it, sat down on the bed, opening the
book at random. The first words she read were these: "Beloved, let us
love one another; for love is of God; and everyone that loveth is born
of God and knoweth God. He that loveth not, knoweth not God; for God is
love."
Melina read no further, but closed the book and sat thinking. "I
suppose real Christians always love one another," she reflected, "and
are kind to everybody. There's the little gentleman—he's a Christian,
I know; and Mrs. Jones—I think she's one; and Agnes Brown and her
mother—ah, yes, they're Christians too! I've wondered why they're
all so kind to me; of course it's because they take Jesus for their
example. Miss Seymour told us last Sunday we all ought to do that,
but I can't—not altogether! I can't forgive people who're rude to me,
though I can hold my tongue and not answer back; and—I can't forgive
Gran—she's a cruel old woman to serve me like this! Very likely she
won't be back till quite late, and she won't care whether I'm hungry or
not."
Her lips quivered, and a few miserable tears rolled down her cheeks;
but a minute later she started to her feet and ran to the window, for
someone had flung a handful of gravel against the glass. Looking out
she saw William Jones in the yard of the adjoining cottage; he was
gazing up at her with a broad smile on his face, so, flinging up the
window, she addressed him in anything but a friendly tone.
"William Jones, was it you who did that?" she demanded, and, without
giving him time to reply, went on: "If you'd broken the glass there'd
have been a dreadful row with Gran—she'd have made you pay for it; but
there, I dare say you'd have gone away and said it wasn't you—"
"Oh, come now," the boy broke in, growing very red and looking
indignant, "it's too bad of you to make out I'd behave like that! What
you must think of me! I don't tell lies, Melina Berryman. If I'd broken
your window I should have owned up, but the handful of gravel I threw
couldn't have hurt."
"Why did you do it?" Melina asked.
"Because I wanted to speak to you. I guessed you might be up there,
and I knew your grandmother was out, for I met her not ten minutes ago
walking towards the town. I say, are you locked in?"
"Yes," the little girl assented, "and I don't suppose Gran'll be back
for ages. The worst of it is she hasn't left me anything to eat."
"What! Oh, now that's too bad! Shameful, I call it! Do you mean to say
there's no food in the house?"
"Oh yes! But I can't get at it—even the bread loaf's locked away."
William Jones' face expressed the sympathy he felt; seeing which Melina
forgot how often he had teased her in the past, and allowed her heart
to soften towards him.
"Never mind," she said, trying to speak cheerfully, though she did mind
very much; "tell me what you want to speak to me about."
"Oh, I was only going to ask you if you like oranges," he replied; "do
you?" Then, as she nodded, he continued: "They 're very nice and sweet
now, and I bought a couple of beauties on my way home from school; one
I've eaten, the other I've kept for you. Stand back!"
The little girl obeyed, and the next moment an orange, flung with
unerring aim, came whizzing through the open window and rolled across
the floor. She seized it, and returned to the window with a beaming
countenance and sparkling eyes.
"Thank you," she said, with an unusually gracious smile. "I shan't mind
going without my tea now. It looks a lovely orange, and what a size it
is!"
"Well, eat it, and see if it's as good as it looks."
The boy watched her peel the orange and divide it into flakes. She ate
one flake slowly and pronounced it delicious, then the rest, and when
the last was gone, thanked him again. He had not expected her to be as
grateful as she evidently was.
"Oh, don't say any more," he said; "I'm glad I thought of keeping it
for you. I was half afraid that you wouldn't have it—"
"I was so hungry," Melina interposed, as though that fact explained
the readiness with which she had accepted his gift. "I—" She paused
abruptly, remembering the occasion on which, having made a similar
confession to him, he had said he was sorry and she had retorted that
more likely he was glad. How very rude she had been! "I can't think why
you should have bothered about me!" she cried impulsively, "I've been
horrid to you sometimes."
"And I've been horrid to you," he admitted; "it's always been on my
mind about that tuppence you had to spend—"
"Oh," she broke in, "I'll tell you now! It wasn't my tuppence—it was
the little gentleman's. He gave it to me. I—I oughtn't to have let you
believe it was mine."
He was silent for a minute. "Well, it wasn't quite straight of you," he
admitted. "Isn't the little gentleman, as you call him, a good sort?"
"Indeed he is!"
"Everyone who knows him likes him. Have you heard what he's going to do
on Good Friday evening?"
"No. What?"
"He's going to hold a kind of service in the town hall. There'll be
a magic-lantern showing Bible pictures, and there'll be hymns sung
and an address by Mr. Blackmore himself. Wouldn't you like to see the
pictures?"
"Yes; but there's no chance of that, I'm afraid. I suppose I should
have to pay—"
"Oh no! It will be a free entertainment. Why don't you go? Be in good
time and then you'll be able to get a seat well to the front—that's
what I intend to do. I advise you to do the same."
"Perhaps Gran won't let me; it'll just depend what sort of temper she's
in. Good Friday? Why, that's next week."
Melina leaned her elbows on the window-sill, and rested her chin on
her clasped hands. She was finding her conversation with William Jones
interesting, and was glad that he seemed inclined to prolong it. By
and by he told her he regretted that he used to tease her, and that he
meant to try and prevail upon the other boys in the terrace to let her
alone in future.
"Don't you interfere," she replied quickly; "I can hold my own ground."
This was spoken in her old curt manner, but her voice softened as she
proceeded: "It's very nice of you, though, to want to take my part,
but I think you'd better not. Do you know why the boys have taken to
calling me 'Saint Melina'?"
He nodded. "Yes, because you don't abuse them and show your temper to
them like you used to; they know you go to Sunday school now, and they
say you've turned pious. I shouldn't mind being called 'Saint Melina'
if I were you."
"I think you would—if you knew you were being mocked."
At that moment Mrs. Jones' voice was heard calling to her son to take
a letter to post for her, and, with a friendly nod to Melina, the boy
went to do her bidding.
Mrs. Berryman did not return for some hours later, not until past
nine o'clock. Melina was still in her own room when she heard her
grandmother come in; but the old woman called to her immediately, and
she hastened downstairs.
"Here I am, Gran," she said, as she entered the kitchen where Mrs.
Berryman had already sunk into a chair; "shall I get supper now?"
"Supper? No. I don't want any," was the response.
"But—but I do," Melina ventured to say; "you know I haven't had any
tea."
Her grandmother laughed harshly. "It will do you no harm to fast," she
said; "it will tame your spirit, Melina. Ah, ha! you won't be in such a
hurry to complain of me to Mrs. Jones again! However, you can have some
bread and cheese now if you like; I suppose I mustn't starve you."
She rose unsteadily, unlocked the corner cupboard, and cut her
granddaughter a thick slice of bread and a small bit of cheese. Melina
took this frugal supper in silence, thankful to get it, whilst Mrs.
Berryman, having resumed her chair, fell into a doze, from which she
presently awoke with a start.
"I'm tired and shall go to bed," she muttered thickly, and, rising, she
rambled out of the room. Melina heard her slowly mount the stairs and
enter her bedroom. Silence followed, which remained unbroken.
Ten minutes later, having finished her supper, the little girl went
upstairs herself; but before going to her own room she listened at her
grandmother's door. The sound of stertorous breathing fell upon her
ears, and, opening the door noiselessly, she glanced inside. A candle
was burning on a chair close to the bed, and Mrs. Berryman, fully
dressed, was lying on the bed in a heavy sleep. Melina did not disturb
her; but she tiptoed across the room and put out the candle, then beat
a hasty retreat.
"How very careless of Gran to have left her candle alight," she
thought, "and so near her bed too! I must really tell her about it in
the morning. If she doesn't mind, one of these days, when she's not
herself, she'll set the place on fire!"
But when the morning came, Mrs. Berryman was in such a bad temper that
Melina was afraid to mention the matter to her, and decided to hold her
peace.
"She'd say I had no business in her room," she reflected; "no, on
second thoughts, perhaps I'd better not speak of it. I dare say she'll
never leave her candle burning like that again."
CHAPTER VIII
GOOD FRIDAY EVENING
WHEN Melina told her grandmother of the service which was to be held
by Mr. Blackmore on Good Friday evening in the town hall, and asked
permission to attend it, the old woman answered, "No, certainly not";
but on hearing that there would be no charge for admission, she said,
"Well, if there'll be nothing to pay, I don't mind your going. By the
way, who's this Mr. Blackmore?"
Melina had not previously mentioned her acquaintance with the little
gentleman to her grandmother, so her response was a decided surprise to
the old woman.
"A friend of mine, Gran—a very nice gentleman who's come to live at
South View. He helps the vicar, and—"
"Oh! the lay-helper!" interposed Mrs. Berryman. "He was pointed out to
me in the town the other day—a thin little chap who wears glasses. A
friend of yours, is he, eh?" She broke into a sarcastic laugh.
"Yes, he is, Gran—really. I've known him months now—since January.
He was very kind to me once—when you were ill and sent me to buy
some groceries. Coming home I—I dropped a packet of tea, and he—Mr.
Blackmore—gave me the money to buy more, and since that, when we've
met, he has always spoken—sometimes we've had quite long talks
together. I like him so much; he is a real nice little gentleman."
"And it's he who's going to hold this service on Good Friday?"
questioned Mrs. Berryman.
Melina assented. "There's to be a magic-lantern," she explained; "did
you ever see one, Gran?"
"Yes. What time does the service commence?"
"At six o'clock, and it'll be over by eight. Agnes Brown and her
brothers are going with their mother and father, and William Jones is
going, and—"
"And I've half a mind to go myself," broke in Mrs. Berryman; "I haven't
seen a magic-lantern for years. I wonder, though, if there'll be a
collection?"
"I haven't heard that there is to be," responded Melina, who, since
her conversation with William Jones, had made full inquiries about the
forthcoming service.
The little girl was not quite pleased at the prospect of her
grandmother's company on Good Friday evening; she felt she would
much rather be by herself, but of course she did not say so. Perhaps
it would be wet on Good Friday, she reflected, and in that case her
grandmother would in all probability elect to remain at home, for the
town hall was some distance from Jubilee Terrace.
But Good Friday, when it came, was a perfect spring day, sunny and
mild, with a foretaste of summer in the air, and a quarter to six
o'clock in the evening found Mrs. Berryman and her granddaughter
arriving at the town hall together. They procured seats in a very good
position for both seeing and hearing; and then Melina looked about her
trying to find the Browns. By and by she caught sight of them, and
proceeded to call her grandmother's attention to them.
"Look, Gran," she said in an eager whisper, "there are the Browns—a few
rows in front of us, on the opposite side of the hall. Mrs. Brown's
looking at us now. She's nodded to me, and I think she's trying to nod
to you."
"Hush, child!" admonished Mrs. Berryman; nevertheless she looked at
Mrs. Brown, and returned her smiling recognition with a rather awkward
nod.
A few minutes later Melina discovered William Jones, seated well to the
front; and after that she picked out several of her schoolfellows.
Before six o'clock the hall had become crowded. Most of the people
present were of the working classes, many of whom appeared well-to-do,
whilst others showed signs of great poverty; and some there were who,
like Mrs. Berryman, never went to places of worship, and had been drawn
there because they wanted to see the magic-lantern, and would not lose
the opportunity of being entertained for nothing.
"I should think it must be nearly six o'clock," Melina said at length.
"Oh!" she cried a minute later, "there's the little gentleman!"
Unobserved by her, Mr. Blackmore had entered the hall and mounted the
platform, to the front of which he now stepped to address the assembly.
"My friends," he began, as the whispering which had been going on
suddenly ceased and all eyes were fixed upon him, "to-night I intend to
show you some pictures representing scenes from the life of Jesus; but
before I do so, I want you to join me in singing that hymn, familiar to
most of us I expect, which commences, 'There is a green hill far away';
and, whilst we sing, let us in our hearts thank Him who for our sakes
died on Mount Calvary, and think of that first Good Friday evening
nearly nineteen hundred years ago."
With one accord the whole assembly rose, and Mr. Blackmore led the
singing.
"There is a green hill far away,
Without a city wall,
Where our dear Lord was crucified
Who died to save us all."
Melina now knew the hymn all through, and she lifted up her voice with
the rest. To her great surprise her grandmother joined in the last
verse. "Fancy Gran's singing!" she thought to herself.
"Oh, dearly, dearly has He loved,
And we must love Him too,
And trust in His redeeming Blood,
And try His works to do."
The hymn concluded, Mr. Blackmore asked the people to be seated; and,
whilst they were settling down, he moved to one side, and the gas was
lowered.
The first pictures shown upon the screen, which stretched across the
back of the platform, represented scenes from the early life of Jesus.
The audience, with the keenest interest, saw the infant Saviour in
His mother's arms, the wise men kneeling in worship before Him; saw
Him, a young boy, teaching in the Temple, and, later, working at the
carpenter's bench. Then they saw Him healing the sick, preaching on
the shores of the Sea of Galilee, and blessing little children; and at
last, after Judas Iscariot had betrayed Him and Peter had denied Him,
they saw Him standing in the judgment-hall before Pontius Pilate.
Mr. Blackmore had so far explained very fully the meaning of each
picture, in such simple words as no one could fail to understand; but
when the picture of the scene in the judgment-hall was replaced by one
showing a distant hill, on the summit of which three crosses stood out
plainly against the horizon, he merely said:
"The green hill far away, on the evening of the first Good Friday."
Melina drew a breath so deep that it was almost a sob. That morning
she had read in her mother's Bible the account of the Crucifixion, so
she knew exactly what the picture was meant to tell. She gazed at it
through a mist of tears. Then all at once she became aware that her
grandmother was strangely affected. The old woman was trembling, almost
as though she was afraid.
"What is it, Gran?" Melina whispered anxiously; "are you ill?"
"No, child, no," was the response; "don't talk! Ah!" The exclamation
was full of relief.
The picture on the screen had been withdrawn, and the gas turned up.
Mr. Blackmore now came to the front of the platform again.
"That is the last picture I have to show," he said, "and I want you to
take the memory of it home with you to-night—I want you to think of
Jesus, crucified on Mount Calvary, and to remember that it was for your
salvation that He died there. You can say, each one of you, 'He died
for me.' The hymn we have sung to-night says:"
"He died that we might be forgiven,
He died to make us good,
That we might go at last to heaven,
Saved by His precious blood."
"That is true—we are saved by His precious blood. He died on the cross
that He might draw us to Himself. He wants you to go to Him—yes, all
of you, even the most sinful. He has said, 'Him that cometh to Me I
will in nowise cast out.' Oh, if there are any amongst you who have not
found Him, go to Him to-night, trusting only in Him, and He will give
you forgiveness for your sins and peace for your souls. The blood of
Jesus Christ, the blood shed on Mount Calvary on that first Good Friday
so long ago, cleanseth from all sin."
The little gentleman ceased speaking and stepped off the platform,
whilst the vicar, who had been working the lantern from the centre of
the hall, took his place and offered up a short earnest prayer, after
which the evening hymn "Glory to Thee, my God, this night" was sung
very heartily, and the assembly began to disperse.
Mrs. Berryman insisted on lingering till the hall was nearly empty,
as she did not like to be pushed about in a crowd, she said, and the
consequence was that Mr. Blackmore caught sight of her and Melina as
they rose from their seats, and, leaving the vicar, to whom he had been
talking, overtook them before they reached the door.
"I am so glad you came," he said, as he touched Melina on the arm to
attract her attention; "did you like the pictures?"
"Oh yes, sir," she answered, "they were beautiful! I—this is my
grandmother, sir," she added, as his glance turned to Mrs. Berryman.
He held out his hand to the old woman, who, rather reluctantly it
appeared, shook hands with him.
"I have often thought that I should like to know you, Mrs. Berryman,"
he said kindly; "I have known your granddaughter some time, as I dare
say she has told you?" He spoke inquiringly.
"Yes," the old woman assented.
"She was the first friend I made in Hawstock —I shall always remember
that. You know I am helping the vicar in the parish? Yes. I wonder if I
may call upon you some day? I am acquainted with your neighbour, Mrs.
Jones—"
"I don't have anything to do with my neighbours," interposed Mrs.
Berryman, in such a brusque manner that Melina blushed with shame; "I
make it a rule to keep myself to myself." She spoke as though to do
that was a virtue.
Mr. Blackmore's eyes, full of kindliness and good will, yet searching
too, were fixed gravely on the old woman's lined countenance, reading
its expression.
"I can never understand how anyone can do that," he remarked, "I am
sure that I couldn't; but then I'm naturally a sociable disposition. Do
you mean that you would rather I did not call upon you, then?"
Mrs. Berryman hesitated what response to give to this direct
question. She glanced at Melina, who was looking at her appealingly,
and, contrary to her custom, decided to show consideration for her
granddaughter's feelings.
"I did mean that," she answered, "but if you like to call, sir, please
do."
"Thank you," said the little gentleman.
He did not prolong the conversation further, but said "good night"; and
after that Melina and her grandmother left the hall and turned their
footsteps homewards. It was a lovely night, with a clear sky, bright
with stars, and a soft breeze which was very refreshing.
"Now you know Mr. Blackmore, Gran," the little girl remarked; "what do
you think of him?"
"I think he means well," Mrs. Berryman admitted; "he seems very
earnest, and he evidently believes all he talked about to-night—about
Jesus having died for our sakes."
"Oh yes!" Melina's voice was full of eagerness. "Are you glad you went
with me?" she inquired.
"Glad? No."
"Didn't you like the pictures?"
"Well enough, but I wish now I hadn't gone to see them."
"Oh, why?"
"Because I don't want Mr. Blackmore to call on me, and I had to say he
might as he'd been kind to you. I don't want to have anything to do
with strangers—I want to be left alone."
Melina thought it wise to make no response to this. She walked on by
her grandmother's side in silence for a while, but presently she said:
"I'm so happy to-night, Gran, that I feel I must speak of it. My heart
is very, very glad."
"Indeed! Why?"
"I think it's because I've learnt to love Jesus," was the softly-spoken
admission.
"Love Jesus?" echoed Mrs. Berryman, in amazement.
"Yes," the little girl said, a thrill of deep earnestness in her voice;
"I really do love Him, and I'm going to be a Christian if I can." The
eyes she raised, as she spoke, to her companion's face shone with a
bright, steady light.
"Well," exclaimed her grandmother with emphasis, "this beats anything I
ever heard in my life!"
CHAPTER IX
ANTICIPATING THE BANK HOLIDAY
"STOP! I say, wait for me, Melina!"
It was the afternoon following Good Friday, and Melina, who had been to
do some errands for her grandmother, was on her way home. She glanced
around at the sound of a familiar voice addressing her and saw William
Jones, who was hurrying to overtake her. A moment later he reached her
side.
"So you and your grandmother were at the town hall last night," he
remarked, as they walked on together; "the pictures were fine, weren't
they?"
"Oh yes!" Melina answered, "indeed they were! I liked them—all of them.
I saw you in the hall, but I didn't know you noticed us. Gran would go
with me."
"And you didn't want her, I suppose?" he suggested.
"Well, no," she admitted; "I would much rather have gone alone."
The boy nodded understandingly. "What are you going to do on Monday?"
he inquired.
"Nothing particular."
"Mother and father and I are going for an excursion to the seaside; we
generally do on the Easter bank holiday."
"How nice!"
"This year we're going to Hawmouth. If the weather's fine, and it
promises to be, we shall have a rare good time, I expect. We shall take
our dinner with us and have it on the beach, and our tea we shall have
at a tea-shop, and get home to supper."
This seemed a delightful programme to Melina. "I've never been to the
seaside," she said, with a faint regretful sigh.
"Never been to the seaside!" her companion echoed, in deepest
amazement. "And Hawstock is only twelve miles from Hawmouth too!—only
about a quarter of an hour's journey by train!"
"I know. I've often wondered if I could walk as far as that and back
again in a day, but I'm afraid I couldn't."
"No, of course you couldn't; you mustn't think of trying."
"I don't now; but you can't imagine how I long for a sight of the sea.
I've seen pictures of it in the picture shops in the town, and oh, it
must be grand!"
William Jones nodded. "I wish you were going with us on Monday," he
said, looking at her thoughtfully. "I wish—" He paused abruptly, and
walked on in silence for a few minutes; then he began again: "I say,
Melina, don't you wonder what's become of your father?"
"Yes, that I do! Gran won't tell me—perhaps she doesn't know herself."
"Perhaps not. Father says that he believes that he went abroad—to
Canada. Maybe he's making a fortune, and one of these days he'll be
coming home."
"Oh, I do hope he will!—that is, if he's a nice man like your father,
William. But if he's making a fortune, don't you think he'd send home
some money for me? He must know I'm a great expense to Gran."
"I suppose that's what Mrs. Berryman says—that you're a great expense
to her; but I don't believe you are. Why, she spends hardly anything on
you; it's very mean of her to be so screwy, especially when she could
do so much better for you if she liked."
William Jones, who was quoting the opinion of his mother, looked quite
indignant as he spoke. Melina made no response; she was recollecting
the hoard of money she had discovered that Mrs. Berryman possessed.
"You see, your grandmother can't be really poor," the boy continued;
"if she was, she couldn't lend money, that's certain."
"What do you mean?" the little girl inquired in response. "I don't
believe Gran would lend money to anyone. I—well, I don't think she's
kind enough to do that."
"Do you mean to say that you don't know—" William Jones broke off
suddenly, then exclaimed: "Well, I never! You don't mean to say that
she's kept it a secret from you?"
"Kept what a secret from me?" questioned Melina, thoroughly puzzled;
"what is it I don't know?"
"That your grandmother's a money-lender. That's her business—to lend
money. The idea of her keeping you in the dark about it! That shows she
knows she's doing wrong."
"Is it wrong to lend money, then?" Melina asked. Her face was
expressive of astonishment and incredulity. She thought that her
grandmother valued money too much to lend it; but, supposing she did
lend it, where was the harm?
"It's wrong if too much is charged for it," William Jones explained,
amazed at his companion's ignorance. "Ah, I see you don't understand!
It's like this—but don't you let on to Mrs. Berryman that I've been
talking to you about her affairs. Promise me that."
The little girl gave the required promise without hesitation, and the
boy continued:
"When your grandmother lends money, it's to very poor people, and for
small amounts, and when they pay it back she makes them give her a
great deal more than they borrowed—double sometimes. Now that isn't
right, is it?"
"No, indeed," Melina returned, "of course it's not!"
"It's what is called usury," William Jones said, "and the person who
does it is a usurer—a wicked person who only cares for making money and
robs the poor."
"Oh!" cried Melina, very shocked. She was thinking of the
wretched-looking creatures who so frequently called to see Mrs.
Berryman, and were interviewed by the old woman in the parlour. She
could not doubt but that her companion had spoken the truth.
"Mother says to rob folks of their money, as your grandmother does,
is as bad as being a regular pickpocket," William Jones continued; "I
heard her talking about it to father only yesterday, and he agreed with
her. Really, Melina, your grandmother's a dreadful old woman, and it's
no wonder, is it, that people—respectable people, I mean—don't care to
have anything to do with her?"
"No," Melina responded, with a choke in her voice. Her face was white
and set.
"Perhaps I ought not to have told you that Mrs. Berryman is a
money-lender," the boy said, rather uneasily; "don't you trouble about
it, you can't help it."
"No," Melina agreed, "but it's so—so shameful! I understand now why
everyone's been so against me—it's been on account of Gran! Oh, now I
know this, I don't think I can ever go to see the Browns again! Oh,
suppose they should find out—"
"You may depend they know all about your grandmother," William Jones
interposed, "or at any rate Mrs. Brown does. For certain Mr. Blackmore
has told her."
"The little gentleman!" The hot colour rose to Melina's cheeks, then
died away, leaving her paler than before. "Does he know?" she asked in
a tremulous voice.
Her companion nodded. "Mother told him," he asserted; "he was very
sorry to hear it, and—"
"But he is coming to see Gran!" Melina broke in; "if he knows that she
is so wicked as you say she is, why does he want to have anything to do
with her?"
The boy kept a puzzled silence for a few minutes whilst he considered
this point, then a gleam of comprehension crossed his face.
"Because he's a Christian," he replied; "because the love of God's in
his heart—that's what makes him so kind. Folks who've got the love of
God in their hearts care for other folks even when they ain't good like
themselves; they want to help 'em and make 'em better."
"You don't mean to say that you think the little gentleman could care
anything about Gran?"
"Yes, I do."
"It says in the Bible, 'Beloved, let us love one another; for love
is of God,'" Melina said reflectively. "Are you a Christian, William
Jones?" she inquired.
"Not much of one, I'm afraid," he answered, looking rather taken aback
at her question.
"I'm not much of one either," she said; "I haven't been one at all very
long."
At the corner of Jubilee Terrace they came upon a group of boys, who,
the minute they caught sight of Melina, commenced to make disparaging
remarks about her. William Jones stopped to remonstrate with them,
whilst the little girl walked on. As she paused on the doorstep of her
home, she heard a voice inside say:
"You shall have the money next week, Mrs. Berryman, indeed you shall!
We've had so much sickness of late, and so many expenses, that—but
whatever happens you shall have the money next week!"
An instant later the door opened from within, and a sad-faced young
woman with a baby in her arms brushed past Melina and hurried away.
Melina was standing looking after her when Mrs. Berryman came out of
the parlour.
"What a dawdle you are, child!" the old woman said testily; "come in
and shut the door." Then, as her granddaughter obeyed, she took her by
the shoulder and pulled her, less roughly than usual, into the kitchen.
"Humph! you don't look very well, as Mrs. Jones said," she observed; "I
hope you aren't going to be ill."
"I feel quite well, Gran."
"That's right. You were always a thin, peaky little thing, as I told
Mrs. Jones. I suppose you're wondering how I came to be talking to her?
She called in to see me just now, to invite you to go to Hawmouth with
her on Monday."
"Oh, Gran What did you say?"
"That I'd no money to give you for holiday-keeping; but she said her
husband would be pleased to pay your expenses—it's to be his treat."
"Then I'm to go?" Melina asked, trembling with excitement.
"Yes, if the weather keeps fine."
"Oh, I hope it will! I do so hope it will!"
"I'm not sorry you're to have a treat," Mrs. Berryman said, "for—I'll
give you your due—I think you deserve it. You've been a better girl
lately, and I find you haven't stayed away from school at all. Now,
I don't mind your turning religious if so be that makes you less
troublesome; but mind you this—keep a still tongue in your head to
those Joneses about me, or it'll be the worse for you. I can't abear to
be talked about."
"I have never talked about you, Gran—at least, only when you've served
me badly, and—"
"Oh, you stick to it that I've served you badly, do you?" Mrs. Berryman
interrupted with a frown.
Melina raised her eyes to the old woman's face with a world of reproach
in their dark depths. "Gran," she said, "you know."
Her grandmother thrust her away from her. "I've corrected you when
you've done wrong," she said, "as it's been my duty to do. Stop staring
at me—it's rude to stare."
"I'm sure I didn't mean to be rude," Melina returned. She removed her
eyes from Mrs. Berryman's ill-tempered countenance, and asked: "May I
run in next door for a minute? I should like to thank Mrs. Jones for
inviting—"
"Oh, go if you like!" Mrs. Berryman broke in; "you'd better find out
what time you are to start on Monday—I forgot to inquire."
Mrs. Jones was laying the cloth for supper when Melina knocked at the
back door, and, from the kitchen window, she beckoned to the child to
come in.
"Oh, Mrs. Jones," the little girl began, as she entered the kitchen, "I
don't know how to thank you—I don't indeed! Gran has just told me that
I'm to go to Hawmouth with you, and oh, it seems almost too wonderful
to be true! How good of you to think of it! I've never been to the
seaside in my life!"
"Then I'm very glad you're going with us on Monday," Mrs. Jones
replied, a smile on her comely face; "you must be ready to start by
half-past seven, for the train leaves at a quarter to eight and it will
take us more than ten minutes to walk to the station."
"I'll be in good time, never fear!" Melina assured her.
"On second thoughts I think you'd better be ready before that, though,
and come in here to breakfast. Yes, that will be best. Breakfast at
seven sharp, mind."
"Oh, how nice! Oh, thank you, Mrs. Jones!" Melina's face was beaming
with delight, but it clouded slightly as she continued in a more
subdued tone: "Gran says Mr. Jones is going to pay for me on Monday.
I—I don't think that is quite right—"
"Oh yes, it is," Mrs. Jones broke in quickly; "don't worry your head
about that. We shouldn't have thought of inviting you to join us on
Monday if we hadn't meant to pay all expenses."
"Oh, how kind you are!" Melina breathed softly, her dark eyes shining
with a grateful light through a mist of happy tears.
Soon after that she took her departure, whilst Mrs. Jones proceeded
with her interrupted task of preparing for supper, her conscience
reproaching her because she had never thought of giving her little
neighbour a pleasure before.
"God forgive me," she murmured to herself; "I might perhaps have made
life happier for her if I'd tried."
CHAPTER X
AN EVENTFUL DAY
SEVEN o'clock in the morning on Easter Monday found Melina breakfasting
with her neighbours. The breakfast of fried bacon and delicious coffee
seemed quite a luxurious meal to her, accustomed as she was to commence
the day fortified only with a cup of weak tea and a slice of bread
spread with margarine or dripping, and, encouraged by a remark from Mr.
Jones to the effect that the more she ate the better she would please
him, she thoroughly enjoyed it.
"How are you getting on, my dear?" Mr. Jones asked every now and again,
as the meal progressed.
And Melina answered each time: "Very well, thank you, Mr. Jones," and
gave him a shy pleased smile, with a very grateful feeling in her heart.
Immediately breakfast was over a start was made for the station, Mrs.
Jones and Melina walking ahead, while Mr. Jones followed with William,
the two latter taking turns in carrying a large covered basket which
was full of provisions. They arrived at the station in good time for
the excursion train by which they were to make the short journey to
Hawmouth.
"I say, Melina, who'd have thought that you'd be going with us?"
remarked William, as, with Melina and his mother, he waited on the
platform whilst his father procured their tickets.
"Yes, who'd have thought it!" Melina returned gaily; "I can scarcely
believe it—really! It's like a dream—a beautiful dream! Oh, how glad I
am it's such a fine day!"
"It's warm, too, for April," said Mrs. Jones,—"more like summer, I call
it."
Melina was secretly delighted that it was so warm, for on that account
she had been able to dispense with her shabby old jacket. She was
looking very nice in her new serge frock and sailor hat; and, though
her shoes were shabby, she had blacked them so carefully and managed
to put such a polish on them that they did not show how much they were
worn.
"I wonder what you'll think of the sea, Melina," said William; "I've
been telling mother it'll be your first sight of it. You'll be able to
get some pretty shells, if you like them, and—oh, here's father!"
Mr. Jones joined them, and, a minute later, their train ran into the
station and they took their seats in it at once.
Melina sat next to Mrs. Jones, with Mr. Jones and William opposite.
The father and son were wearing their best clothes, and the former had
donned a sky-blue tie and put a flower in his button-hole.
"Now we're off!" said Mr. Jones, nodding at Melina, as the train began
to move slowly out of the station.
She gave a low laugh expressive of intense delight, and, bending
forward, whispered to him: "I've never been by train before!"
"You don't say so!" he exclaimed in astonishment.
"Never," the little girl said impressively, "this is the first proper
holiday I've ever had."
"Then I hope you'll enjoy it, my dear," he answered; "it shall not be
my fault if you don't."
Looking out of the window Melina noticed that the railway line ran
parallel with the river, the Haw, which flowed by Hawstock and emptied
itself into the sea at Hawmouth.
"Why, Mr. Jones, how wide the river's getting!" she exclaimed
presently; "and oh, there's quite a big ship! How deep the water must
be here!"
"Yes," he assented; "at the next curve of the line we shall come in
sight of the sea. There now, lookout!"
Melina did look out; but instead of expressing the surprise and
admiration her companions had expected to hear, she sat silent, too
awe-struck to speak, her eyes fixed on the wide expanse of water which,
on this beautiful spring morning, shone like silver in the sunshine. A
few minutes later the train ran into a cutting, and then slowed into
Hawmouth station and stopped.
Melina never forgot the happy hours which followed. The morning she
spent on the esplanade in front of the sea: the tide was high, and, Mr.
Jones and William having gone to bathe, and Mrs. Jones having sat down
on a seat to rest, she strolled about by herself, looking at the other
excursionists and listening to the band which was playing. By and by
she returned to Mrs. Jones, and they sat talking and enjoying the fresh
salt air and the glorious sunshine, whilst they watched the sea-birds
hovering around and the sails of distant ships, which stood out plainly
against the blue horizon. Then Mr. Jones and William joined them, and
the contents of the big basket were brought to light and they had
dinner. The meal consisted of meat pies, made by Mrs. Jones herself,
and now pronounced the best she had ever made, with ginger-beer to
drink.
By this time the tide was receding; so, as soon as dinner was finished,
a move was made for the beach, where, subsequently, they explored the
rocks, which were now uncovered. There Melina gathered a quantity of
pretty shells with which she filled her pocket, and saw beautiful
anemones of varied hues, in the pools between the rocks, besides all
kinds of pretty seaweeds. The afternoon passed so quickly that she was
quite surprised when Mrs. Jones said it was time for tea.
They had tea at a restaurant. That was a novel experience for Melina,
too; and afterwards they returned to the esplanade, where they remained
till they were obliged to hurry to the railway station to catch the
train home.
"I shall never forget this day as long as I live," Melina declared,
as, at half-past nine o'clock, she and her friends were walking from
the railway station at Hawstock towards Jubilee Terrace; "and I shall
never, never, never be able to thank you enough, Mr. Jones—"
"Now, now," interrupted Mr. Jones, "no more of that! I don't want to
hear anything about thanks. I'm glad you've enjoyed my little treat;
it's been a real pleasure to us to take you with us, I'm sure."
"Yes, that's so," agreed Mrs. Jones. "Are you very tired, Melina?" she
inquired.
"Oh no," the little girl replied, "not in the least! I wish the day was
only just beginning!"
As they turned the corner of Jubilee Terrace they saw, by the light of
the street lamp, that a man was standing on Mrs. Berryman's doorstep.
He moved off as they approached, and met them.
"Excuse me," he said, addressing Mr. Jones; "can you tell me if Mrs.
Berryman lives at No. 2?"
"Yes," Mr. Jones assented, "she does."
"Ah, then I was rightly informed! I've knocked at the door several
times, but I can't make anyone hear. Perhaps, as it is getting late,
I'd better go back to the town and come again to-morrow."
So saying the man, who was tall and of respectable appearance, walked
away.
"Now, I wonder who that is," said Mr. Jones. "I don't know him, and yet
it seemed to me I'd heard his voice before. I expect your grandmother
heard him knocking right enough, eh, Melina?"
"Oh yes," Melina agreed; "but she wouldn't go to the door because it's
late, and she'd be afraid he was a robber."
"A robber!" echoed Mr. Jones in astonishment, adding, "Why, I should
never have guessed Mrs. Berryman was the sort of woman to be nervous
like that! We'll wait and see you get admission, anyway."
Apparently Mrs. Berryman had been watching for the return of the
excursionists from her parlour window, for before Mr. Jones had time to
knock, she opened the door. The passage of the cottage was in darkness,
so that he could not see her face, but he heard by the thickness of her
speech immediately she spoke that she was not quite sober.
"So you've brought my granddaughter back at last," she said; "I hope
she's behaved herself."
"Why, of course she has," Mr. Jones answered; "she's been a very good
little maid, and we've had a most pleasant day."
"Humph!" ejaculated the old woman. She stretched out her hand, and,
taking Melina by the arm, pulled her into the passage. "Good night,"
she said, and forthwith shut the door in her neighbours' faces.
"There's manners for you!" exclaimed William indignantly.
"I hope she'll give that poor child some supper," said Mr. Jones; "I'm
glad to remember that she ate a good tea."
"Poor Melina!" sighed Mrs. Jones sympathetically; "what a home-coming
for her after a day's pleasure! Poor little girl!"
Meanwhile Mrs. Berryman had drawn Melina into the kitchen, which was
lit by a small hand-lamp on the table. On the table, too, stood a
bottle of spirits and a tumbler.
"Who was that knocking at the door just before you arrived?" Mrs.
Berryman demanded.
"I don't know," Melina replied, "he was a stranger. He spoke to Mr.
Jones and asked if you lived here, and when he heard that you did he
said he'd call again to-morrow."
"Who can he be?" the old woman muttered to herself. "Did you see what
he was like?" she inquired.
"I only saw that he was tall, and I think—oh yes, I am sure that he
wore a beard! Mr. Jones thought he knew his voice—"
"What!" cried Mrs. Berryman. "It couldn't have been—no, of course it
couldn't—he wouldn't come without writing—he—"
She paused in the midst of her incoherent speech, and, turning to the
table, took up the tumbler and drank from it. Then she addressed Melina
again.
"Go to bed," she said; "do you hear what I say? Go to bed."
Melina left the kitchen and went upstairs to her own room. She was not
very hungry, for, as Mr. Jones had remarked, she had made a good tea,
so she did not mind being kept without supper. She undressed herself in
the dark, and then knelt down in her night-gown by her bedside to pray:
she never went to bed without praying now, for she had learnt to feel
that God was really her friend—a tender, loving Father, who cared for
her and to whom she could tell all that was in her heart. She had only
just finished her prayers when she heard her grandmother's footsteps on
the stairs, and, springing hastily to her feet, she jumped into bed.
A minute later Mrs. Berryman opened the door and looked in; she was
carrying the hand-lamp she had used in the kitchen.
"Are you in bed, child?" she inquired.
"Yes, Gran," Melina answered, adding timidly, for she was always afraid
of the old woman if she had been drinking, "Good night."
"Good night," Mrs. Berryman said; then she went to her own room.
The little girl drew a breath of relief. When Mrs. Jones had asked
her if she was tired she had answered, as she thought, truthfully in
saying she was not; but now she discovered that she was really very
weary—doubtless excitement had kept her from feeling so before. She
closed her eyes and tried to sleep; but though her limbs ached with
fatigue, her mind was still on the alert. In imagination she went over
the delightful experiences of the day and listened to the mysterious
murmur of the sea.
"I've been so happy, so very, very happy," she thought, "but now it
is all over. It was dreadful coming back to Gran—to find she had been
drinking again. Oh, what must the Joneses think of her! But there, they
know what she is!"
Then she remembered all William Jones had said to her about her
grandmother; she had scarcely thought of it during the day; and a
great sense of shame filled her heart, and she burst into tears. She
wept bitterly until, at length, thoroughly worn out, she fell into a
deep, dreamless sleep, from which, some while later, she awoke with
the feeling that something was wrong. She sat up in bed, coughing, to
find the room full of smoke. With a cry of horror she realised what was
amiss. The house was on fire.
CHAPTER XI
THE FIRE
THOROUGHLY wide awake now, Melina jumped out of bed and rushed to the
door. It was closed, and, as she opened it, she was met by a volume
of smoke ascending the stairway: evidently the fire was downstairs.
The smoke almost blinded and choked her; nevertheless she called
"Gran! Gran!" as loud as ever she could, and made her way into her
grandmother's room, which was over the parlour. It did not surprise
her to receive no answer, for she knew Mrs. Berryman was always a
heavy sleeper, more especially when she was the worse for drink; so,
going at once to the bed, she put out her hands, intending to shake
the old woman and thus awaken her, but to her dismay she found the bed
unoccupied. It took her but a few minutes after that to ascertain that
her grandmother was not in the room at all.
In a panic of fear Melina now rushed out on the landing, meaning to
go downstairs in search of Mrs. Berryman, but she found it was quite
impossible to do that, for the smoke was momentarily growing denser
and great tongues of flame were shooting up the stairway; so she went
into her bedroom and hastily dressed herself, then returned to her
grandmother's room, where the smoke was rather less thick than in her
own, and made her way to the window, which she opened wide, calling
loudly as she did so, "Help! Help!"
To her great joy she had an answer at once, a voice in the street,
which she recognised as a neighbour's, shouting back:
"All right! Keep by the window, and we'll get you out in a few minutes.
Some one's gone for a ladder, and we've sent for the fire-engine."
"Where's Gran?" demanded Melina.
"Mrs. Berryman?" said the same voice; "isn't she up there with you?"
"No," the little girl replied, "and I can't find her! I think she must
be downstairs."
There was a murmur of consternation from below, and, leaning out of the
window, Melina saw, by the light of the street lamp, that a small crowd
had congregated, amongst whom she thought she recognised Mrs. Jones.
"Is that you, Mrs. Jones?" she called.
"Yes," came back the response; "keep up your heart, Melina! Please God
the ladder will soon be here!"
"The smoke's stifling me!" cried Melina in accents of terror; "the
room's full of it!"
"They—my husband and some others—are breaking into the house from the
back. Ah, here comes the ladder, and—yes, the fire-engine at last!"
Two minutes later, just as the fire-engine arrived on the scene, a
ladder was placed against the window, and Melina, with assistance,
descended it in safety. Mrs. Jones caught her in her arms as she
reached the ground; and the little girl, who was feeling sick and
dizzy, was glad to lean against her for support.
"Thank God, you're safe," Mrs. Jones said. Then, before she could add
any more, William rushed up to them, crying excitedly:
"They've found her!—they've found Mrs. Berryman! She's awfully injured,
and they've taken her to the hospital! She was lying at the foot of the
stairs, and—"
"Now then, out of the way there!" broke in one of the firemen; "what
are you thinking of, standing about in the way like this?"
"Let us go!" cried Melina; "oh, I don't know where we can go!" She was
quite unnerved, and trembling in every limb.
"You aren't hurt, are you, Melina?" questioned William.
"No, but I feel so—so, and I can't see properly."
She put her hands to her eyes, which were smarting from the smoke; her
strength was failing her, and but for the support of Mrs. Jones she
would have fallen.
"She's ill, mother," she heard William say. His voice sounded a long,
long distance away, and after that consciousness left her altogether.
When Melina regained her senses she found herself lying on the sofa
in Mrs. Jones' parlour, Mrs. Jones standing by her side bathing her
forehead with cold water. She struggled into a sitting position, and
began to ask questions at once. How did she come there? Had the fire
been put out? Where was her grandmother?
"You fainted," Mrs. Jones explained, "as a result of fright and having
been nearly smothered with smoke, I expect, and some one helped me
to carry you in here. The firemen think they'll be able to prevent
the fire spreading to the other cottages if they can keep it from
reaching the roof; they've got the better of it already. As to your
grandmother—well, you heard William say that she's hurt; she's in the
hospital by this time, and she'll get every attention there. Take my
advice and lie where you are for a bit; if you'll promise to do that
I'll go to the door and inquire what's become of my husband."
"Very well," Melina agreed; "only please don't be very long. Why, it's
nearly daylight! Oh I'm glad of that!"
Mrs. Jones hurried away, and a few minutes later Melina heard her
talking to some one in the passage.
"Yes, that's a very good idea of yours," the little girl heard her say;
"she'd be better away from here—out of all the excitement."
"Then I'll take her back with me now," was the response, spoken in a
voice which the listener recognised.
An instant later Mrs. Jones reappeared in company with Agnes Brown's
father. He had been to the railway station to book the passengers
for an early morning train, and had there been told of the fire in
Jubilee Terrace, and had come to have a look at it before returning to
Gladstone Street to breakfast.
"I want you to come home with me, my dear," he said to Melina; "your
kind neighbour, here, thinks with me that you'd better come. What do
you say?"
"Oh yes, yes!" Melina cried. She rose from the sofa as she spoke; then
a sudden thought struck her, and she said hesitatingly: "I wish I knew
more about Gran—perhaps I ought to go to the hospital myself to find
out—"
"No," interposed Mrs. Jones decidedly, "not without you are sent for.
Go with Mr. Brown like a good girl; I am sure you ought."
After that, Melina very thankfully accompanied Mr. Brown to his home.
Thus it came about that the Browns had an unexpected visitor to their
early breakfast that morning. They made Melina sit down with them at
the table, and though she had previously declared herself not hungry,
she drank some coffee and ate some bread and butter. Mrs. Brown was
rather silent during the meal, as was her husband, both fearing that
Mrs. Berryman's condition must be very serious; but Agnes and the boys
kept up the conversation, asking Melina numerous questions.
"I think you must have been most frightened when you found that the
stairs were on fire," remarked Agnes; "oh, weren't you dreadfully
scared?"
"Yes," assented Melina. "I was afraid I should be burnt alive; I did
not think anyone would be about, and I did not know what the time
was—that it was so near daybreak."
"Who first found out about the fire?" asked Agnes.
"An engine-driver who goes on duty at five in the morning," replied Mr.
Brown; "he was passing Mrs. Berryman's back door when he saw that the
scullery was full of smoke and flames, and gave the alarm immediately."
"It was terrible waiting at the window before the ladder came," Melina
said, shuddering; "the smoke was getting thicker and thicker. I tried
to pray, but I couldn't—not properly. I didn't seem able to think." She
appeared very troubled.
"Many a prayer has never been put into words, my dear; God reads our
hearts, you know. Prayer is the uplifting of the heart to God."
It was Mrs. Brown who said this. Melina looked at her eagerly; then
exclaimed, with a brightening face and in a tone of relief:
"Oh yes! Then I am sure I prayed in my heart!"
After breakfast, when Mr. Brown had gone to the railway station again,
accompanied by the boys, who intended to go on to the scene of the
fire, Mr. Jones arrived and had an interview with Mrs. Brown. He did
not stay long; and directly he had taken his departure, Mrs. Brown went
upstairs to Melina, who was with Agnes in the latter's bedroom.
"Your neighbour, Mr. Jones, has been here, Melina," she began gravely;
"he desired me to tell you that your grandmother has been severely
burnt about the body and is suffering from shock; you see, she is a
very old woman—"
"Oh, is she going to die?" gasped Melina.
There had been a time, not long since, when the thought of her
grandmother's death would not have moved her in the least; but now she
was deeply agitated. God's love had softened her heart, and she burst
into tears.
"Oh, how dreadful if she should die!" she sobbed, as Mrs. Brown
hesitated to reply; "why, only last night she was drunk! Oh, she is not
fit to die—poor Gran!"
Agnes put her arms around her friend and tried to comfort her, and by
and by Melina regained her composure. Then Mrs. Brown spoke again. "I
have something more to tell you, Melina," she said,—"something that
will be a great surprise for you. Your father has returned."
"My father has returned! Oh, are you sure? Yes, yes, I see you are! Oh,
where is he? When did he come?"
"He arrived at Hawstock last night, and went straight to his mother's.
It was rather late and Mrs. Berryman would not go to the door to him;
she did not guess who he was, I suppose—he had not written to say he
was coming—"
"Oh," broke in Melina, "was that my father? Why, I saw him—he spoke to
Mr. Jones!"
"So Mr. Jones told me. Mr. Jones did not recognise him then, but he has
since done so. It seems that your father slept at an hotel last night,
and this morning the first news he heard was of the fire. On learning
who it was that had been injured he went to the hospital to see his
mother. He saw her; she was conscious and knew him; I believe he is
with her now."
"Oh! And Mr. Jones has seen him this morning?" questioned Melina.
"Yes, for a few minutes at the hospital."
"I wonder when I shall see him," Melina said wistfully; "I have so
hoped and longed for him to come. And oh, I do wonder what he is like!"
she added with an anxious sigh, whilst the expression of her face told
of her conflicting feelings.
Before Mrs. Brown had time to reply there was a knock at the front
door, and she went downstairs to answer it. She returned almost
immediately, her countenance even graver than it had been before.
"Melina, Mr. Blackmore has come to take you to your grandmother," she
said; "she has asked for you. You must go at once."
The little girl, trembling with agitation, hastened to obey. She had
come to Gladstone Street without a hat, but Agnes now lent her one,
and, having put it on, she hurried downstairs, where she found Mr.
Blackmore. He took her hand without a word, and led her to a cab which
was waiting outside the door.
"Get in, Melina," he said.
She did so, and he followed her, seating himself opposite to her. Then
the cab drove off.
"Is Gran dying?" she asked in an awed voice; "please tell me."
"She cannot live out the day," he replied. He paused for a minute,
then went on: "She expressed a wish to see me; I was sent for, and, of
course, went to her at once. We had a little talk together—"
"Oh, sir," broke in Melina, "is she very frightened?"
"No, not now. God has been very merciful to her; He has given her time
to repent—now, at the eleventh hour. Like the dying thief on the cross,
she has turned to Jesus when this world is passing—she has gone to Him
at last."
"Gran has gone to Him! Do you mean—"
Melina broke off abruptly, for the cab had stopped before the hospital.
The little gentleman opened the door and stepped out on the pavement,
then assisted his companion to alight, and together they passed through
the entrance of the great building into the vestibule beyond.
At that minute a door at one side of the vestibule opened, and a
grey-haired, middle-aged nurse, who Melina subsequently learnt was
the matron, appeared in company with a tall man, whose dark bearded
countenance looked very grave and sad. The nurse glanced quickly from
the little girl to Mr. Blackmore, then addressed the latter.
"It is all over, Mr. Blackmore," she said; she collapsed quite suddenly
after you left, and never spoke again. "My dear," she added, turning to
Melina, "do you understand? Your poor grandmother is dead."
Melina had never loved her grandmother—it had been impossible for
her to do so. Nevertheless she felt deeply shocked, and, being in an
overwrought condition, she burst again into tears; whereupon the tall
man stepped forward quickly; and, folding her in his arms, covered her
face with kisses.
"Oh," gasped Melina, "are you—yes, you must be my father!" She was
quite sure no one but her father would kiss her like that. "Oh, father,
why didn't you come before?"
"I wish I had," he answered brokenly; "oh, I wish I had!"
CHAPTER XII
GOOD-BYES
WHEN John Berryman, Melina's father, shortly after his wife's death,
had emigrated to Canada and left his infant daughter with his mother,
he had arranged to pay a certain sum monthly for the child's support.
Up to that time Mrs. Berryman, though not a teetotaller, had not drank
to excess, and, though inclined to be penurious, the love of money had
not so warped her character as to make her unscrupulous as to how she
obtained it. She had never been an affectionate mother, but her son
had believed she would, at any rate, do her duty towards her little
granddaughter; and, as he had always regularly kept up the monthly
instalments he had promised to send her, he had never dreamed of the
possibility that Melina might be neglected in any way.
Unhappily, however, in her old age Mrs. Berryman had succumbed to two
powerful evils—the love of money and the love of drink. She had done
so by degrees; but as she had kept her son's whereabouts a secret
from everybody, no one had been able to enlighten him as to her mode
of life, and he had pictured her, retired from business, living
comfortably with his little daughter on the income which he had all
along been supplying, and had gradually increased as he had become
better off. Thus the years had slipped by until it had occurred to him
how much he would like to pay a visit to England to see his mother and
Melina; he might take them back with him to Canada, he had thought. So
he had come home without writing to tell Mrs. Berryman to expect him,
having meant to give her a pleasant surprise, and the evening of Easter
Monday had found him in his native town.
How different, alas, had his meeting with his mother been to that which
he had anticipated! When he had stood by her side, as she lay dying in
the hospital, and listened to her confession of wrongdoing, he had felt
absolutely stunned; and it was not until after her funeral, when he
began to inquire into matters, that he discovered that the greater part
of the money he had sent her she had saved and put in the Post Office
Savings Bank, whilst one of the firemen had found a tin containing more
than thirty pounds in the chimney of her bedroom in Jubilee Terrace.
"I really think my mother must have been crazy," John Berryman remarked
to Mr. Blackmore one afternoon, as he stood talking to him in the
garden at South View; "she must have been a regular miser; and see
how she served my poor little girl! She never told her anything about
me—not even where I was or that she ever heard from me; and the Joneses
say that she served the child most unkindly at times—when she had been
drinking, I suppose."
"Yes, when she had been drinking," agreed Mr. Blackmore; "she was
not herself then. Drink almost invariably kills its victims' best
qualities, and brings out their worst. It was so in your mother's case,
no doubt."
John Berryman heaved a deep sigh. He had had a long interview with Mr.
Blackmore in the latter's study at South View, during which he had told
him of his plans for the future; and presently he was going to see
Melina, who was still staying with the Browns.
"I shall never be able to repay you for your kindness, sir," he said;
"but believe me, I shall never forget all you have done for me and
mine. Melina's told me what a good friend you've been to her—the first
friend she ever had, poor child, so she says; and I shall always
remember how you comforted my mother when she lay dying, how you
prayed for her when she said she was not fit to pray for herself, and
commended her to the love and mercy of God. I could not have helped her
as you did; you seemed so sure—"
"Ay, so I was," Mr. Blackmore said, as the other broke off as though
hardly able to explain his meaning, "sure of the Saviour—sure that He
would keep His promise, 'Him that cometh to Me I will in nowise cast
out.' I believe, Berryman, that in those last brief hours of her life,
your mother turned to Him, and that He was with her as she passed
through the valley of the shadow of death." The two men had by now
strolled to the garden gate. As John Berryman opened it he said in a
voice which trembled with emotion:
"I believe it, too."
A few minutes later he had taken leave of Mr. Blackmore and was walking
towards Gladstone Street. Arrived at the Browns' house, he was met at
the door by Melina, who put her arms around his neck and, drawing his
face down to hers, kissed him. Already there was an affection between
father and daughter which was rapidly growing stronger.
"I'm keeping house alone," she explained; "I would not go out with
Agnes and her mother because I thought you might come this afternoon,
father. You know I did not see you yesterday all day."
"All day?" He repeated the words with a smile. "Were you disappointed,
then?" he inquired, as he followed her into the parlour.
"Yes," she assented, "indeed I was."
John Berryman sat down, and his little daughter took a chair near
him, her eyes fixed on his face—a face with strongly marked features,
and an expression of straightforwardness about it which made it very
attractive. For a few minutes there was silence, then Melina said:
"I went to Jubilee Terrace yesterday, and had a look at No. 2. What a
good thing it was the fire was put out before it reached the roof! But
oh, father, I'm sorry all the furniture was burnt, for it would have
been yours now Gran is dead, wouldn't it?"
"Yes; but it was of little value."
"The only thing I mind having lost was my Bible," said the little
girl, "and I do mind very much about that. It was mother's Bible, you
know, and I might have saved it if I had thought of it, but I was too
frightened to think at all. And oh, father, I forgot to tell you that
Gran had a lot of money in her bedroom chimney—"
"Ah, you knew of that, did you? It is quite safe; it was found by one
of the firemen."
"Oh! It will be yours now, won't it, father? I never told Gran I knew
that she had it; I saw her counting it one day—she saved it, I suppose."
John Berryman made no immediate response. He felt a reluctance, which
was very natural, in talking of his mother; and when at length he spoke
his voice was very grave and sad.
"Your grandmother saved a lot of money which she ought to have spent,"
he said, "part of which is rightly mine, for I sent it to her; but the
rest I shall give away—to the hospital and the poor of the town. I have
told Mr. Blackmore my intention; he considers I shall be doing right."
"Oh, father!" Melina exclaimed. She was silent for a minute, reflecting
on what he had said, then she added, "I think I understand what you
feel."
"I feel that the money was taken from the poor, and I must make what
amends I can."
"I did not know until quite lately, father, what Gran's business was;
then William Jones told me."
"Never let us speak of it again, Melina!"
"No, we never will," she agreed. "I saw both Mr. and Mrs. Jones when I
was at Jubilee Terrace yesterday," she proceeded to inform him, "and
Mr. Jones told me what I had not heard before—that it was Gran who set
the house on fire."
"Yes," replied her father, "that was so. She explained that she
got up in the night to get something from the kitchen, and let the
hand-lamp she was carrying fall. The oil caught fire, and she could
not extinguish it; she was going to arouse you when she became giddy
and fell—at the foot of the stairs, where Mr. Jones and those who had
helped him to break in the backdoor found her."
Melina guessed the "something" her grandmother had gone to fetch from
the kitchen had been drink, but she did not say so; and her father
abruptly changed the conversation by remarking:
"I have been thinking that I cannot let you stay here much longer. It
has been most kind of the Browns to keep you so long; but there is room
for you in the house where I am lodging, and—"
"Oh, I should love to be with you, father!" Melina broke in.
He smiled and looked pleased. "I had intended to stay a month or so in
England," he said, "but now—well, not having found things as I expected
has made me alter my plans."
"You will go back to Canada soon, you mean?" Melina's voice sounded
anxious and subdued.
"Yes. I've done very well there—I have all along. I laboured on a new
railway first of all, then I got a post on a farm, and afterwards a
friend entered into partnership with me and we took some land for
ourselves. My partner's looking after everything during my absence, so
he's pretty busy—he'll be glad to get me back."
"Yes. I—I expect so," agreed Melina.
Her father looked at her questioningly, for the expression of her face
was troubled. "I daresay you will be sorry to leave your friends in
Hawstock," he said, "but—"
"Father, father!" interrupted the little girl excitedly, "do you mean
that I am to go with you? Oh, do you really mean that?"
"Why, most certainly I do. You did not think I should leave you behind
me, did you? I want my little daughter—"
"Oh!" interrupted Melina, her face aglow with happiness, "you can't
want me half so much as I want you!"
The tears were running down her cheeks, but they were tears of glad
relief; and her heart, which had been often so sad and lonely, was full
of joy.
"Come, Melina, my dear, it is time for us to say 'good-bye.'"
It was the evening before the day on which the Berrymans were to leave
Hawstock, a beautiful May evening which was drawing to a close, for the
sun had nearly set, and a soft, grey mist was settling over the town;
and the speaker was John Berryman, who, with his little daughter, was
paying a farewell call on Mr. Blackmore.
The scene was the study at South View. Mr. Blackmore sat near his
writing-table, close to the open window, through which a gentle breeze
was wafting the scent of wallflowers, whilst his visitors were seated
farther back in the room. Melina had improved in appearance during the
last few weeks; she looked less painfully thin, and faint roses had
appeared in her cheeks. But the roses faded now as her father reminded
her that it was time for them to say "good-bye" to Mr. Blackmore. She
had said several "good-byes" that day, which had made her very sad, to
Mr. and Mrs. Jones and William, and to each member of the Brown family,
but it seemed to her that to say "good-bye" to Mr. Blackmore was the
greatest trial of all.
"Yes," she assented, "I suppose it is." There was a tremulous note of
sorrow in her voice.
"One minute," said Mr. Blackmore; "I have something to give you,
Melina, before we part."
He opened a drawer in his writing-table as he spoke, and took out a
small, morocco-bound Bible, which he handed to her.
"Oh, sir, how kind of you!" was all she could say for a minute, but
her face told more than her words that she was deeply touched and
pleased. She opened the Bible and saw, written on the fly-leaf: "Melina
Berryman, from her friend, Raymond Blackmore."
"Thank you; oh, thank you!" she cried; then she looked at Mr. Blackmore
hesitatingly, and asked: "Please, sir, would you write something else?"
"Something else?"
"Yes, please. My mother wrote a text under her name in her Bible, her
favourite text—"
"And you want me to write your favourite text?" he questioned.
"No, sir, I would like you, please, to write yours." He took the Bible
from her, did as she desired, and returned the book to her. She read
what he had written: "'The gift of God is eternal life through Jesus
Christ our Lord,'" then met his glance with one full of understanding.
"Thank you," she said softly; "thank you very, very much."
A few minutes later the little girl was walking between her father and
Mr. Blackmore through the flower-scented garden towards the garden
gate, where, subsequently, good-byes were exchanged.
Melina's eyes were dim as she shook hands with Mr. Blackmore and heard
his kind voice say:
"Good-bye, Melina. God bless you and keep you, my dear."
"Good-bye, sir," she answered, smiling at him bravely through her
tears; "and God bless you," she added. "Oh, I know He will!"
Then her father took her hand and led her away; but at the corner
of the road she glanced back, and saw that the little gentleman was
leaning over the garden gate looking after them. The sunset glow was
falling full on his face, so that she could see it plainly; and thus,
in after years, she always pictured it, illuminated with golden light.
THE END
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