CHAPTER THREE.
TREATS OF AN OLD HEROINE.
It was pleasant yet sad to observe the smile with which old Mrs Willisgreeted me--pleasant, because it proved that she was rejoiced to see me;sad, because it was not quite in keeping with the careworn old facewhose set wrinkles it deranged.
"I knew you would come. You never miss the day," she said, both wordsand tone showing that she had fallen from a much higher position in thesocial scale.
"It costs me little to visit you once a week, dear Mrs Willis," Ireplied, "and it gives me great pleasure; besides, I am bound by thelaws of the Society which grants your annuity to call personally and payit. I only wish it were a larger sum."
"Large enough; more than I deserve," said the old woman in a low tone,as she gazed somewhat vacantly at the dead wall opposite, and let hereyes slowly descend the spout.
The view was not calculated to distract or dissipate the mind. Thebricks were so much alike that the eye naturally sought and reposed onor followed the salient feature. Having descended the spout as far asthe window-sill permitted, the eyes of Mrs Willis slowly reascended asfar as possible, and then turned with a meek expression to my face."More than I deserve," she repeated, "and _almost_ as much as I require.It is very kind of the Society to give it, and of you to bring it. MayGod bless you both! Ah, doctor! I'm often puzzled by--eh! What'sthat?"
The sudden question, anxiously asked, was accompanied by a feebleattempt to gather her poor garments close round her feet as Dumpssniffed at her skirts and agitated his ridiculous tail.
"It's only my dog, granny,"--I had of late adopted this term ofendearment; "a very quiet well-behaved creature, I assure you, thatseems too amiable to bite. Why, he appears to have a tendency to claimacquaintance with everybody. I do believe he knows _you_!"
"No, no, he doesn't. Put him out; pray put him out," said the oldwoman, in alarm.
Grieved that I had unintentionally roused her fear, I opened the doorand called Dumps. My doggie rose, with his three indicators erect andexpectant.
"Go out, sir, and lie down!"
The indicators slowly drooped, and Dumps crawled past in abjecthumility. Shutting the door, I returned.
"I hope you don't dislike little boys as well as little dogs, granny,because I have brought one to wait for me here. You won't mind hissitting at the door until I go?"
"No, no!" said Mrs Willis quickly; "I like little boys--when--whenthey're good," she added, after a pause.
"Say I'm one o' the good sort, sir," suggested Slidder, in a hoarsewhisper. "Of course, it ain't true, but wot o' that, if it relieves hermind?"
Taking no notice of this remark, I again sat down beside my old woman.
"What were you going to say about being puzzled, granny?"
"Puzzled, doctor! did I say I was puzzled?"
"Yes, but pray don't call me doctor. I'm not quite fledged yet, youknow. Call me Mellon, or John. Well, you were saying--"
"Oh, I remember. I was only going to say that I've been puzzled a gooddeal of late by that text in which David says, `I have never seen therighteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.' Now, my father andmother were both good Christians, and, although I cannot claim to be a_good_ one myself, I do claim to be a poor follower of Jesus. Yet heream I--"
She paused.
"Well, granny," said I, "are you forsaken?"
"Nay, John, God forbid that I should say so; but am I not a beggar? Ahpride, pride, you are hard to kill!"
"_Are_ you a beggar?" I asked in a tone of surprise. "When did you beglast, granny?"
"Is not a recipient of charity a beggar?"
"No," I replied stoutly, "he is not. A solicitor of charity is abeggar, but a recipient thereof is not. In your case it was I who wasthe beggar. Do you not remember when I found you first, without a crustin the house, how I had to beg and entreat you to allow me to put yourname on this charity, and how you persistently refused, until at last Idid it without your consent; and how, eventually, you gave in only whenI charged you with pride? You are not forsaken, granny, and you are nota beggar."
"Brayvo, doctor! you have 'er there!" came in a soft whisper from thedoor.
For a moment I felt tempted to turn the boy out, as I had turned out thedog; but, seeing that my old woman had not overheard the remark, I tookno notice of it.
"You have put the matter in a new light John," said Mrs Willis slowly,as her eyes once more sought the spout. "You often put things in newlights, and there does seem some truth in what you say. It did hurt mypride at first, but I'm gettin' used to it now. Besides," continued theold lady, with a deep sigh, "that trouble and everything else isswallowed up in the great sorrow of my life."
"Ah! you refer to your granddaughter, I suppose," said I in a tone ofprofound sympathy. "You have never told me about her, dear granny. Ifit is not too painful a subject to speak of, I should like to hear abouther. When did she die?"
"Die!" exclaimed Mrs Willis with a burst of energy that surprisedme--"she did not die! She left me many, many months ago, it seems likeyears now. My Edie went out one afternoon to walk, like a beautifulsunbeam as she always was, and--and--she never came back!"
"Never came back!" I echoed, in surprise.
"No--never. I was not able to walk then, any more than now, else Iwould have ranged London all round, day and night, for my darling. Asit was, a kind city missionary made inquiries at all the police-offices,and everywhere else he could think of, but no clew could be gained as towhat had become of her. At last he got wearied out and gave it up. Nowonder; he had never seen Edie, and could not love her as I did. Oncehe thought he had discovered her. The body of a poor girl had beenfound in the river, which he thought answered to her description. Ithought so too when he told me what she was like, and at once concludedshe had tumbled in by accident and been drowned--for, you see, my Ediewas good and pure and true. She could not have committed suicide unlessher mind had become deranged, and there was nothing that I knew of tobring about that. They got me with much trouble into a cab, and droveme to the place. Ah! the poor thing--she was fair and sweet to lookupon, with her curling brown hair and a smile still on the parted lips,as if she had welcomed Death; but she was not my Edie. For months andmonths after that I waited and waited, feeling sure that she would come.Then I was forced to leave my lodging. The landlord wanted it himself.I begged that he would let me remain, but he would not. He was ahard-hearted, dissipated man. I took another lodging, but it was a longway off, and left my name and new address at the old one. My heart sankafter that, and--and I've no hope now--no hope. My darling must havemet with an accident in this terrible city. She must have been killed,and will never come back to me."
The poor creature uttered a low wail, and put a handkerchief to her oldeyes.
"But, bless the Lord!" she added in a more cheerful tone, "I will go toher--soon."
For some minutes I knew not what to say in reply, by way of comfortingmy poor old friend. The case seemed indeed so hopeless. I could onlypress her hand. But my nature is naturally buoyant, and ready to hopeagainst hope, even when distress assails myself.
"Do not say there is no hope, granny," said I at last, making an effortto be cheerful. "You know that with God all things are possible. Itmay be that this missionary did not go the right way to work in hissearch, however good his intentions might have been. I confess I cannotimagine how it is possible that any girl should disappear in this way,unless she had deliberately gone off with some one."
"No, John, my Edie would not have left me thus of her own free will,"said the old woman, with a look of assurance which showed that her mindwas immovably fixed as to that point.
"Well, then," I continued, "loving you as you say she did, and beingincapable of leaving you deliberately and without a word of explanation,it follows that--that--"
I stopped, for at this point no plausible reason for the girl'sdisappearance suggested itself.
"It follows that she must hav
e been killed," said the old woman in a lowbroken tone.
"No, granny, I will not admit that.--Come, cheer up; I will do my bestto make inquiries about her, and as I have had considerable experiencein making investigations among the poor of London, perhaps I may fall onsome clew. She would be sure to have made inquiries, would she not, atyour old lodging, if she had felt disposed to return?"
"Felt disposed!" repeated Mrs Willis, with a strange laugh. "If she_could_ return, you mean."
"Well--if she could," said I.
"No doubt she would; but soon after I left my old lodging the landlordfled the country, and other people came to the house, who were troubledby my sending so often to inquire. Then my money was all expended, andI had to quit my second lodging, and came here, which is far, far fromthe old lodging, and now I have no one to send."
"Have you any friends in London?" I asked.
"No. We had come from York to try to find teaching for my darling, forwe could get none in our native town, and we had not been long enough inLondon to make new friends when--when--she went away. My dear Ann andWillie, her mother and father, died last year, and now we have no nearrelations in the world."
"Shall I read to you, granny?" said I, feeling that no words of minecould do much to comfort one in so sad a case.
She readily assented. I was in the habit of reading and praying withher during these visits. I turned, without any definite intention ofdoing so, to the words, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavyladen, and I will give you rest." I cannot tell why, but I paused hereinstead of reading on, or commenting on the words.
The old woman looked earnestly at me.
"These words," she said, "have been in my mind all yesterday and the daybefore. I have been greatly comforted by them, because `He is faithfulwho has promised.' Pray over them, John; don't read any more."
I knelt by the poor woman's chair; she could not kneel with me in body,though she did in spirit, I doubt not. I had quite forgotten Slidder,but, on rising, observed that he had followed my example and gone downon his knees.
"Were you praying with us, Slidder?" I asked, after we left MrsWillis, and were walking up the alley, followed by Dumps.
"Dun know, sir; I've never heard nor seen nuffin' o' this sort before.In coorse I've heard the missionaries sometimes, a-hollerin' about thestreets, but I never worrited myself about _them_. I say, doctor,that's a rum go about that gal Edie--ain't it? I've quite took a fancyto that gal, now, though I ain't seen her. D'ye think she's bindrownded?"
"I scarce know what to think. Her disappearance so suddenly does seemvery strange. I fear, I fear much that--however, it's of no useguessing. I shall at once set about making inquiries."
"Ha! so shall I," said the little waif, with a look of determination onhis small face that amused me greatly, "for she's a good gal is Edie--ifshe ain't drownded."
"Why, boy, how can you know whether the girl is good or bad?"
"How can I know?" he echoed, with a glance of almost superhuman wisdom."In coorse I know by the powers of obserwation. That old gal, MrsWillis, is a good old thing--as good as gold. Vell, a good mother isalways cocksure to 'ave a good darter--specially ven she's a onlydarter--so the mother o' Edie bein' good, Edie herself _must_ be good,don't you see? Anythink as belonged to Mrs Willis can't help bein'good. I'm glad you took me to see her, doctor, for I've made up my mindto take that old 'ooman up, as the bobbies say w'en they're wexed withavin' nuffin' to do 'xcept strut about the streets like turkey-cocks.I'll take 'er up and do for 'er, I will."
On questioning him further I found that this ragged and homeless littlewaif had indeed been touched by Mrs Willis's sad story, and drawntowards her by her soft, gentle nature--so different from what he hadhitherto met with in his wanderings,--and that he was resolved to offerher his gratuitous services as a message-boy and general servant,without requiring either food or lodging in return.
"But Mrs Willis may object to such a dirty ragged fellow coming abouther," said I.
"Ain't there no pumps in London, stoopid?" said Slidder, with a look ofpity, "no soap?"
"True," I replied, with a laugh, "but you'd require needles and threadand cloth, in addition, to make yourself respectable."
"Nothink of the sort; I can beg or borrer or steal coats and pants, youknow."
"Ah, Slidder!" said I, in a kind but serious tone, "doubtless you can,but begging or borrowing are not likely to succeed, and stealing iswrong."
"D'you think so?" returned the boy, with a look of innocent surprise."Don't you think, now, that in a good cause a cove might:--
"`Take wot isn't his'n, An' risk his bein' sent to pris'n?'"
I replied emphatically that I did not think so, that _wrong_ could neverbe made _right_ by any means, and that the commencement of a course ofeven disinterested kindness on such principles would be sure to end ill.
"Vell, then, I'll reconsider my decision, as the maginstrates ought tosay, but never do."
"That's right. And now we must part, Slidder," I said, stopping. "Hereis the second sixpence I promised you, also my card and address. Willyou come and see me at my own house the day after to-morrow, at eight inthe morning?"
"I will," replied the boy, with decision; "but I say, all fair an'above-board? No school-boardin' nor nuffin' o' that sort--hey? honourbright?"
"Honour bright!" I replied, holding out my hand, which he grasped andshook quite heartily.
We had both taken two or three steps in opposite directions, when, as ifunder the same impulse, we looked back at each other, and in so doingbecame aware of the fact that Dumps stood between us on the pavement ina state of extreme indecision or mental confusion.
"Hallo! I say! we've bin an' forgot Punch!" exclaimed the boy.
"Dumps," said I, "come along!"
"Punch," said he, "come here, good dog!"
My doggie looked first at one, then at the other. The two indicators infront rose and fell, while the one behind wagged and drooped in a stateof obvious uncertainty.
"Won't you sell 'im back?" said Slidder, returning. "I'll work it outin messages or anythink else."
"But what of the bobbies?" I asked.
"Ah! true, I forgot the bobbies. I'd on'y be able to keep 'im for aweek, p'r'aps not so long, afore they'd nab him.--Go, Punch, go, youdon't know ven you're vell off."
The tone in which this was uttered settled the point, and turned thewavering balance of the creature's affections in my favour. With allthe indicators extremely pendulous, and its hairy coat hanging in aspecies of limp humility, my doggie followed me home; but I observedthat, as we went along, he ever and anon turned a wistful glance in thedirection in which the ragged waif had disappeared.