Produced by Joel Erickson, Tom Harris, Dave Morgan, Mary Meehan andthe Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
Alone in London
By Hesba Stretton
Author of "Jessica's First Prayer," "Little Meg's Children," etc.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I. NOT ALONE
II. WAIFS AND STRAYS
III. A LITTLE PEACEMAKER
IV. OLD OLIVER'S MASTER
V. FORSAKEN AGAIN
VI. THE GRASSHOPPER A BURDEN
VII. THE PRINCE OF LIFE
VIII. NO PIPE FOR OLD OLIVER
IX. A NEW BROOM AND A CROSSING
X. HIGHLY RESPECTABLE
XI. AMONG THIEVES
XII. TONY'S WELCOME
XIII. NEW BOOTS
XIV. IN HOSPITAL
XV. TONY'S FUTURE PROSPECTS
XVI. A BUD FADING
XVII. A VERY DARK SHADOW
XVIII. NO ROOM FOR DOLLY
XIX. THE GOLDEN CITY
XX. A FRESH DAY DAWNS
XXI. POLLY
CHAPTER I.
NOT ALONE.
It had been a close and sultry day--one of the hottest of thedog-days--even out in the open country, where the dusky green leaves hadnever stirred upon their stems since the sunrise, and where the birds hadfound themselves too languid for any songs beyond a faint chirp now andthen. All day long the sun had shone down steadily upon the streets ofLondon, with a fierce glare and glowing heat, until the barefootedchildren had felt the dusty pavement burn under their tread almost aspainfully as the icy pavement had frozen their naked feet in the winter.In the parks, and in every open space, especially about the cool splashof the fountains at Charing Cross, the people, who had escaped from thecrowded and unventilated back streets, basked in the sunshine, or soughtevery corner where a shadow could be found. But in the alleys and slumsthe air was heavy with heat and dust, and thick vapours floated up anddown, charged with sickening smells from the refuse of fish andvegetables decaying in the gutters. Overhead the small, straight strip ofsky was almost white, and the light, as it fell, seemed to quiver withthe burden of its own burning heat.
Out of one of the smaller thoroughfares lying between Holborn and theStrand, there opens a narrow alley, not more than six or seven feetacross, with high buildings on each side. In the most part the groundfloors consist of small shops; for the alley is not a blind one, butleads from the thoroughfare to another street, and forms, indeed, a shortcut to it, pretty often used. These shops are not of any size orimportance--a greengrocer's, with a somewhat scanty choice of vegetablesand fruit, a broker's, displaying queer odds and ends of household goods,two or three others, and at the end farthest from the chief thoroughfare,but nearest to the quiet and respectable street beyond, a verymodest-looking little shop-window, containing a few newspapers, somerather yellow packets of stationery, and two or three books of ballads.Above the door was painted, in very small, dingy letters, the words,"James Oliver, News Agent."
The shop was even smaller, in proportion, than its window. After twocustomers had entered--if such an event could ever come to pass--it wouldhave been almost impossible to find room for a third. Along the end ran alittle counter, with a falling flap by which admission could be gained tothe living-room lying behind the shop. This evening the flap was down--acertain sign that James Oliver, the news agent, had some guest within,for otherwise there would have been no occasion to lessen the scanty sizeof the counter. The room beyond was dark, very dark indeed, for the timeof day; for, though the evening was coming on, and the sun was hasteningto go down at last, it had not yet ceased to shine brilliantly upon thegreat city. But inside James Oliver's house the gas was already lightedin a little steady flame, which never flickered in the still, hot air,though both door and window were wide open. For there was a window,though it was easy to overlook it, opening into a passage four feet wide,which led darkly up into a still closer and hotter court, lying in thevery core of the maze of streets. As the houses were four stories high,it is easy to understand that very little sunlight could penetrate toOliver's room behind his shop, and that even at noonday it was twilightthere. This room was of a better size altogether than a stranger mighthave supposed, having two or three queer little nooks and recessesborrowed from the space belonging to the adjoining house; for thebuildings were old, and had probably been one large dwelling in formertimes. It was plainly the only apartment the owner had; and all itsarrangements were those of a man living alone, for there was somethingalmost desolate about the look of the scanty furniture, though it wasclean and whole. There had been a fire, but it had died out, and thecoals were black in the grate, while the kettle still sat upon the topbar with a melancholy expression of neglect about it.
James Oliver himself had placed his chair near to the open door, where hecould keep his eye upon the shop--a needless precaution, as at this hourno customers ever turned into it. He was an old man, and seemed very oldand infirm by the dim light. He was thin and spare, with that peculiarspareness which results from the habit of always eating less than onecan. His teeth, which had never had too much to do, had gone some yearsago, and his cheeks fell in rather deeply. A fine network of wrinklespuckered about the corners of his eyes and mouth. He stooped a good deal,and moved about with the slowness and deliberation of age. Yet his facewas very pleasant--a cheery, gentle, placid face, lighted up with a smilenow and then, but with sufficient rareness to make it the more welcomeand the more noticed when it came.
Old Oliver had a visitor this hot evening, a neat, small, dapper woman,with a little likeness to himself, who had been putting his room torights, and looking to the repairs needed by his linen. She was justreplacing her needle, cotton, and buttons in an old-fashioned housewife,which she always carried in her pocket, and was then going to put on herblack silk bonnet and coloured shawl, before bidding him goodbye.
"Eh, Charlotte," said Oliver, after drawing a long and toilsome breath,"what would I give to be a-top of the Wrekin, seeing the sun set thisevening! Many and many's the summer afternoon we've spent there when wewere young, and all of us alive. Dost remember how many a mile of countrywe could see all round us, and how fresh the air blew across thethousands of green fields? Why, I saw Snowdon once, more than sixty milesoff, when my eyes were young and it was a clear sunset. I always think ofthe top of the Wrekin when I read of Moses going up Mount Pisgah andseeing all the land about him, north and south, east and west. Eh, lass!there's a change in us all now!"
"Ah! it's like another world!" said the old woman, shaking her headslowly. "All the folks I used to sew for at Aston, and Uppington, andOverlehill, they'd mostly be gone or dead by now. It wouldn't seem likethe same place at all. And now there's none but you and me left, brotherJames. Well, well! its lonesome, growing old."
"Yes, lonesome, yet not exactly lonesome," replied old Oliver, in adreamy voice. "I'm growing dark a little, and just a trifle deaf, and Idon't feel quite myself like I used to do; but I've got something Ididn't use to have. Sometimes of an evening, before I've lit the gas,I've a sort of a feeling as if I could almost see the Lord Jesus, andhear him talking to me. He looks to me something like our eldest brother,him that died when we were little. Charlotte, thee remembers him? Awhite, quiet, patient face, with a smile like the sun shining behindclouds. Well, whether it's only a dream or no I cannot tell, but there'sa face looks at me, or seems to look at me out of the dusk; and I thinkto myself, maybe the Lord Jesus says, 'Old Oliver's lonesome down therein the dark, and his eyes growing dim. I'll make myself half-plain tohim.' Then he comes and sits here with me for a little while."
"Oh, that'
s all fancy as comes with you living quite alone," saidCharlotte, sharply.
"Perhaps so! perhaps so!" answered the old man, with a meek sigh; "but Ishould be very lonesome without that."
They did not speak again until Charlotte had given a final shake to thebed in the corner, upon which her bonnet and shawl had been lying. Sheput them on neatly and primly; and when she was ready to go she spokeagain in a constrained and mysterious manner.
"Heard nothing of Susan, I suppose?" she said.
"Not a word," answered old Oliver, sadly. "It's the only trouble I'vegot. That were the last passion I ever went into, and I was hot andhasty, I know."
"So you always used to be at times," said his sister.
"Ah! but that passion was the worst of all," he went on, speakingslowly. "I told her if she married young Raleigh, she should never darkenmy doors again--never again. And she took me at my word though she mighthave known it was nothing but father's hot temper. Darken my doors! Why,the brightest sunshine I could have 'ud be to see her come smiling intomy shop, like she used to do at home."
"Well, I think Susan ought to have humbled herself," said Charlotte."It's going on for six years now, and she's had time enough to see herfolly. Do you know where she is?"
"I know nothing about her," he answered, shaking his head sorrowfully."Young Raleigh was wild, very wild, and that was my objection to him;but I didn't mean Susan to take me at my word. I shouldn't speak sohasty and hot now."
"And to think. I'd helped to bring her up so genteel, and with suchpretty manners!" cried the old woman, indignantly. "She might have doneso much better with her cleverness too. Such a milliner as she might haveturned out! Well good-bye, brother James, and don't go having any more ofthose visions; they're not wholesome for you."
"I should be very lonesome without them," answered Oliver. "Good-bye,Charlotte, good-bye, and God bless you. Come again as soon as you can."
He went with her to the door, and stayed to watch her along the quietalley, till she turned into the street. Then, with a last nod to the backof her bonnet, as she passed out of his sight, he returned slowly intohis dark shop, put up the flap of the counter, and retreated to thedarker room within. Hot as it was, he fancied it was growing a littlechilly with the coming of the night, and he drew on his old coat, andthrew a handkerchief over his white head, and then sat down in the dusk,looking out into his shop and the alley beyond it. He must have falleninto a doze after a while, being overcome with the heat, and lulled bythe constant hum of the streets, which reached his dull ear in a softenedmurmur; for at length he started up almost in a fright, and found thatcomplete darkness had fallen upon him suddenly, as it seemed to him. Achurch clock was striking nine, and his shop was not closed yet. He wentout hurriedly to put the shutters up.