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."