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."