HOW PHIL AND MILLIE CAME TO LIVE IN LONDON.
POOR Phil and Millie! Their history had been a sad one, as you shall
hear.
Until within a year or so of the time when this story opens, they had
lived in the pretty seaside village of Chormouth, in the south of
Devonshire. Their father, Philip Guntry, was a sailor. He earned good
wages as second mate on board a merchant vessel, while their mother
employed some of her leisure time in lace-making, a work at which she
was particularly skilful. So they were comfortably off, and Millie and
Phil, in those days, knew nothing of want and privation.
Sometimes, when Millie sat alone in their small close lodgings in
Swift Street, she would shut her eyes and conjure up before her the
village street and the pretty little cottage that had been her home
for so many happy years. Very wistfully she thought of the little room
which, with its dainty bed and spotless hangings of white muslin, she
had once called her own; of the lovely view from its window; of the
creeping rose bush, whose clusters of white blossoms had awakened her
on many a sunshiny morning by gently tapping on her window pane; of
the comfortable, homely kitchen, and of the parlour where they sat on
Sundays, or entertained visitors who, having dropped in for a chat,
were prevailed upon to stay and take a cup of tea.
So time had passed happily and prosperously with the Guntrys until
Millie was nearly ten years old. Then a terrible trouble shadowed the
brightness of their home; and, alas! other griefs came rapidly upon the
footsteps of the first.
Philip Guntry, who had been absent on a long voyage, was daily expected
at Chormouth. Anxious eyes scanned the shipping intelligence for news
of the "Cynthia," and his wife spent many weary nights in listening to
the blustering wind, and the distant swell of the ocean. The gales of
that autumn were unusually severe, and wrecks and disasters were of
such frequent occurrence that Mrs. Guntry's heart might well sicken
with fear as days and weeks passed by and brought no news of her
husband's arrival in England.
At last, one morning, she read in a newspaper that a broken piece of
timber, bearing the name of the "Cynthia," had been picked up at sea,
from which fact it was concluded that the vessel in question had been
wrecked during the fearful gales of the past weeks, and that all hands
on board had perished.
It was indeed a trial to the poor wife. Her worst forebodings were
realised, and in the first agony of her grief, her spirits sank beneath
the blow. But she was a brave little woman, and knowing that it now
devolved upon her to support herself and her children, she put all
selfish indulgence of her sorrow aside, and with willing hands, though
with a heavy heart, set herself resolutely to her lace-making, which,
once a mere pastime for leisure moments, had now to become a necessary
and serious occupation for the whole of the day. Even then she found
it a difficult matter to make both ends meet. True, there was a little
fund of money in the Savings Bank. It had been placed there against a
rainy day, but though the rainy day had now come, she felt that there
might be a stormier one in the future, and would not touch it.
By dint, however, of working early and late, and living very frugally,
she was able to live on in the old home—it would have broken her heart
to leave it—and send the children regularly to school, where Phil was
doing wonders, and was already looked upon as a genius.
With constant occupation, and in the peace of mind that her cheerful
resignation to God's will brought with it, there presently sprang up
within her a belief, which, though weak at first, grew stronger as
time went on. It was a belief that her husband still lived, and that
he would eventually return to her. She told her little daughter of her
new-born hope, for Millie was thoughtful and gentle beyond her years,
and her mother and she were very closely bound together in sympathy and
love.
"Millie," she would say to her, when in the long winter evenings Phil
was away at his drawing class, and mother and daughter sat alone by
the fireside, "Millie, I can't understand why I feel so sure that your
father will come back to us some day. It seems impossible, I know,
but I can't get rid of an inward conviction that he is not dead. Yet
perhaps it is only because my hope of seeing him again is so great that
it seems as if it must be realised."
But her hope was never realised on earth. Within a year of the wreck of
the "Cynthia" smallpox broke out in the village. The dreadful disease
spread rapidly, and Mrs. Guntry was one of the first to sicken. An
empty cottage on the outskirts of the village had been hastily prepared
as a hospital for the sufferers. To this she was taken, and here, in a
week or two, she died.
Everybody pitied, and did what they could for the poor children who
were now left alone in the world. The vicar wrote to an aunt in London,
their mother's sister, who was almost the only relative they had,
asking her if she could do anything for the orphans.
In a few days an answer came from Mrs. Hunt. It brought good news for
Phil and Millie. She would gladly give her nephew and niece a home, she
said, and she would herself come to Chormouth and take them back with
her to London.
The children loved their aunt directly they saw her. Her manners were
so kind and gentle, and her soft voice and sweet pale face reminded
them so much of their dear mother, that their lonely sorrowful hearts
were greatly comforted, and they felt at home with her at once. As she
bent over Millie on the night of her arrival to give her a last kiss in
bed, the child smiled her first smile since that dreadful day when her
mother had been carried off to the cottage hospital.
Mrs. Hunt remained a few days at Chormouth, arranging the sale of the
furniture in the Guntrys' cottage, and settling a few business affairs
on behalf of the children. The money in the Savings Bank had been
nearly all spent in defraying the expenses of Mrs. Guntry's illness and
funeral: the few pounds that remained, Mrs. Hunt resolved should pay
for the children's further education, for she was by no means well off,
and it was almost more than she could do to give them a home. Then,
when all was finished, she went back to London, accompanied by Phil and
Millie.
They were as happy with their aunt Hunt as they would have been
anywhere, perhaps, but they had not been long in the house before
they understood the cause of their aunt's anxious face, and the weary
vigils that she kept at night as she sat listening for her husband's
tardy footsteps; for, alas! Richard Hunt had one great failing, that
of indulging in habits of intemperance. It was a constant grief to
his wife. He was an artisan—a painter—and they might have lived very
pleasantly and comfortably had it not been for his unfortunate love of
drink.
From the first hour of their meeting Phil and his uncle never got on
well together. There was something strangely antagonistic between them.
Phil was reserved, cold, almost sullen towards his uncle, who never
took the trouble to overcome his nephew's dislike, or interest himself
in Phil's pursuits. With Millie it was different; he took a great fancy
to her. Perhaps she reminded him of his tiny fair-haired child, whose
short life of three years had ended in so sudden and painful a manner.
It happened that "Baby," as they still called her, was left alone
in the kitchen, and thinking, poor little one! what a bright pretty
plaything the fire would make, she began pulling out the blazing
sticks. One of these must have fallen upon her print pinafore, and
instantly the child was in flames. Her screams alarmed her mother, who
came flying to the spot. Seizing the child, she enveloped her in a
thick shawl, and so extinguished the fire, but not before the tender
limbs had been most fearfully burned. Three days after that fatal
morning, "Baby" died, and so intense had been her agony that the mother
at last prayed that death might come to put an end to her darling's
sufferings. Poor mother! She felt that to her dying day she could never
forgive herself for having left her child alone on the disastrous
morning of the accident. No second bairn ever came to take "Baby's"
empty place.
Two years after that sad event, Mrs. Gantry died, and her sister at
once asked her husband's permission to bring the two orphaned children
to share their home. He objected strongly at first, remarking, very
justly, that what would keep two persons in tolerable comfort was a
short allowance for four. But Mrs. Hunt cheerfully talked away all
difficulties, and at last her wish was gratified.
In Millie's sweet companionship and loving care they felt repaid for
what they had done. She settled down at once, taking upon herself
certain of the household duties—"the little lass" being her uncle's pet
name for her.
Phil was by no means so happy. He went with his sister to school for
the first few weeks after their arrival in London, but feeling sure
that his uncle considered him a lazy fellow, who preferred idling his
time over his books to any more profitable employment, he begged to be
allowed to seek a situation. He soon obtained one, but was miserable
in it. He was always longing for time to study and draw, and every
spare moment was occupied with a book or pencil. He hated London, too,
and London life. He felt "suffocated and smoke-dried," he said, and he
longed intensely for the freedom and fresh air of the country.
Then came another heavy loss for the children; one that made their
lives desolate indeed. The following winter was unusually severe; and
Mrs. Hunt, who was naturally delicate, caught a heavy cold, which
turned to bronchitis, and in the end proved fatal. As she lay on what
she felt would be her death-bed, her mind was troubled with many
perplexities and anxieties respecting her husband and the children she
had adopted. She feared that her husband would go from bad to worse;
for he was weak-minded and easily led astray, and her influence had
been the one thing that had kept him from bringing complete disgrace
and ruin upon himself and home. What then would be Phil and Millie's
fate? Certainly Phil was well educated for his age and position in
life; consequently he would always be able to get a situation of some
kind; but he was still very young, and both he and his sister needed
wise guardianship and kind care. But after all she could only leave it
in God's hands. The one thing that she could do, she did, which was
to beg Miss Crawford to take an interest in the orphans, and be their
friend and counsellor in any special difficulty.
Miss Crawford had known Mrs. Hunt ever since her child's death, when
she had been requested by the vicar of the parish to call on the poor
mother and comfort her in her sorrow. Very gladly she had consented;
for though she was young, she had that love for her fellow-creatures
which springs only from a deeper love for their Creator. Many a
wretched London home had been brightened by her gentle presence, and
many were the sad hearts that her words of sympathy had cheered.
Miss Crawford generally saw Millie when she called on Mrs. Hunt, and
she liked the little girl for her own sake. Of Phil she knew very
little, but she promised the dying woman that neither should want a
friend while she was living. So their aunt was comforted and her mind
set at rest.
"I am quite happy," she said feebly, to the weeping friends who were
gathered around her dying bed. "Love each other, and live for each
other, my darlings. Good-bye, my husband; meet me in heaven. I shall
watch for you there."
For awhile after her death all went quietly. Each mourned the dear one
who had been removed, and her dying words rang in her husband's ear.
Before many months had past, however, several of his old habits were
resumed; he renewed his acquaintance with some of his most disreputable
"chums," and would come reeling home at uncertain hours of the night,
much the worse for drink. Well might Millie's face grow pale, and her
eyes heavy, as her daily burden of care grew heavier and heavier. Her
only ray of comfort was that Miss Crawford was her true friend, and
often came to see her.
In the beginning of June, Phil and Millie were surprised to hear from
their uncle that he had decided to leave Camberwell and live in Swift
Street, Drury Lane. Great was the horror of the children when they
found themselves in such a close, dirty neighbourhood. It was indeed
different from beautiful Chormouth with its sunny bay, its big red
cliffs, its green downs, pretty cottages and neat gardens.
It was little wonder they thought yearningly of their old home, and
sorrowfully compared it with their present. But it was harder for Phil
than for Millie. She knew the love of God—knowledge which will make
the saddest life happy. When weary or lonely, she would get her Bible,
and ponder over the comforting words it contains, till her heart was
cheerful and light again: "Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in
Him; and He shall bring it to pass," she would say softly to herself.
She believed implicitly that there was a better time coming, and lived
in the present but to cheer her brother and endeavour to win back her
uncle to a better life.
It would have been well for Phil if he too had possessed Millie's
Christian spirit; but his troubles, instead of softening, had hardened
his heart. If he thought of God at all, it was as One who takes
pleasure in punishing and chastising His children, and not as a loving
Father "Who delighteth in mercy."
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