WATERLOO BRIDGE BY MOONLIGHT.
IT was about a fortnight after the conversation recorded in the first
chapter, when Phil, coming in from work somewhat earlier than usual,
asked Millie to go out for a walk with him. It had been a hot, close
day, and at the mere thought of a cool stroll with her brother she
jumped up with alacrity.
"You don't mind being left alone, uncle?" she asked of that individual,
who sat by the open window smoking a short pipe.
"No, no," he said, "I'm glad for you to go." Then looking at her rather
anxiously, he added, "You haven't looked so well lately. There, take
this penny and go on the bridge. The breeze from the river will freshen
you a bit."
Waterloo Bridge is a free thoroughfare now, but at the time of this
story there was a toll of one halfpenny upon every passenger who
crossed it.
"Thank you, uncle," said Millie gratefully.
He had come home sober that evening—a rare occurrence—and was showing
an unusual amount of interest in domestic matters.
"We won't stay out very late."
"The longer the better, child. I shan't want you. Just put the bread
and cheese on the table, though, before you go. There will be nothing
to make you hurry back then," he said kindly.
Phil fidgeted about till this was done. Then he and Millie started off.
Down Drury Lane and out into the Strand they passed; crossed the road
into Wellington Street, and so arrived on Waterloo Bridge, where they
sauntered to and fro awhile; then Millie said:
"Let us sit down in one of these recesses, Phil. It is pleasanter than
walking about, and the wind is so cool and refreshing."
"The moon will be up presently, Millie. You will like that."
"Yes, indeed, I shall. I remember how beautiful it was on moonlight
nights at Chormouth. There was a broad pathway of silvery waves right
across the sea as far as the eye could reach. I used to think how
nice it would be to row in a little boat right up the glittering road
of light; for it was so lovely that I fancied it must surely lead to
heaven. Phil," Millie continued solemnly, "do you know that I saw it
again last night in a dream?"
Her brother thought that she was going to tell him what she had dreamed
about, but Millie was silent, with a far-away look in her eyes, as she
gazed up into the sky. Presently she gave a little sigh, and, rousing
herself, said:
"Is the river pretty by moonlight, Phil?"
"Of course it's nothing like the sea," he replied; "but you will be
able to judge for yourself in a few minutes. Are you cold, Millie?
Here, let me draw your scarf close round your throat, and wind the end
again—so." He was always careful of Millie.
"Thank you," she said, "but I am not cold. Phil," she added after a
pause, "don't you think it's strange that Miss Crawford has not been
since that day when she brought the cherries?"
"Perhaps her brother is worse. When was it she came?"
"A fortnight ago yesterday. Perhaps if she doesn't come soon, she will
write. I wish when I go to her house to tea you could come too, Phil
dear."
"No, thank you, Millie, I'd rather not. I like you to go, but I should
feel uncomfortable in a grand house like hers."
"Would you?" said Millie slowly. "I never thought of that before.
Perhaps I had better not go then."
"That's nonsense; you and I are so different, Millie. Besides, I can't
quite tolerate being patronised yet," he said bitterly.
Millie looked puzzled. "What does that mean?" she asked with knitted
brows.
"O never mind," he replied, with a little laugh. "If you don't know,
it's just as well that you shouldn't be told. 'Where ignorance is
bliss, 'tis folly to be wise.' O Millie," he burst out suddenly, after
a pause, "I wish I were dead."
"My darling," she said lovingly, as she nestled closer to him and put
her hand in his, "don't say that, for my sake. O how I wish I could
make you happier! I wish you felt as I do—that God will send us better
times if we are only patient, and will trust Him. Don't you remember
what mother used to say about there being a silver lining to every
cloud? I am sure there is a silver lining to our cloud, if we would
only see it."
"No, Millie, there is not," he answered in a despondent voice.
"Everything is against us. We are being dragged down lower and lower. I
ought to be doing something better than putting up parcels of grocery,
and carrying them to people's houses, and you ought to be going to
school."
"But perhaps when the master of the shop sees how clever you are," said
Millie, ignoring that part of Phil's speech that referred to herself,
"perhaps he'll let you serve behind the counter, or some day, Phil, you
might keep the books; just think of that!"
Millie had a profound belief in her brother's abilities to do anything
and everything; for hadn't he been the very first boy in the school at
Chormouth, and didn't their mother say that her son seemed to have such
a liking for books that she would try to make a schoolmaster of him?
"Anyhow, Millie," Phil said, with an effort to be cheerful, "I will
earn enough money for us both some day. But there, I say that so often,
that you must be tired of hearing it. Look away yonder. Do you see the
moon coming up over the chimneys there?"
Millie looked in the direction to which he pointed.
"It is very beautiful, Phil, even here," she said softly. "What is that
high straight tower called?"
"That is the Shot Tower, where shot is made." Then he explained the
process to her—how melted lead is poured through a colander at the top
of the tower and made to drop into a vessel of water at the bottom,
in perfect little spherical forms—"like the drops of rain, you know,
Millie."
Then he pointed out the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey;
bade her listen to the half-hour as it struck from Big Ben, and told
her what he knew of the history of the many large buildings in the
neighbourhood of Waterloo Bridge. Had Cleopatra's Needle been there
then, he might have made his sister's eyes grow big with wonder at
the marvellous stories that could be related of that, but the famous
obelisk was at that time in its old place at Alexandria.
And now the moon, the full moon, had risen over the mighty city of
London. Near objects were bathed in its bright, pure light, while
far-away in the distance the scene was lost to view in a soft haziness.
It was a grand sight. Millie was amazed and awe-struck. Silently she
gazed around her, then, kneeling on her seat, leant her head over the
parapet, and looked down on the river beneath. Phil noticed that she
shivered.
"You are cold, Millie," he said gently. "Hadn't we better go back now?"
"No, not just yet," she replied. "It is only because the water looks so
dark and gloomy in the shadow that I shiver. It looks hungry, too, as
if it longed to open its mouth and swallow one up. Ah! Phil, I like the
sea best. Listen now. I will tell you what I dreamed last night; then
if you like we will go home." Millie paused a moment, then began:
"I thought that you and I were living alone at Chormouth, in our old
cottage, and on just such a lovely moonlight night as this we went
walking on the cliffs together. The tide was out, and across the water,
as far as ever we could see, stretched the silvery pathway that you
know I used to think must lead to heaven. I thought so then, and I
asked you to come with me and join mother there; for though we were
very happy, we were often very lonely, and we longed to have her with
us. You would not listen to me at first, but presently you said 'Yes.'
So taking your hand, I ran with you across the sands, and without
the least fear into the tiny rippling waves of the turning tide. But
no sooner had our feet touched the water than a shadow seemed to bar
the way. We looked up, and there was father standing with his arms
stretched out to us.
"'Father,' I cried, 'I am so glad to see you. You are come just in time
to go with us to mother.'
"I wasn't one bit surprised to see him, you know, although I knew quite
well that he had been wrecked. Well, he stood still with his arms
spread out and did not move. Then in a minute or two, he cried with the
tears running down his cheeks:
"'Children, I can't go; I don't know the way. Come back with me and
teach me, and then, when I have learnt, we three will go together!'
"At that I sprang into his arms, and kissed him, and said I would wait
till he too was ready, and I held out my hand to you again, Phil, but
you—" Millie's voice dropped to a whisper—"but you were gone. I could
not see you anywhere; you were not in the shadow, nor in the moonlight.
Then I called out loud for you, and I suppose that woke me; for the
next minute I heard you say:
"'All right, Millie, I'm awake.'
"And then I knew that I had been dreaming."
"That was a strange dream," said Phil musingly. "It was striking six,
I remember, when I heard you calling me just as you always do, this
morning, so that you see was caused by the force of habit. But the
first part of your dream was ghostly, Millie. We won't talk about it
any more. Let us go home."
"It was not ghostly to me; it was a very beautiful dream, and I was
only sorry when I woke," said Millie, rising. "Somehow it makes me
believe just as mother did, that father is living, and will come back
to us some day, as," she added, reverently folding her hands, "I pray
God he may."
Well might Phil wish that he had his sister's hopeful, trusting spirit.
He sighed as he watched her; then with a "Come, Millie," he hooked his
arm in hers, and they turned towards home.
They had not gone many steps before they were met by a lady and
gentleman. The former looked hard at Millie, then stopped, exclaiming:
"Why, Millie, is that you?"
Millie's joyous "O Miss Crawford" was answer enough.
"I suppose Phil brought you to get a little fresh air," she said with a
smile. "I am glad of that, it will do you good."
Without speaking, Phil doffed his cap, and stood awkwardly by, while
Millie eagerly answered Miss Crawford's questions.
"Will you come to tea with me on Monday afternoon?" said that young
lady to Millie. "I shall expect you at four o'clock, and you and I will
take tea together on the lawn. You will like that, Millie?"
The child's eyes sparkled.
"Could you not manage to call for your sister about eight," continued
Miss Crawford turning to Phil, "and see her safely home?"
He mumbled a reply which Miss Crawford chose to consider an assent.
Phil was always shy with strangers, and especially so when they were
ladies.
Then she wished the brother and sister good-bye, and as she walked away
Phil heard her say to her companion, "That little girl shall be among
our first batch, Sydney."
"I wonder what she means," thought Phil to himself. But he said nothing
to Millie, who trotted along chatting merrily till they reached their
home in Swift Street.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: She received her guest with a kind word of welcome.]
[Illustration]