MISS CRAWFORD'S PROPOSAL.
PHIL went about his work in much better spirits after his visit to
Miss Crawford. It seemed strange to him now that he had once felt so
ungracious and unfriendly towards her. He did not know her then; that
was it. He had thought she was a fine lady who patronised her poorer
neighbours, and Phil's English heart revolted against the idea. When
he saw that she met him on the equal ground of their common humanity,
talked to him of his great longing to become an artist, sympathised
with him that he could not continue his education, and devised plans
for his self-improvement, then Phil's gratitude and affection flowed
out to her like a river, and next to Millie she had the warmest place
in his heart. Millie he could love, and pet, and caress, but she was
as simple as a baby, and sadly ignorant of many things that he had at
his tongue's end. Now in Miss Crawford, he had found a friend older and
wiser than himself, one who would direct him, and tell him how best to
get the help he needed to carry on the studies which, notwithstanding
the difficulties attending the resolution, he determined should still
be pursued.
In his new-found happiness even Phil's temper improved. He was more
respectful to his uncle; and, one evening after supper, actually
volunteered to read aloud to him from his new book. Richard Hunt was
but little interested, however, and was soon snoring an accompaniment
to his nephew's not unmusical voice. Nevertheless his attempts to
conquer the sullen indifference with which he had invariably treated
his uncle, who certainly did little to merit the boy's respect, met
with their own reward. Phil was happier, as we all are for trying to do
right, and Millie's face grew daily more and more cheerful.
"If uncle would but be always sober and give me enough money to keep
house with properly, how happy we should be!" she thought.
She had heard no more from their landlady respecting their arrears of
rent, but she noticed that her uncle's watch was missing, and rightly
guessed that it had been pawned to meet the debt.
August was not yet over, when one day Phil, coming in to dinner, found
Miss Crawford and Millie together.
"Ah! Phil," said Miss Crawford, holding out her hand—which he was proud
enough to take, though he wished his own had been cleaner to meet
it—"you are the very boy I was wishing to see. Here is your sister
quite unmanageable this morning. No, Millie, you be quiet," she added,
as Millie opened her mouth to utter an emphatic denial of the charge
that was brought against her. "I will tell your brother, and you will
see that his opinion entirely agrees with mine;" and she nodded her
head merrily.
"Now listen, Phil. These are the facts of the case. Dr. Bethune, a
friend of mine, whom Millie knows, has bought a lovely cottage at
Bournemouth for the express purpose of accommodating any little sick
folks that may happen to need a change of air. An old woman—and a
very kind one she is, too—has been put in this cottage to nurse those
children who are weakly enough to require nursing, and to see that all
are happy and well cared for. Now, Dr. Bethune is going to send off
three of his little patients who have been ill, but there is room for
a fourth visitor, and he and I both wish Millie to make that fourth.
But I cannot get her even to listen to me. She says such a thing is
simply impossible; and when I argue the point, she overwhelms me with
solemn assertions that you and your uncle would starve to death in
her absence, turn the house out of window, and commit all kinds of
absurdities. Now, just tell her that she is a conceited little woman,
and that you can keep house almost as well as she can."
"Yes, indeed, you ought to go," said Phil heartily. "You know you
have been ailing ever since aunt died. The sea air will set you up
splendidly for next winter. I think, Miss Crawford," he continued,
turning to her, and lowering his voice, "Millie is afraid that uncle
and I shall quarrel, but I promise I will do my very best to keep the
peace."
But Millie still hesitated.
"Do go, there's a darling," Phil said coaxingly. "'Tisn't like stopping
away for ever, you know."
"Well, she need not decide now," said Miss Crawford; "and, indeed,
nothing can be arranged till we know what your uncle says about it.
You had better talk it over when you are all three together, and then,
Phil, you must come over to my house and tell me what you have decided
to do."
Phil readily promised he would do so.
"Isn't she a darling?" cried Millie enthusiastically, when Miss
Crawford had gone.
"She is more than that," replied Phil slowly, "she is an—an angel."
He had tried to find a comparison that was less common, but he could
think of none other that was so appropriate.
Phil did all in his power to persuade Millie to go to Bournemouth, but
she was most unwilling to consent. She shook her head in reply to all
his arguments, and said that she could promise nothing till she had
spoken to her uncle, for whose return they waited long that night.
It was past midnight when at last he came. Then his unsteady footsteps
and thick hoarse voice told the children only too plainly that he
was the worse for drink. He went straight to his own room, and threw
himself upon his bed. Millie was relieved that he had done so.
She could not bear to see the wretched degraded object that he so
frequently made himself.
"There," said Phil, as they heard his footsteps pass the door of their
living-room, "we must put off speaking to him till to-morrow. Go to bed
now, dear. For my part I shall sleep here."
With which he placed a couple of chairs side by side, and threw himself
upon them. It was a hard bed, but he preferred it to sharing his
uncle's room.
It was not until two days after that Phil trudged joyfully off to
Baverstock House to tell Miss Crawford their uncle had given his
consent to her kind proposal, and that Millie had at last been
persuaded to go to the seaside.
Miss Crawford was at home, and delighted to hear that she should now be
able to give her little protégée the benefit of a change of air.
She told Phil she intended to take the children herself to Bournemouth,
and see them comfortably established in the cottage. Then she went
on to say that Dr. Bethune had long wished to carry out this idea of
sending his little convalescent patients to the country, but want of
means had hitherto prevented it. It was owing to the fact that a sum of
money—a thank-offering for recovery from a dangerous illness—had been
placed at his disposal that he was at length enabled to put his scheme
into execution.
As Miss Crawford talked to him, Phil remembered her remark to the
gentleman who had been her companion on Waterloo Bridge. Her words had
puzzled him at the time: he understood them now.
"Do you think you could bring Millie's box and meet us at Waterloo
Station on Thursday?" Miss Crawford asked him presently.
"I will try," replied Phil. "At what time ought I to be there?"
"The train leaves at one o'clock, but you had better be at the station
by half-past twelve. Is that an inconvenient hour for you?"
"I think I can manage it," said Phil. "We are not busy at the shop in
the middle of the day. I dare say they'll give me extra time if I stay
later at night to make up for it."
"Very well, then, I shall consider it settled. Stay, here is a shilling
to pay for the cab."
"The box won't be heavy. I can carry it, thank you," said Phil, drawing
back.
Miss Crawford saw that he preferred to be independent, and did not
press the matter.
"Now, Phil," she said, as he rose to leave, "I have a parcel for you to
take home. It is a present for Millie."
The boy crimsoned to the very roots of his hair.
"You are very kind, Miss Crawford," he stammered, "but uncle gave
Millie some money last night to get some things for herself. I—I think
she has everything, thank you. You have been—you are—" In his pride and
his confusion Phil broke down.
"Phil," said Miss Crawford, laying her soft white hand on his shoulder,
"I understand you, and I admire your independent spirit. But don't you
know that we are put into the world to bear one another's burdens, and
to help each other? But how can I help you, if you won't let me? If I
were poor, and you were rich, would you not give to me?"
Would he not? She read the answer in the shining depths of his earnest,
loving eyes.
"And, Phil," she continued in a minute or two, "you will be dull
without Millie. Here is an old drawing-box of my own that I should like
to give you. It may amuse you in your spare time."
She broke off his thanks, and he went home—heavy-handed, but
light-hearted.
Great was Millie's gratitude for the contents of that parcel. The
little serge dress, broad-brimmed hat, and thick pair of boots were
most acceptable—more acceptable even than Miss Crawford believed
they would be. Her uncle had certainly given her a small sum, but it
had been barely sufficient to pay for the pair of stockings and the
dress that were absolute necessities. The only pair of boots that she
possessed were so old that she feared that she must ask Phil, or her
uncle, to get her some new ones. Yet she could not bear the idea of
doing so; for, as it was, Phil gave up every penny that he earned, and
had she gone to her uncle she knew that the only way in which he could
have supplied her need would be to pawn another of their few remaining
pieces of furniture. So to Millie Miss Crawford's present brought great
relief and joy, and she received it with no feeling save that of loving
gratitude.
On the appointed day, Phil, having obtained permission to extend his
dinner hour, reached home in a great hurry, to find Millie ready and
waiting for him. She had had her dinner, but she was so excited at the
prospect of the journey, and so anxious for the welfare of those whom
she would leave behind, that eating was a difficult matter. Phil took
a mouthful as he stood, put some bread and cheese into his pocket, and
shouldered his sister's box.
Millie had made many friends in the short time that she had lived in
Swift Street. Now they all gathered round her to wish her a pleasant
journey, and to say good-bye. Even the rough rude Nora Dickson said
with something very like a sob in her voice:
"Good-bye, Millie. I'm real sorry to lose you, that I am."
"It won't be for long," called out Millie cheerfully. "I'm glad to go,
of course, for some things, but I'd sooner stay here, after all."
Phil thought that he never should get her away, but at last the
good-byes were all said and Millie was trotting along by his side. It
was an intensely hot day: the sun beat down upon them with an ardour
that was almost unbearable; the pavement seemed to scorch their feet.
There was not a breath of air stirring; not a breeze from the river
even lightened the oppressiveness of the atmosphere. Phil sighed for
the different scene that would soon gladden his sister's eyes.
"Bring me home some seaweed, darling," he said; "I'll bury my nose in
it, and 'twill seem like a whiff from old Father Neptune himself."
"I wish you were coming too, Phil," she said wistfully.
"Nonsense," he replied, forcing himself to speak lightly. "You'll have
plenty of company without me, I'll be bound. I dare say Miss Crawford
will stay with you a good part of the time. O! Millie," he added,
as a sudden recollection struck him, "Bournemouth is such a pretty
place. One of the men in the shop used to live there, and he says it's
perfectly lovely. Write and tell me all about it, won't you?"
She could only nod a reply, for they had arrived at the station, and
there was Miss Crawford waiting on the platform.
"Good children to be punctual," she said. "I expect the others every
minute. One of them is a little cripple, so his mother will bring him
in a cab. Dr. Bethune promised to see the other two safely here. Now,
Phil," she continued, "don't you think it will be wiser for you not to
wait? I will take good care of Millie, I assure you."
"Yes, perhaps it would. The parting must come. It would do no good to
linger over it."
Something called away Miss Crawford's attention, or she made believe
it did, while Millie and Phil said good-bye to each other. Phil had
no idea it would be such hard work to give his sister that last kiss.
They had never been separated for a single day before, and now that
Millie was starting in real earnest, he almost wished that he had never
persuaded her to leave him, even for so short a time as a fortnight.
However, he would not let her see how much he felt it. He gave her a
last loving look, a hurried kiss, and was gone.
He could not return the same way by which he and Millie had come
together. He chose another road that would take him back to Oxford
Street by a less familiar route than up Drury Lane. It seemed to Phil
that, with the loss of his sister, his guardian angel had left him.
With a sinking heart he thought of the lonely evenings that would now
be his, and of the long hours of weary waiting for his uncle's return
at night. How difficult it would be to "keep the peace" after all! Poor
Phil! With Millie gone, he felt that he had no good influence at work
to aid him in resisting the temptation to indulge in sullenness and
discontent. He was helpless indeed, for he knew not how to obtain that
strength which "is made perfect in weakness."
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