PHIL BREAKS HIS WORD.
BIG BEN was striking ten as Phil reached home that night. He had stayed
over time at business to compensate for his long absence in the middle
of the day, and had walked leisurely back to Swift Street. He did not
care to hurry himself, for he knew that Millie would not be awaiting
him, and even Miss Crawford's drawing-box could not make up for her
absence.
On entering the room he found his uncle already there. He was seated
at the table with bread and cheese and a jug of ale before him. Phil
saw by his heated face and bloodshot eyes that he had been drinking. A
feeling of intense disgust and dislike arose in the boy's heart, but he
said nothing. He took a chair and sat down as far-away from the table
as he could.
"Come here, can't you?" said his uncle.
"Yes, when you have finished," replied his nephew coolly.
"O! O!" returned his uncle in what he intended to be a satirical voice,
but his words were so indistinct that Phil could hardly catch them, "so
you're such a grand gentleman that you can't eat with poor men like
your relations. A pity you should be dependent upon them, isn't it?"
Phil started up with an angry retort upon his lips, when lo! Millie's
gentle face and pleading eyes arose in his memory. He sat down again,
and was silent.
"Come here, I say, can't you?" began Richard Hunt again.
"No, I won't," said Phil doggedly. "Take your own time; when you have
finished, I'll have my supper."
"If you don't come to the table this minute, I'll turn you out of my
house, do you hear?" growled the wretched man.
"No, you'll not turn me out, for I'll go of my own accord," cried Phil,
his subdued passion breaking suddenly forth. "I'll rub along somehow
till Millie comes back, and then she shall choose between you and me.
But mind, the moment I can offer her a decent home, no power of yours
shall keep us apart. I'll have her then, whether you will or no."
Never before had Phil spoken to him in that manner. For a moment he was
literally struck dumb with amazement. Then he shouted in a fury of rage
and drunkenness:
"You dare to speak to me like that?"
"Yes, I dare," returned Phil, with flashing eyes.
"Then I'll—I'll—"
Rising from his chair, he staggered towards his nephew, who stood with
his arms folded across his breast, biting his lips and breathing hard,
as he watched his uncle's approach. But Phil was not a coward, and
there was no trace of fear upon his countenance.
It was by no means a dignified or safe proceeding on Mr. Hunt's part.
The floor appeared to be swaying beneath his feet, and he clutched
hurriedly at the table, at the wall, at anything, in fact, that would
support his unsteady steps. He was close upon Phil, and had raised his
arm as if to strike him, when he suddenly lost his balance. To recover
it, he grasped, as he thought, the little shelf on which Millie kept
her books. Instead of that, however, his hand descended heavily upon
Miss Crawford's drawing-box which had been placed there for safety, and
which, being wider than the shelf, projected some little distance from
it. There was a crash—down tumbled the box, and down went Richard Hunt
at full length upon the floor.
It was useless to give vent to his anger in words. Phil silently picked
up the scattered paints and pencils, and replaced them in the box.
His uncle made a few desperate struggles to regain his feet, but
finding that impossible, he turned over on his side, and lay there a
most deplorable object. He muttered a few incoherent words, but they
gradually ceased, and, to his nephew's disgust, he was soon snoring
heavily.
[Illustration: As Phil was about to extinguish the light,
a sudden thought struck him.]
"Will nothing bring him to his senses?" said Phil to himself, as, his
passion having subsided, he glanced with loathing at the unconscious
object of his remarks. "He gets worse and worse. I cannot stay here
alone with him. I'd sooner sleep under an archway, or in any hole I can
creep into, than with such a wretch as that. I'll put out the candle in
case of accident, and be off."
As Phil was about to extinguish the light, a sudden thought struck him.
His uncle had a deep and intense horror of fire; had always had indeed
since the terrible accident that had killed his little baby-girl. A
good blaze would frighten his uncle out of his wits, or perhaps into
them, and Phil smiled grimly at his miserable joke. Besides he felt
that it would be a sweet revenge for those insulting words that his
uncle had cast at him. If only he could manage to kindle a fire that
would do no damage to the house, and yet be sufficient to lighten up
the room brilliantly, and restore his uncle to his senses!
Well would it have been for Phil had he resolutely put aside the evil
desires that prompted him! Little did he know what misery and trouble
he was bringing upon himself and others by indulging in that wicked
spirit of hatred and revenge. Millie! Millie! Is your dear presence
so near, and yet has your gentle face no power to stop him? See, Phil
studies how best he can put his plan into execution, but for some time,
he shakes his head negatively at each suggestion.
"I have it," he exclaims at last.
In the fender, piled up for the morning's use, are a number of little
bits of dry wood, and a heap of straw and shavings, which Millie had
considerately put there before she left. With trembling fingers Phil
places the candlestick in the fender, and builds around it with the
sticks and shavings, till only half the candle, which is a long one, is
visible above the heap. It will blaze up finely presently, he thinks.
His uncle will be sure to wake and the flames will frighten him well
night to death—and Phil laughs triumphantly. Perhaps he'll be sober
for a good while after that. Anyhow it shall be a lesson to him. Then
surveying his work with a wicked delight, and with a last glance at
his uncle, who is still snoring on the floor, he goes out of the room
resolving to spend the night as best he can in the streets.
On the landing he pauses. Something whispers him to enter the tiny
room belonging to his sister. Would that he had yielded to that better
impulse!
But no, he creeps downstairs, and passes unnoticed into the narrow
street, where he mingles with the noisy crowd. He runs hither and
thither in his excitement. His blood is tingling with a savage pleasure
at the thought of the deed which he has just accomplished. He gloats
over it, and laughs aloud as he pictures what will happen by-and-by in
Swift Street. But presently getting very warm and very tired, he leans
against a door-post to rest himself; and with quietness and reflection
a feeling comes over him that after all he has done a childish and a
foolish thing. The little pile of sticks and rubbish will blaze away
around the hissing candle for a few minutes, and then die out again,
while his uncle, unconscious even of the event, will remain undisturbed.
And now that he has carried out his grand speech about leaving home,
what is he to do? He knows of no place where he can pass the night. He
has read of archways under which little homeless children creep for
shelter, but just now he cannot recall to his memory the situation of a
single one. Besides, to lie in the open air and the dirt, with anybody
that might choose to keep him company! He grows sick at the very idea.
He has fourpence in his pocket. It will be a rough lodging that so
small a sum can procure, but that is what he must seek, he supposes. He
need not go in search of it just at present, however. He has plenty of
time and he will put off the evil moment as long as possible.
So he wanders disconsolately up and down the Strand, watching the
people as they come out of the theatres, and drive away in their
carriages. A young lady with fair hair and a pretty face reminds him
of Miss Crawford. Phil cannot bear to think of her. What would she say
if she knew how he had been keeping his promise to her and Millie? How
disappointed she will be in him! She will never believe him, never
trust in him again.
With fresh anguish at his heart, he leaves the noisy crowded Strand,
goes down Wellington Street, and passes on to Waterloo Bridge, just as
he had done with Millie on that moonlight night a few weeks ago. On the
very same seat that they had occupied then, he sits down now. Poor boy!
Already he regrets the hasty measures that he has taken, but his pride
is too great to allow him to return to his uncle. Big Ben's ruddy face
tells him that it is not yet twelve. How slowly the time goes! There
will be hours yet before morning. He buries his face in his hands and
acknowledges how foolishly he has behaved. Conscience whispers him to
forget his uncle's words and go back to Swift Street. Again his pride
refuses to let him, and he remains there seated on the bridge.
Presently there flashes across his memory the story of Millie's dream.
She had said, "I stretched out my hand to you again, Phil, but you were
gone; I could not see you anywhere."
Suppose that dream meant something after all—that his father and mother
and sister would all meet together some day in another world, and that
he would be shut out from their company, and left alone. It was likely
enough to happen, Phil groaned in his misery. He guessed, if the truth
were known, that he and his uncle were suitable companions for each
other. He was going to the bad as fast as he could go. And yet he had
intended to do well. Miss Crawford had bidden him take heart, and lead
a nobler, a more unselfish life. Not in so many words, perhaps, but
Phil had understood her meaning and had pledged himself to fulfil her
wishes. Here was a fine ending to his grand resolutions!
Perhaps, after all, it was not too late. He would go back and take up
his life from where he had left it only a couple of hours ago. Most
probably his uncle would have forgotten their quarrel, and the bitter
words that had been uttered on both sides. And he would try to do
better. Ah! If only Millie had not gone! But perhaps God would help
him if he asked Him. Miss Crawford believed in God, he knew, and so
did Millie. With that thought, he turned his back to the pavement, and
with his eyes fixed on the starry sky, he humbly prayed that God would
forgive, and bless, and help him. Then, with a heavy heart, he retraced
his footsteps.
What is the cry which he hears as he once more emerges into the busy
Strand? He stands still to listen—"Fire! Fire!"
Surely—? O! No, not that; not his work. God forbid! Phil, always fleet
of foot, flies like lightning towards home. How dear the place has
suddenly become to him!
"Fire! Fire!" is still the shout.
He is in the midst of a crowd now, but he dives under the elbow of one
and pushes aside another with a strength that astonishes even himself.
"Fire! Fire!"
"Where?" some one asks.
"In Swift Street," is the reply.
Phil hears, and the words enter his heart like a sword. He is quickly
there. Yes, yes, it is, as something had seemed to tell him from that
first cry of "Fire! Fire!"
Smoke and flames are issuing from the top story of one of the
houses—their house. The inmates are rushing from it, and from the
neighbouring dwellings, in terrible confusion. Little children, with
just a shawl or a blanket wrapped around them, are handed over to the
excited crowd; men and women, half dressed, are huddling together with
pale terrified faces, or running hither and thither to see that their
friends are in safety. Phil makes his way through the throng of people
to where a little group are gathered around a man who lies in a half
unconscious state upon the ground.
"Uncle," shrieks Phil, "I have killed you." But nobody in the
excitement and bustle of the moment heeds that bitter cry of remorse.
At the familiar voice, Richard Hunt opens his eyes, and says hoarsely:
"The little lass! Save her, Phil!"
"She is away—at Bournemouth. Don't you remember?"
"No, not gone—come back—save her," he replies, and then sinks back
exhausted.
With a bound Phil gains the door of their house, from which smoke is
now rapidly issuing. Eager hands are put forth to hold him back, but
before they can prevent it, he is rushing up the narrow staircase in
frantic haste. Hotter grows the air as he ascends. He can scarcely
breathe now. O the cruel flames that lick around him! With a desperate
struggle, he reaches the last flight. What is this bundle on the
topmost stair? It is she—Millie in her little white night-dress; her
long hair floating down her back, her small hands folded in prayer.
"'Tis I—Phil," he shouts. "I'll save you, Millie."
But she is dead, or in a faint, and does not hear him. He snatches her
from the ground, and taking her in his arms, gropes his way through the
smoke that almost suffocates him. Down the stairs he goes, staggering
beneath the weight of his load. His heart beats wildly and he feels his
strength failing him. O, he must hold out a moment longer; he is nearly
at the bottom.
He hears a sudden cry from without—"The engine! The engine!"
Friends are cheering him on—"Bravo! Well done, brave boy," they shout.
Thank God! The air grows cooler. Only a few more steps and then—a crash
from above, and a burning beam comes tumbling down. Phil sees the
danger, and bends his body forward to avert the blow from his precious
burden. He sinks beneath the weight of the descending wood; but even
as he falls, a couple of brave firemen rush to the rescue. They throw
off the blazing log, raise the fearless boy—helpless and unconscious
now—and carry both children in safety to the open air.
The fireman who holds Millie in his arms thinks at first that she is
dead, but she has only fainted. She is not burnt, her night-dress is
hardly scorched; some of her pretty hair is singed, "that is all," the
people say. How they clap and cheer the brave men who have saved them!
But their loudest cheers are for Phil himself, who lies there so white
and still—for Phil, whose noble act of heroism will never pass from the
memories of those who witnessed it.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]