The Princess's Letter
BERT found an early opportunity of pleading his own cause with the
landlady. But in vain he begged her to let him remain longer in the
miserable room he had called his home. He had no right to it. The poor
furniture it contained was the property of the landlady, and she saw
her way to letting the room to better advantage.
"What does a boy like you want with a room?" she asked. "You're
always in the street. All you need is a place to sleep in. I'll put a
shake-down for you in the corner under the stairs, and you'll be as
cosy there as possible."
"But we shall want a room when Prin comes back," said Bert.
"Oh, well, it will be time enough to talk of that when she does come
back," said the woman; and the words sent a chill to Bert's heart.
He had to content himself with the arrangement she proposed. She had no
unkind intentions towards the boy; she only wanted to do the best she
could for herself. In the days that followed, she was good to Bert in
her way, sometimes giving him a basin of broth or a few potatoes for
his supper, and demanding no rent of him, save a few simple services,
which he willingly rendered instead of payment.
But the boy's life was very desolate. He had no "chum" amongst the
boys in the street. His devotion to the Princess had prevented him
from forming any friendship, and some instinct now withheld him from
entering into alliance with these rude, low lads. He went regularly to
school, and his quickness and intelligence made him a favourite with
his master, who showed him much kindness in a careless fashion, little
thinking how he was brightening Bert's life, or what a lonely life it
was.
Out of school hours, Bert earned his living by selling papers, and
having no longer to provide delicacies for the Princess, he soon found
himself able to save some of his pennies. This was a great satisfaction
to Bert. He set his heart on accumulating a hoard of pennies by the
time Prin returned, and his imagination was largely occupied in
arranging the details of the feast which he meant his money to furnish
in honour of her return.
Meanwhile a week passed by, and the letter Prin had promised her
brother did not arrive. He was growing impatient for news of her, and
watched eagerly every night and morning for the coming of the postman.
But that functionary always gave the same reply to his eager question.
There was no letter for him. Probably the Princess was too absorbed in
her new surroundings to give a thought to her little brother.
One evening when Bert came in, having sold all his papers, the landlady
had news for him.
"There's been a gentleman here asking a lot of questions about you,"
she said. "He wants you to go into a home or something."
"Then I ain't going into a home," said Bert, stamping his foot by way
of giving emphasis to his words. "I hope you told him so."
"Oh, I told him nothing," said the landlady, with a cunning look,
"except that you no longer lived in that room down there. Did I know
where you was? he said; and of course I didn't know where you was—I
never know where you are when you ain't here."
"Of course not," said Bert, with a twinkle in his eyes. He understood
that she had purposely misled the gentleman.
"I'm glad you didn't tell him nothing. I don't want to go away and be
shut up in a home. What would the Princess say if she came back and
found me gone?"
"Oh, as for that—" The woman laughed significantly. She did not believe
that the lady who had taken the girl away would ever let her come back
to that street. But she felt no compunction for having done her best to
prevent the gentleman from tracing Bert. The boy was useful to her, and
she wished to keep him at hand.
"Why, I declare!" she exclaimed the next moment, as the form of the
postman suddenly appeared at the end of the passage, obscuring the
light. Bert started at the sound of the loud rat-tat, then sprang
eagerly to the door.
"Here, young man," cried the postman good-temperedly. "Isn't it you
who are always asking me for a letter, and isn't your name Bertram
Sinclair? Here you are then."
Bert could hardly believe in his good fortune as he seized the letter.
The Princess had written at last, when he had ceased to hope that
she would. Yes, the direction was written by her in a clear, though
somewhat straggling hand. Carefully Bert opened the envelope. He would
not tear it more than he could help, for even that was precious, as
coming from the Princess. The light was waning in the passage, so he
went to the door and seated himself on the step to read his precious
letter. It was not very long, and he soon mastered its contents. The
spelling was somewhat peculiar, but what Prin said was this:—
"DEAR BERT,—
"Perhaps you think that I might have written before, but really
everything is so lovely here that I couldn't be bothered to write.
It's not a bit like London here. There's a garden full of flowers, and
fields, and woods with lots of primroses and violets that any one may
pick. The lady keeps cows, and I have as much milk as I can drink,
and every day I drive about in a beautiful carriage. Every one says
how well I look, so different from what I was when I came. I am to
stay here all the summer, and the lady says I must go to school of a
morning, which I shall not like so much. She says she would like to
keep me altogether, for I am so quick and clever she could teach me
anything. Would you mind If I never came back at all?
"How is old Mother Kay? Does she drink as much as ever? I hate to
think of how horrid everything used to be. I am so much better off
here. Hoping you are as well as this leaves me.
"I remain,
"Yours truly,
"PRIN."
It was not a very affectionate or sisterly letter, but, such as it
was, it was the only letter Bert had ever had from the Princess, and
he regarded it with considerable admiration. Yet there was that in it
which stung him. Would he mind if she never came back? Surely Prin
might have known that he would mind.