It was pleasant yet sad to observe the smile with which old Mrs Willis
greeted me--pleasant, because it proved that she was rejoiced to see me;
sad, because it was not quite in keeping with the careworn old face
whose set wrinkles it deranged.
"I knew you would come. You never miss the day," she said, both words
and tone showing that she had fallen from a much higher position in the
social scale.
"It costs me little to visit you once a week, dear Mrs Willis," I
replied, "and it gives me great pleasure; besides, I am bound by the
laws of the Society which grants your annuity to call personally and pay
it. I only wish it were a larger sum."
"Large enough; more than I deserve," said the old woman in a low tone,
as she gazed somewhat vacantly at the dead wall opposite, and let her
eyes slowly descend the spout.
The view was not calculated to distract or dissipate the mind. The
bricks were so much alike that the eye naturally sought and reposed on
or followed the salient feature. Having descended the spout as far as
the window-sill permitted, the eyes of Mrs Willis slowly reascended as
far as possible, and then turned with a meek expression to my face.
"More than I deserve," she repeated, "and _almost_ as much as I require.
It is very kind of the Society to give it, and of you to bring it. May
God bless you both! Ah, doctor! I'm often puzzled by--eh! What's
that?"
The sudden question, anxiously asked, was accompanied by a feeble
attempt to gather her poor garments close round her feet as Dumps
sniffed at her skirts and agitated his ridiculous tail.
"It's only my dog, granny,"--I had of late adopted this term of
endearment; "a very quiet well-behaved creature, I assure you, that
seems too amiable to bite. Why, he appears to have a tendency to claim
acquaintance with everybody. I do believe he knows _you_!"
"No, no, he doesn't. Put him out; pray put him out," said the old
woman, in alarm.
Grieved that I had unintentionally roused her fear, I opened the door
and called Dumps. My doggie rose, with his three indicators erect and
expectant.
"Go out, sir, and lie down!"
The indicators slowly drooped, and Dumps crawled past in abject
humility. Shutting the door, I returned.
"I hope you don't dislike little boys as well as little dogs, granny,
because I have brought one to wait for me here. You won't mind his
sitting at the door until I go?"
"No, no!" said Mrs Willis quickly; "I like little boys--when--when
they're good," she added, after a pause.
"Say I'm one o' the good sort, sir," suggested Slidder, in a hoarse
whisper. "Of course, it ain't true, but wot o' that, if it relieves her
mind?"
Taking no notice of this remark, I again sat down beside my old woman.
"What were you going to say about being puzzled, granny?"
"Puzzled, doctor! did I say I was puzzled?"
"Yes, but pray don't call me doctor. I'm not quite fledged yet, you
know. Call me Mellon, or John. Well, you were saying--"
"Oh, I remember. I was only going to say that I've been puzzled a good
deal of late by that text in which David says, `I have never seen the
righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.' Now, my father and
mother were both good Christians, and, although I cannot claim to be a
_good_ one myself, I do claim to be a poor follower of Jesus. Yet here
am I--"
She paused.
"Well, granny," said I, "are you forsaken?"
"Nay, John, God forbid that I should say so; but am I not a beggar? Ah
pride, pride, you are hard to kill!"
"_Are_ you a beggar?" I asked in a tone of surprise. "When did you beg
last, granny?"
"Is not a recipient of charity a beggar?"
"No," I replied stoutly, "he is not. A solicitor of charity is a
beggar, but a recipient thereof is not. In your case it was I who was
the beggar. Do you not remember when I found you first, without a crust
in the house, how I had to beg and entreat you to allow me to put your
name on this charity, and how you persistently refused, until at last I
did it without your consent; and how, eventually, you gave in only when
I charged you with pride? You are not forsaken, granny, and you are not
a beggar."
"Brayvo, doctor! you have 'er there!" came in a soft whisper from the
door.
For a moment I felt tempted to turn the boy out, as I had turned out the
dog; but, seeing that my old woman had not overheard the remark, I took
no notice of it.
"You have put the matter in a new light John," said Mrs Willis slowly,
as her eyes once more sought the spout. "You often put things in new
lights, and there does seem some truth in what you say. It did hurt my
pride at first, but I'm gettin' used to it now. Besides," continued the
old lady, with a deep sigh, "that trouble and everything else is
swallowed up in the great sorrow of my life."
"Ah! you refer to your granddaughter, I suppose," said I in a tone of
profound sympathy. "You have never told me about her, dear granny. If
it is not too painful a subject to speak of, I should like to hear about
her. When did she die?"
"Die!" exclaimed Mrs Willis with a burst of energy that surprised
me--"she did not die! She left me many, many months ago, it seems like
years now. My Edie went out one afternoon to walk, like a beautiful
sunbeam as she always was, and--and--she never came back!"
"Never came back!" I echoed, in surprise.
"No--never. I was not able to walk then, any more than now, else I
would have ranged London all round, day and night, for my darling. As
it was, a kind city missionary made inquiries at all the police-offices,
and everywhere else he could think of, but no clew could be gained as to
what had become of her. At last he got wearied out and gave it up. No
wonder; he had never seen Edie, and could not love her as I did. Once
he thought he had discovered her. The body of a poor girl had been
found in the river, which he thought answered to her description. I
thought so too when he told me what she was like, and at once concluded
she had tumbled in by accident and been drowned--for, you see, my Edie
was good and pure and true. She could not have committed suicide unless
her mind had become deranged, and there was nothing that I knew of to
bring about that. They got me with much trouble into a cab, and drove
me to the place. Ah! the poor thing--she was fair and sweet to look
upon, with her curling brown hair and a smile still on the parted lips,
as if she had welcomed Death; but she was not my Edie. For months and
months after that I waited and waited, feeling sure that she would come.
Then I was forced to leave my lodging. The landlord wanted it himself.
I begged that he would let me remain, but he would not. He was a
hard-hearted, dissipated man. I took another lodging, but it was a long
way off, and left my name and new address at the old one. My heart sank
after that, and--and I've no hope now--no hope. My darling must have
met with an accident in this terrible city. She must have been killed,
and will never come back to me."
The poor creature uttered a low wail, and put a handkerchief to her old
eyes.
"But, bless the Lord!" she added in a more cheerful tone, "I will go to
her--soon."
For some minutes I knew not what to say in reply, by way of comforting
my poor old friend. The case seemed indeed so hopeless. I could only
press her hand. But my nature is naturally buoyant, and ready to hope
against hope, even when distress assails myself.
"Do not say there is no hope, granny," said I at last, making an effort
to be cheerful. "You know that with God all things are possible. It
may be that this missionary did not go the right way to work in his
search, however good his intentions might have been. I confess I cannot
imagine how it is possible that any girl should disappear in this way,
unless she had deliberately gone off with some one."
"No, John, my Edie would not have left me thus of her own free will,"
said the old woman, with a look of assurance which showed that her mind
was immovably fixed as to that point.
"Well, then," I continued, "loving you as you say she did, and being
incapable of leaving you deliberately and without a word of explanation,
it follows that--that--"
I stopped, for at this point no plausible reason for the girl's
disappearance suggested itself.
"It follows that she must have been killed," said the old woman in a low
broken tone.
"No, granny, I will not admit that.--Come, cheer up; I will do my best
to make inquiries about her, and as I have had considerable experience
in making investigations among the poor of London, perhaps I may fall on
some clew. She would be sure to have made inquiries, would she not, at
your old lodging, if she had felt disposed to return?"
"Felt disposed!" repeated Mrs Willis, with a strange laugh. "If she
_could_ return, you mean."
"Well--if she could," said I.
"No doubt she would; but soon after I left my old lodging the landlord
fled the country, and other people came to the house, who were troubled
by my sending so often to inquire. Then my money was all expended, and
I had to quit my second lodging, and came here, which is far, far from
the old lodging, and now I have no one to send."
"Have you any friends in London?" I asked.
"No. We had come from York to try to find teaching for my darling, for
we could get none in our native town, and we had not been long enough in
London to make new friends when--when--she went away. My dear Ann and
Willie, her mother and father, died last year, and now we have no near
relations in the world."
"Shall I read to you, granny?" said I, feeling that no words of mine
could do much to comfort one in so sad a case.
She readily assented. I was in the habit of reading and praying with
her during these visits. I turned, without any definite intention of
doing so, to the words, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy
laden, and I will give you rest." I cannot tell why, but I paused here
instead of reading on, or commenting on the words.
The old woman looked earnestly at me.
"These words," she said, "have been in my mind all yesterday and the day
before. I have been greatly comforted by them, because `He is faithful
who has promised.' Pray over them, John; don't read any more."
I knelt by the poor woman's chair; she could not kneel with me in body,
though she did in spirit, I doubt not. I had quite forgotten Slidder,
but, on rising, observed that he had followed my example and gone down
on his knees.
"Were you praying with us, Slidder?" I asked, after we left Mrs
Willis, and were walking up the alley, followed by Dumps.
"Dun know, sir; I've never heard nor seen nuffin' o' this sort before.
In coorse I've heard the missionaries sometimes, a-hollerin' about the
streets, but I never worrited myself about _them_. I say, doctor,
that's a rum go about that gal Edie--ain't it? I've quite took a fancy
to that gal, now, though I ain't seen her. D'ye think she's bin
drownded?"
"I scarce know what to think. Her disappearance so suddenly does seem
very strange. I fear, I fear much that--however, it's of no use
guessing. I shall at once set about making inquiries."
"Ha! so shall I," said the little waif, with a look of determination on
his small face that amused me greatly, "for she's a good gal is Edie--if
she ain't drownded."
"Why, boy, how can you know whether the girl is good or bad?"
"How can I know?" he echoed, with a glance of almost superhuman wisdom.
"In coorse I know by the powers of obserwation. That old gal, Mrs
Willis, is a good old thing--as good as gold. Vell, a good mother is
always cocksure to 'ave a good darter--specially ven she's a only
darter--so the mother o' Edie bein' good, Edie herself _must_ be good,
don't you see? Anythink as belonged to Mrs Willis can't help bein'
good. I'm glad you took me to see her, doctor, for I've made up my mind
to take that old 'ooman up, as the bobbies say w'en they're wexed with
avin' nuffin' to do 'xcept strut about the streets like turkey-cocks.
I'll take 'er up and do for 'er, I will."
On questioning him further I found that this ragged and homeless little
waif had indeed been touched by Mrs Willis's sad story, and drawn
towards her by her soft, gentle nature--so different from what he had
hitherto met with in his wanderings,--and that he was resolved to offer
her his gratuitous services as a message-boy and general servant,
without requiring either food or lodging in return.
"But Mrs Willis may object to such a dirty ragged fellow coming about
her," said I.
"Ain't there no pumps in London, stoopid?" said Slidder, with a look of
pity, "no soap?"
"True," I replied, with a laugh, "but you'd require needles and thread
and cloth, in addition, to make yourself respectable."
"Nothink of the sort; I can beg or borrer or steal coats and pants, you
know."
"Ah, Slidder!" said I, in a kind but serious tone, "doubtless you can,
but begging or borrowing are not likely to succeed, and stealing is
wrong."
"D'you think so?" returned the boy, with a look of innocent surprise.
"Don't you think, now, that in a good cause a cove might:--
"`Take wot isn't his'n,
An' risk his bein' sent to pris'n?'"
I replied emphatically that I did not think so, that _wrong_ could never
be made _right_ by any means, and that the commencement of a course of
even disinterested kindness on such principles would be sure to end ill.
"Vell, then, I'll reconsider my decision, as the maginstrates ought to
say, but never do."
"That's right. And now we must part, Slidder," I said, stopping. "Here
is the second sixpence I promised you, also my card and address. Will
you come and see me at my own house the day after to-morrow, at eight in
the morning?"
"I will," replied the boy, with decision; "but I say, all fair an'
above-board? No school-boardin' nor nuffin' o' that sort--hey? honour
bright?"
"Honour bright!" I replied, holding out my hand, which he grasped and
shook quite heartily.
We had both taken two or three steps in opposite directions, when, as if
under the same impulse, we looked back at each other, and in so doing
became aware of the fact that Dumps stood between us on the pavement in
a state of extreme indecision or mental confusion.
"Hallo! I say! we've bin an' forgot Punch!" exclaimed the boy.
"Dumps," said I, "come along!"
"Punch," said he, "come here, good dog!"
My doggie looked first at one, then at the other. The two indicators in
front rose and fell, while the one behind wagged and drooped in a state
of obvious uncertainty.
"Won't you sell 'im back?" said Slidder, returning. "I'll work it out
in messages or anythink else."
"But what of the bobbies?" I asked.
"Ah! true, I forgot the bobbies. I'd on'y be able to keep 'im for a
week, p'r'aps not so long, afore they'd nab him.--Go, Punch, go, you
don't know ven you're vell off."
The tone in which this was uttered settled the point, and turned the
wavering balance of the creature's affections in my favour. With all
the indicators extremely pendulous, and its hairy coat hanging in a
species of limp humility, my doggie followed me home; but I observed
that, as we went along, he ever and anon turned a wistful glance in the
direction in which the ragged waif had disappeared.