Though only a miserable little waif, born in sorrow and nurtured in
poverty, George Ermen had resolved to be a great man.
He earned six shillings a week at sorting rags and paper, adding
frequently to this a smaller sum gained by cleaning pots at a
public-house. It was a miserable pittance. He and his mother could
hardly be said to live upon it, they only existed; and they found this
still more difficult when George's father, a lazy, ne'er-do-well, came
to visit them.
The boy and his mother dwelt in a garret in Paradise Court. It was a
bare, miserable room, its only furniture an old iron bedstead, a rickety
table, and two chairs. Opening out of the attic was a tiny chamber with
a mattress in one corner, on which George slept. He had no bed-clothes,
and was in the habit of covering himself with papers during the chill
winter nights.
On the wall hung a small plaster crucifix. A sprig of box was thrust
through the ring by which the cross was suspended. The window looked out
upon a wilderness of chimneys and grimy tenement houses.
It seemed to George that God had been very good to him, although he was
poor and ragged and half starved, for besides his old mother, whom he
loved above everything, he had three good friends--Father Francis, the
Roman Catholic priest; Miss Brand, who was devoting both time and money
to the suffering poor in the district; and Maggie Reed, his little
sweetheart, who was as poverty-stricken and as tattered as himself.
George sang in the choir at the church. He possessed a beautiful voice,
and the priest felt sure that were it possible to procure him an
efficient musical training he would have a future. But it seemed rash to
even hope for a chance for the boy among the squalor and misery and sin
which surrounded the poor. Father Francis, however, did not lose heart,
because he was a good man, believing in God, and feeling convinced that
He would stretch forth His hand to the waif and help him in His own
good time. The lad himself was even more hopeful than the priest,
because he was young, and had resolved that death alone should prevent
the fulfilment of his vow.
Not that poor George Ermen had much idea of what the term "a great man"
meant, excepting that they usually dressed in frock coats, wore gaiters
over their boots, and drove about in a carriage, all of which seemed
very pleasant and most desirable to the bare-footed waif.
Strangely enough, he was frequently pondering over very material things
when he sang his best and when his eyes seemed most dreamy.
"What were you a-thinking of this mornin' in church when you was singin'
the _Ave Maria_?" his mother had once inquired.
"Why, didn't I sing it well?" he asked anxiously.
"Yaas, better than ever before, and yer faice looked loike an angel's."
"Well, I was promisin' God that if ever I got rich enough to ride about
in a carriage like the lords do that come and lay foundation stones and
opens schools and things, I'd invite all the little children what's so
miserable to tea and muffins."
Mrs. Ermen smiled sadly. She had no belief in her son ever rising to be
anything better than a wretched waif, fated to live and die in Paradise
Court. But as long as he was honest, and brave, and true to his friends,
she must not complain. She was content, almost happy indeed, when she
looked around her and saw boys of George's age swearing and fighting and
drinking, while George was sober, well behaved, and industrious.
Maggie Reed knew in her young soul that George would surely live to be a
great man, and often when they roamed about the weary streets together,
she would cheer him with her childish confidence.
"We'll live on 'Ampstead 'Eath, George, when you're rich and we're
married, at one of them big 'ouses by the pond, and we'll 'ave donkey
rides and bicycles and things."
"Yes, darling," George would answer.
By the advice of Father Francis they often spent hours in the parks and
squares, where the air was sweeter than that of Paradise Court; but
frequently George's little sweetheart grew so tired that he had to carry
her on his back most of the way home again.
It was a cold day in early spring. Mrs. Ermen sat shivering in a corner
of their garret, when her boy bounded into the room carrying a geranium
in a pot.
"Mother, mother," he cried in wild excitement, "Miss Brand is gettin' up
a geranium show! It's ter come off in July. Four hundred plants have
been given out to the children this morning. They are to keep them,
water them, attend to them, make them grow and flower, and when the day
comes round for the show the plants must be taken to the schoolroom, and
the best will get a prize."
"Who is ter judge?" asked Mrs. Ermen, catching George's excitement.
"A lord!"
"A lord?"
"Yes, one of them that wears gaiters over their boots. And I am going to
win the first prize!" he added firmly, his sharp face wearing an
expression of happy anticipation.
"I 'ope you will, my dear," she answered, kissing him, and breathing a
prayer from her poor ignorant soul for the good woman whose unselfish
devotion had brought that look into her boy's face.
Time passed, and the bitter, easterly winds proved to be more than Mrs.
Ermen could bear. She became too weak to rise, and when George grew
alarmed she tried to comfort him by saying that she felt warmer in bed;
and when June came she should be about again, and he must not distress
himself for her sake.
Supposing she should die! Men and women died frequently in Paradise
Court. Their bodies were carried out of the squalid dwellings and
rattled over the streets to the crowded burial ground. The thought smote
him painfully, and made a burning flush mount to his face. She must not
die! What would riches and greatness mean to him unless she were there
to share in his good fortune?