I HAVE COME TO RETURN YOU SOMETHING.
On the afternoon of the day on which the Queen of the South (with
George Naldret in it, as was supposed) sailed out of the Mersey for
the southern seas, young Mr. Million, with a small bouquet of choice
flowers in his hand, made his appearance in the old grocer's shop. Ben
Sparrow, who was sitting behind his counter, jumped up when the young
brewer entered, and rubbed his hands and smirked, and comported
himself in every way as if a superior being had honoured him with his
presence. Young Mr. Million smiled pleasantly, and without the
slightest condescension. The cordiality of his manner was perfect.
'Quite a gentleman,' thought old Ben; 'every inch a gentleman!'
Said young Mr. Million: 'As I was passing your way, I thought I would
drop in to see how you and your granddaughter are.'
'It's very kind and thoughtful of you, sir,' replied old Ben
Sparrow. 'Of course, we're a bit upset at George's going. Everything
is at sixes and sevens, and will be, I daresay, for a few days.
Bessie's inside'--with a jerk of his head in the direction of the
parlour--'she's very sad and low, poor dear.'
'We mustn't let her mope, Mr. Sparrow,' remarked young Mr. Million,
striking up a partnership at once with the old grocer.
'No, sir,' assented Ben; 'we mustn't let her mope; it ain't good for
the young--nor for the old, either. But it's natural she should grieve
a bit. You see, sir,' he said confidentially, 'George is the only
sweetheart Bessie's ever had. She ain't like some girls, chopping and
changing, as if there's no meaning in what they do.'
'We must brighten her up, Mr. Sparrow. It wouldn't be a bad thing, if
you were to take her for a drive in the country, one fine day. The
fresh air would do her good.'
'It would do her good, sir. But I couldn't leave the shop. Business is
dreadfully dull, and I can't afford to lose a chance of taking a few
shillings--though, with the way things are cut down, there's very
little profit got nowadays. Some things almost go for what they cost.
Sugar, for instance. I don't believe I get a ha'penny a-pound out of
it.'
Young Mr. Million expressed his sympathy, and said it ought to be
looked to. He would speak to his father, who was a 'friend of the
working-man, you know.'
'I don't know how to thank you, sir,' said Ben gratefully. 'Indeed, I
haven't thanked you yet for the kindness you----'
'I don't want to be thanked,' interrupted young Mr. Million
vivaciously. 'I hate to be thanked! The fact is, Mr. Sparrow, I am an
idle young dog, and it will always give me pleasure to do you any
little service in my power. I will go in, and say How do you do? to
Miss Sparrow, if you will allow me.'
'Allow you, sir!' exclaimed Ben. 'You're always welcome here.'
'I brought this little bunch of flowers for her. Flowers are scarce
now, and the sight of them freshens one up. Although, Mr. Sparrow,
your granddaughter is a brighter flower than any in this bunch!'
'That she is, sir; that she is,' cried Ben, in delight; adding to
himself, under his breath, 'Every inch a gentleman! His kindness to
George and me is a-maz-ing--A-MAZ-ING!'
The idle young dog, entering the parlour, found Bessie very pale and
very unhappy. She was unhappy because of the manner of her parting
from George last night; unhappy and utterly miserable because of the
poisoned dagger which had been planted in her heart.
'I was passing through Covent garden,' said the idle young dog, in
gentle tones, thinking how pretty Bessie looked even in her sorrow,
'and seeing these flowers, I thought you would do me the pleasure to
accept them.'
Bessie thanked him, and took them listlessly from his hand. Tottie,
who was playing at 'shop' in a corner of the room, weighing sand in
paper scales, and disposing of it to imaginary customers as the best
fourpenny-ha'penny moist (is this ever done in reality, I wonder!),
came forward to see and smell the flowers. The idle young dog seized
upon Tottie as a pretext for taking a seat, and, lifting the child on
his knee, allowed her to play with his watch-chain, and opened his
watch for her, and put it to her ear, so that she might hear it
tick--a performance of which she would never have tired. His manner
towards Bessie was very considerate and gentle, and she had every
reason to be grateful to him, for he had been a good friend to her
grandfather and her lover. Certainly he was one of the pleasantest
gentlemen in the world, and he won Tottie's heart by giving her a
shilling--the newest he could find in his pocket. Tottie immediately
slipped off his knee, and went to her corner to brighten the coin with
sand; after the fashion of old Ben Sparrow, who often polished up a
farthing with sand until he could see his face in it, and gave it to
Tottie as a golden sovereign. Tottie valued it quite as much as she
would have done if it had been the purest gold.
The idle young dog did not stay very long; he was no bungler at this
sort of idling, and he knew the value of leaving a good impression
behind him. So, after a quarter of an hour's pleasant chat, he shook
hands with Bessie, and as he stood smiling at her, wishing her
good-day, with her hand in his, the door suddenly opened, and George
Naldret appeared.
His face was white and haggard, and there was a wild grief in his
eyes. The agony through which he had passed on the previous night
seemed to have made him old in a few hours. He stood there silent,
looking at Bessie and young Mr. Million, and at their clasped hands.
It was but for a moment, for Bessie, with a startled cry--a cry that
had in it pain and horror at the misery in his face--had taken her
hand from young Mr. Million's palm; it was but for a moment, but the
new expression that overspread George's face like an evil cloud was
the expression of a man who had utterly lost all faith and belief in
purity and goodness: and had thus lost sight of Heaven.
Bessie divined its meaning, and gave a gasp of agony, but did not
speak. Not so, young Mr. Million.
'Good Heavens!' he cried, with a guilty look which he could not hide
from George's keen gaze. 'George, what has happened?'
George looked at young Mr. Million's outstretched hand, and rejected
it disdainfully and with absolute contempt. Then looked at the flowers
on the table--hothouse flowers he knew they were--then into Bessie's
face, which seemed as if it were carved out of gray-white stone, so
fixed did it grow in his gaze--then at the earrings in her ears: and a
bitter, bitter smile came to his lips--a smile it was pity to see
there.
'These are pretty flowers,' he said, raising them from the table; in
the intensity of his passion his fingers closed upon the blooming
things, and in a moment more he would have crushed them--but he
restrained himself in time, and let them drop from his strongly-veined
hand. 'I beg pardon,' he said, 'they are not mine. Even if they belong
to you--which they do, of course--I can have no claim on them now.'
He addressed himself to Bessie, but she did not answer him. She had
never seen in his face what she saw now, and she knew that it was the
doom of her love and his.
'I have come to return you something,' he said, and took from his
breast a pretty silk purse. It was hung round his neck by a piece of
black silk cord, and he did not disengage it readily. It almost seemed
as if it wished not to be taken from its resting-place.
As he held it in his hand, he knew that his life's happiness was in
it, and that he was about to relinquish it. And as he held it, there
came to Bessie's mind the words he had spoken only the night before:
'See here, heart's-treasure,' he had said, 'here is the purse you
worked for me, round my neck. It shall never leave me--it rests upon
my heart. The pretty little beads! How I love them! I shall kiss every
piece of gold I put in it, and shall think I am kissing you, as I do
now, dear, dearest, best!'
'Take it,' George said now.
She held out her hand mechanically, and as George touched her cold
fingers he shivered. Both knew what this giving and taking meant. It
meant that all was over between them.
Old Ben Sparrow had come into the room, and had witnessed the scene in
quiet amazement; he did not see his way to the remotest understanding
of what had passed. But he saw Bessie's suffering, and he moved to her
side. When the purse was in her hand he touched her, but she repulsed
him gently. Some sense of what was due to herself in the presence of
young Mr. Million came to her, and her womanly pride at George's
rejection of her in the presence of another man came to her also, and
gave her strength for a while.
George's hand was on the door, when young Mr. Million, who was deeply
mortified at George's manner towards himself, and who at the same time
thought it would be a gallant move to champion Bessie's cause, laid
his hand on George's sleeve, and said:
'Stay; you owe me an explanation.'
'Hands off!' cried George, in a dangerous tone, and a fierce gleam in
his eyes. 'Hands off, you sneaking dog! I owe you an explanation, do
I? I will give it to you when we are alone. Think what kind of
explanation it will be when I tell you beforehand that you are a
false, lying hound! Take care of yourself when next we meet.'
Every nerve in George's body quivered with passion and pain.
'You can't frighten me with bluster,' said young Mr. Million, who was
no coward, 'although you may try to frighten ladies with it. As my
presence here is likely to cause farther pain to a lady whom I
esteem'--with a respectful look towards Bessie, which caused George to
press his nails into his palms--'I will take my leave, unless Mr.
Sparrow wishes me to stay as a protection to him and his
granddaughter.'
'No, sir; I thank you,' replied Ben Sparrow sorrowfully. 'George
Naldret can do my child no more harm than he has done already.'
'Then I will go;' and he moved towards the door, 'first saying,
however, that I tried to be this man's friend--'indicating George with
a contemptuous motion of his hand, and repeating, 'that I tried to be
his friend----'
'You lie!' cried George.
'--Thinking,' continued young Mr. Million, with quiet disdain, 'that
he was better than others of his class. But I was mistaken. Mr.
Sparrow, you exonerate me from all blame in what has taken place?'
'Entirely, sir,' said Ben Sparrow, in a sad and troubled voice.
'I wish you and your grandchild good-day, then, and leave my hearty
sympathy behind me.'
With these words, and with a triumphant look at George, the idle young
dog took his departure. Then, after a brief pause, George said:
'I have nothing more to stop for now.'
And, with a look of misery, was about to depart, when Tottie ran to
his side, and plucking him by the coat, looked up into his face.
'Don't go,' said Tottie; 'stop and play.'
'I can't, my dear,' said George, raising the child in his arms and
kissing her. 'I _must_ go. Goodbye, little one.'--He set the child
down; tears were coming to his eyes, but he kept them back.
'One moment, George Naldret,' said old Ben Sparrow, trying to be
dignified, but breaking down. 'George--my dear George--what is the
meaning of this?'
'I have no explanation to give, Mr. Sparrow,' replied George sadly.
'George, my dear boy, think for a moment! Are you right in what you
are doing? Look at my darling, George; look----'
'Grandfather!'
[Illustration]
The word came from Bessie's white lips; but the voice, struggling
through her agony, sounded strange in their ears. The word, however,
was sufficient; it carried its meaning in it; it told her grandfather
not to beg for her of any man.
'You are right, my darling,' he sobbed; 'you are right. But neither
of you will speak, and I am almost distracted. You are not going
abroad then, George?'
'No, Mr. Sparrow; I have no need to go now.'
Bessie's strength was giving way. Pride, humiliation, wounded love,
suspicion of her lover's faith, were conquering her. She held out her
trembling hand to her grandfather. He took it, and cried:
'George! George! you are breaking her heart!'
'She has broken mine!' replied George, and turned without another
word, and left the room, almost blinded by grief and despair. The
moment he was gone, a sigh that was almost a groan broke from Bessie's
wounded heart, and she sank into old Ben Sparrow's arms, and fainted
there.
WELL, MOTHER, DO YOU WANT ANY WASHING DONE?
When George Naldret was seen in the streets of Westminster, it
occasioned, as may be imagined, no little surprise. His neighbours
supposed him to be on his way to the other end of the world, and they
rather resented his appearance among them, for he had in a certain
measure deceived them. He had promised to write to some, to tell them
how affairs were over the water; and two or three courageous ones had
already made up their minds that if George sent home a good account of
things they would sell every stick they had, and make for a land where
a brighter future awaited them than they could look forward to here.
They would have been satisfied if George had given them an
explanation; but this he absolutely refused to do. 'I have altered my
mind,' was all they could get from him. 'I may do that if I like, I
suppose, and if it don't hurt you.' But some decided that it _did_
hurt them; and when they continued to press him for farther
particulars, he desired them to mind their own business; and as this
was the most difficult task he could set them, it made matters worse.
George was too delicate-minded and too honourable to introduce
Bessie's name; and when the inquisitive ones mentioned it he turned
upon them savagely. It caused quite a commotion in the neighbourhood.
On the first day Mrs. Naldret had tried to persuade George to keep
indoors and not show himself. But he said, 'No, mother; it will be
better for me to show my face at once, and not shirk the thing.' And
his father backed him up in his resolution. When he resolved upon
this, he went to his bedroom and locked himself in, and, after much
sad communing, decided that the first thing it was incumbent on him to
do was to go to Bessie and release her from her promise. Thus it was
that he met young Mr. Million in the parlour of the old grocer's shop,
where he had spent so many happy hours. He had decided in his mind
what to say. He would be gentle and firm with Bessie. And as he walked
to old Ben Sparrow's shop, disregarding the looks of astonishment
which his first appearance in the streets occasioned, he rehearsed in
his mind the exact words he would speak to her. But when he arrived
there, and saw Mr. Million smilingly holding her hand, and saw the
bunch of rare flowers on the table, he received such a shock that his
plans were instantly swept away, and he spoke out of the bitterness of
his heart.
How the news got about was a mystery, and how it grew into exaggerated
and monstrous forms was a greater mystery still. Who has ever traced
to its source the torrent of exciting rumour which, like a rush of
waters, flows and swells, unlocking vivid imagination in its course,
until reason and fact are lost in the whirl? All sorts of things were
said. George was frightened of the water; he was in debt; he had done
something wrong at the shop he had been working for, and was not
allowed to leave without clearing it up; these, and a hundred other
things, were said and commented upon. The peculiarity of this kind of
rumour is, that directly a new theory is started it is accepted as a
fact, and is taken to pieces and discussed in all its bearings. George
was a fruitful theme with the neighbours on that Saturday night and on
the following day; they served him up hot (like a new and appetising
dish), and so seasoned him and spiced him and garnished him, that it
would have made his blood tingle to have known. But he did not know,
and did not even suspect. To be sure, when Jim Naldret went to the
baker's on the Sunday for his baked shoulder of mutton and potatoes,
he heard some remarks which did not please him; but he did not say a
word to George, and the mother, father, and son spent a sad and quiet
evening together, and went to bed earlier than usual.
On the Monday, the startling intelligence was bandied from one to
another that George Naldret and Bessie Sparrow had broken with each
other. Bessie had turned him off, it was said; they had had a dreadful
quarrel the night before he was to start for Liverpool. But it is not
necessary here to set down all the reasons that were given for the
breaking of the engagement. Some of them were bad, and all were false.
But in the course of the day a little rill was started, which grew and
grew, and swelled and swelled, until it swallowed up all the other
waters. A rod was thrown down, which becoming instantly quick with
life, turned into a serpent, and swallowed all the other serpents. It
was said that Bessie had discovered that George had another
sweetheart--who she was, where she lived, and how it had been kept
secret during all this time, were matters of no importance; but it was
first whispered, then spoken aloud and commented on, that this
sweetheart should have been something more than a sweetheart to
George--she should have been his wife. The reason why she should have
been his wife was that George was a father. But where was the child?
Rumour decided this instantaneously. The child was no other than our
poor little Tottie; and George had basely deceived old Ben Sparrow and
Bessie into taking care of the little one by a clever and wicked story
that Tottie was an orphan, without a friend in the world. Here was
food for the gossippers! How this hot dish was served up, and spiced
and seasoned!
It reached George's ears, and he wrote to Ben Sparrow. He said that he
had heard some rumours affecting his character; he did not mention
what these rumours were, but he said they were wicked lies--wicked,
wicked lies, he repeated in his letter. The rumours he referred to may
have reached Mr. Sparrow, and might affect the happiness of a poor
innocent child--a child innocent as he was himself. If so, he was
ready to take the little one from Mr. Sparrow's charge. He said no
more, concluding here, almost abruptly. A reply soon came. Ben Sparrow
had heard the rumours, and was shocked at them; he believed what
George said in his letter. But the child, said old Ben, was a comfort
to them: by 'them' he meant himself and Bessie, but he did not mention
Bessie's name: it formed the principal part of their happiness now in
their little home, and to part with her would cause 'them' great grief
and pain. His letter, also, was short and to the point. And so our
little Tottie remained with old Ben Sparrow and Bessie, and was even
more tenderly cared for than she had been before. Somehow or other,
these letters were a great consolation to George and Bessie.
But the gossippers and rumourmongers would not let them alone. They
said that George's other sweetheart had declared if he went away she
would go with him, and would follow him all over the world. Bessie
then was brought in. She had another lover also, a lover she liked
better than George. Who should it be but young Mr. Million? He gave
her those pretty ear-rings, of course, and he was seen to go into old
Ben's shop with beautiful flowers in his hands, and come away without
them. Ben Sparrow encouraged him, too. O, it was plain to see what was
going on! So both George and Bessie were condemned, and kind
gossippers did what they could to keep them from ever coming together
again.
George and young Mr. Million met. Young Mr. Million was alone; George
had his father with him. The sight of the idle, well-dressed, smiling
young dog made George furious. He left his father, and walked swiftly
up to his enemy. A policeman was near. Young Mr. Million beckoned to
him, and the limb of the law touched his helmet, and came close. Jim
Naldret saw the position of affairs in a moment. 'Come along, George,'
he said, and linking his arm in that of his son, almost dragged him
away. When they reached home, Mrs. Naldret made George promise not to
molest young Mr. Million, not even to speak to him. 'No good can come
of it, my dear boy,' she said; 'let the scum be! Don't get yourself
into trouble for him; he's not worth it. He'll meet with his deserts
one day!'
Time passed, and the world went on as usual. George got work at his
old shop, and worked hard through the ensuing spring and summer. At
that time, murmurs of discontent began to be heard among the builders
and carpenters--not only among them, but among the workers in nearly
every other trade as well. Labour was on the strike all over the
country, and one trade quickly followed the example of another. Jim
himself began to murmur; he wanted to know what he was to do when he
got old, and couldn't work--for he had found it impossible to put by
money for a rainy day.
'Go to the workhouse, I suppose,' he said bitterly.
But Mrs. Naldret said, 'Let be, Jim, let be; what's the use of looking
forward? We should be happy enough as it is if it wasn't for George's
misfortune. Poor lad! all the salt seems to have gone out of his
life.'
In the summer the crisis occurred in the trade; and Jim Naldret came
home one day with his hands in his pockets, and said,
'Well, mother, do you want any washing done? I'm on strike.'
'Jim! Jim!' cried Mrs. Naldret 'What have you done? Remember Saul
Fielding.'
'Saul Fielding wasn't so wrong, after all,' said Jim; 'I was a bit too
hard on him. I can't help myself, mother. I'm obliged to turn out with
the others.'
It was well for them that during this time George had saved a little
money; but although he gave them every penny he had saved, and
although they pledged nearly everything of value they had in the
house, they were in debt when the strike was at an end.
'It'll be spring before we're clear, mother,' said Jim; 'we've got to
pay this and that, you know.'
Mrs. Naldret knew it well enough, and she began to pinch and save;
this little family fought the battle of life well.
Old Ben Sparrow, of course, suffered with the rest. Trade grew duller
and duller, and he drifted steadily, got from bad to worse, and from
worse to worse than that. Autumn came, and passed, and winter began to
make the poor people shiver; for coals were at a wicked price. Down,
down, went old Ben Sparrow; sadder and sadder grew his face; and one
day, within a fortnight of Christmas--alas! it was just a year from
the time when George was nearly going away--Bessie heard a loud and
angry voice in the shop. She hurried in, and saw her grandfather
trembling behind the counter. The man who had uttered the angry words
was quitting the shop. Bessie asked for an explanation.
'It's the landlord, my dear,' he sobbed upon her shoulder, 'it's the
landlord. I've been behindhand with the rent ever so long, and I've
promised him and promised him, hoping that trade would improve, until
he's quite furious, and swears that he'll put a man in possession
to-morrow morning.'
'And you can't pay him, grandfather?'
'Bessie, my darling,' sobbed old Ben; 'there isn't eighteenpence in
the house, and I owe other money as well. I'm a ruined man, Bessie,
I'm a ruined man! And you, my dear!--O, dear! O, dear! what is to
become of us?'
And the poor old fellow pleaded to her, and asked her forgiveness a
hundred times, as if he were the cause of their misfortunes. No need
to say how Bessie consoled and tried to cheer him. She drew him into
the parlour, and coaxed and fondled him, and rumpled the little hair
he had on his head, and so forgot her own sorrow out of sympathy
for his, that he almost forgot it too. But once during the night,
while she was sitting on a stool at his feet, he said softly and
sadly, 'Ah, Bess! I wouldn't mind this trouble--I'd laugh at it
really--if--if----'
'If what, dear?'
'If you and George were together, my darling.'
She did not reply, but rested her head on his knee, and looked sadly
into the scanty fire. She saw no happy pictures in it.
THE MAN IN POSSESSION.
Old Ben Sparrow had genuine cause for his distress. Ruin not only
stared him in the face, but laid hold of him with a hard grip. The
landlord was as good (or as bad) as his word. He called the following
morning for his rent, and as it was not forthcoming, he took an
inventory, and put a man in possession. He brought this person in with
him. A strange-looking man, with a twelvemonth's growth of hair at
least on his face and head, and all of it as white as snow. The faces
of Ben Sparrow and Bessie were almost as white as they followed the
hard landlord from room to room, like mourners at a funeral. There was
first the shop, with very little stock in it, and that little in bad
condition. As the landlord said, How could a man expect to do
business, and be able to pay his way honestly, when everything he had
to sell was stale and mouldy? And old Ben answered humbly:
'Yes, yes, sir; you're quite right, sir. I ought to have known better.
It's all my fault, Bessie, my darling; all my fault.' And felt as if,
instead of an immediate execution coming to him, he ought to be led
off to immediate execution.
'What d'ye call these? asked the landlord contemptuously. 'Figs! Why,
they're as shrivelled as--as you are.'
'Yes, yes, sir; quite right, sir. We are, sir, we are; we ought to be
put away! We're worth nothing now--nothing now!'
After the shop came the parlour, with the furniture that old Ben had
bought for his wedding more than forty years ago; he sobbed as the
landlord called out, 'One old armchair, stuffed and rickety!' and said
to Bessie: 'Your grandmother's favourite chair, my darling!'
The old fellow could have knelt and kissed the 'one old arm-chair,
stuffed and rickety,' he was so tender about it. Then they went into
the kitchen; then upstairs to Ben Sparrow's bedroom, and old Ben cried
again as 'One old wooden bedstead: wheezy!' went down in the
inventory; then into another bedroom, where Bessie and Tottie slept.
The man in possession stooped down by the child's bed.
'What are you looking for?' demanded the landlord testily.
'I was thinking the child might be there,' replied the man in
possession meekly; 'there _is_ a child, isn't there?'
'What if there is!' exclaimed the landlord. 'Can't sell a child.
There's no market for them.'
Old Ben explained: 'There is a child. Poor little Tottie! But we've
sent her out to a neighbour's, thinking you would come.'
'And might frighten her, eh?' said the landlord. And shortly
afterwards took his departure, leaving the man in possession with
strict injunctions not to allow a thing to be taken out of the house.
'You're accountable, mind you,' were his last words.
Bessie and her grandfather felt as if the house had been suddenly
turned into a prison, and as if this man, with his strange face and
snow-white hair, had been appointed their gaoler. As he did not appear
to notice them, old Ben beckoned to Bessie, and they crept out of the
parlour into the shop for all the world as if they had been found
guilty of some desperate crime. In the shop they breathed more freely.
'What are we to do with him, Bessie?' asked Ben. 'What do they
generally do with men in possession? They give 'em tobacco and beer,
I've heard. O, dear! O, dear! I don't mind for myself, my darling; I
don't mind for myself. It's time I was put away. But for you,
Bessie--O, my darling child! what have I done to deserve this? What
have I done? What have I done?
'Grandfather,' said Bessie firmly, 'you mustn't go on like this. We
must have courage. Now, I've made up my mind what I'm going to do. I'm
going to take care of you, dear grandfather, as you have taken care of
me. You know how clever I am with my needle, and I intend to get work;
and you shall thread my needles for me, grandfather. We can live on
very little----'
Her poor white lips began to tremble here, and she kissed the old man
again and again, and cried in his arms, to show how courageous she
was.
'I beg your pardon,' said a gentle voice behind them. It was the man
in possession who spoke. 'I beg your pardon,' he repeated. 'May I beg
a word with you in the parlour?'
They dared not for their lives refuse him, and they followed him
tremblingly.
'I am aware,' he said then, as they stood before him like criminals,
'that I am here on an unpleasant duty, and that I must appear very
disagreeable in your eyes----'
'No, no, sir,' remonstrated Ben, feeling that his fate and Bessie's
were in this man's hands; 'don't say that, sir! Quite the contrary,
indeed, sir; quite the contrary, eh, Bessie?'
And the arch old hypocrite tried to smile, to show that he was
delighted with the man's company.
'--But I assure you,' continued the man, 'that I have no desire to
annoy or distress you. I have gone through hardships myself--with a
motion of his hand towards his white hair--'as you may see.'
'What is it you want us to do, sir? asked Ben Sparrow. 'I am sure
anything you want, such as tobacco or beer--or anything that there is
in the cupboard----'
'I want you to feel as if I wasn't in the house. I know, for instance,
that this is your sitting-room; I don't want you to run away from it.
If you like, I will go and sit in the kitchen.'
'No, no, sir!' implored Ben Sparrow. 'Not for worlds. We couldn't
allow such a thing, could we, Bessie? This is my granddaughter,
sir!--the dearest child that man ever had!----'
Why, here was the man in possession, as old Ben broke down, actually
patting him on the shoulder, and looking into his face with such
genuine sympathy, that before Ben knew where he was, he had held out
his hand as to a friend! What would the next wonder be?
'That's right,' said the man in possession; 'we may as well be
comfortable together, and I shall take it ill of you, if you and your
granddaughter do not use the parlour just as if I wasn't here. If you
don't, I shall go and sit in the kitchen.'
They could do nothing else, after this, but look upon the parlour as
their own again. Bessie felt very grateful to the man for the sympathy
he had shown to her grandfather, and she took out her old workbox, and
sat down to mend a pair of Tottie's socks. 'The way that child makes
holes in her toes and heels is most astonishing,' Ben had often
remarked.
The man in possession glanced at the little socks, and then at Bessie
so thoughtfully and kindly, that she gave him a wistful smile, which
he returned, and said:
'Thank you, child!' in a very sweet and gentle tone.
When dinner-time came, and before they could ask him to share their
humble meal, he went to the street-door and called a boy, who, in
obedience to his instructions, bought some cold meat and bread at a
neighbouring shop. All he asked Bessie to give him was a glass of cold
water, and with this and his bread-and-meat he made a good meal. To
the astonishment of Bessie and old Ben, they found they were growing
to like him. After dinner, he seemed to be drowsy, and sat with closed
eyes and thoughtful face in the corner of the room he had appropriated
to himself, which, it maybe remarked, was not the warmest corner.
Bessie and old Ben talked in whispers at first, so as not to disturb
him, but after a time his regular breathing convinced them that he was
sleeping; and Bessie laid down her plans to the old man. When they
were turned out of the shop they would take one room, Bessie said;
they would be very comfortable, she was sure, if they would only make
up their minds to be so, and she would work for all three, for
grandfather, Tottie, and herself. Indeed, the girl showed herself so
much of a true woman in her speech, that she was almost beginning to
persuade the old man that what had occurred was, after all, no great
misfortune.
'How strange that his hair should be white!' remarked Ben, looking at
the sleeping man. 'He does not seem old enough for that. He isn't very
attentive to his duties, whatever they may be. Why, Bessie,' said the
old man in a whisper that was almost gleeful, 'we could actually run
away!' But his thoughts assumed their sadder tenor immediately
afterwards, and he sighed, 'Ah, Bessie! What will George think of all
this? They've had trouble at home too, Bessie dear, during the strike.
I often wished, during that time, that I could have gone and sat with
them, and comforted them; and you wished so too, Bess, I know.'
'Yes, dear,' answered Bess in a quiet tone, 'I wished so too. But
George might have put a wrong construction upon it.'
'Bess, darling, tell me----'
'No, no!' cried Bessie, holding up her hands entreatingly, for she
anticipated what he was about to say. 'Don't ask me, grandfather! It
can never, never be! O my dear, I try to forget, but I can't!' She
paused, unable to proceed for her tears, but presently said, 'I
should be so much happier if he thought better of me--although I know
we can never be to each other what we were! I was angry and indignant
at first, but I am not so now. If he had only answered me about
Tottie--dear little Tottie----'
The man murmured in his sleep, and they spoke in hushed voices.
'It was wrong of me to doubt him,' continued the girl, 'very, very
wrong! I should have trusted him, as he told me to. He can never think
well of me again--never, never! But do you know, dear, that I have
loved Tottie more since that time than I did before--poor little
motherless thing! I shall never be happy again! Never again! O, my
poor heart!'
It was Ben's turn now to be the consoler, and he soothed her, and
caressed her, and suddenly cried:
'Bessie! young Mr. Million!'
What made Bessie turn white at the name? What made her gasp and bite
her lips, as the young gentleman entered the room?
'I am grieved to hear of what has happened, Mr. Sparrow,' he said,
taking off his hat; 'and I have come at once to ask if you will allow
me to assist you.'
'Hush, if you please, sir,' returned Ben. 'Speak low. That--that man
in the corner has been put in by the landlord, and I shouldn't like to
wake him. We are in great distress--ruined, I may say, sir----'
'Then let me help you,' interrupted young Mr. Million eagerly. 'It
will be a pleasure to me. Let me pay this man off. You and Miss
Sparrow will confer an obligation upon _me_--believe me!--if you will
allow me to do this.'
'I thank you for your offer, sir,' replied Ben, with a helpless
look around the humble room in which he had spent many happy years,
'but'--something in Bessie's face imparted a decision to his
voice--'it can't be, sir, it can't be.'
'Why?'
'Well, sir, it might get talked about, and that wouldn't do Bessie any
good. You see, sir, you are so far above us that it's impossible
we--we can mix, sir. Yes, sir, that's it; it's impossible we can mix.
No, sir, it can't be.'
Young Mr. Million was silent for a few moments, and tapped with his
fingers impatiently on the table.
'For some time,' he then said, 'I have seen that you and Miss Sparrow
have rejected my advances, and have been different from what you were.
Why, may I ask again?'
'Well, sir,' replied old Ben, emboldened by the expression on Bessie's
face, 'it will be best to speak plain. You see, sir, the neighbours
_will_ talk; and when they see a gentleman like you always a-visiting
poor people like us, they want to know the reason of it. And as we've
no reason to give, they make one for themselves. People will talk, you
see, sir; and I am afraid that my Bessie's name--my Bessie! the best
girl in the world, sir; good enough to be a Princess----'
'That she is,' put in young Mr. Million.
'--Well, sir, as I was saying, I am afraid that my Bessie's name has
got mixed up with yours by people's tongues in such a way as to cause
sorrow to her and to me. I have heard, sir, that she was seen one
day--nearly a year ago now--go into your house, and that has been set
against her, and flung into her teeth, as a body might say. Well, she
_did_ go into your house that once--and only that once, mind!--and
took a letter from me which you desired me to send by her last year
when I was in trouble. You helped us then, sir, and I am grateful to
you, though I can't pay you. And we've got it into our heads--Bessie
and me--that that, and the earrings you gave her--for _they've_ been
talked about too, and that's the reason we sent them back to you--was
the cause of a greater sorrow to my poor girl than she has ever
experienced in her life.'
'O!' exclaimed young Mr. Million, with a slight sneer in his tone.
'You mean because the affair between Miss Sparrow, and that cub,
George Naldret, has been broken off.'
From Bessie's eyes came such a flash that if the idle young dog could
have flown through the door, and have disappeared there and then
instantaneously, he would have gladly availed himself of the
opportunity. Old Ben Sparrow's blood; also, was up.
'Be kind enough to go, sir,' he said, with more dignity of manner than
Bessie had ever seen in him; 'and wherever we are, either here or
elsewhere, leave us to ourselves and our troubles.'
Their voices roused the man in possession; he yawned, and opened his
eyes. Young Mr. Million saw here an opportunity to assert himself as
the heir of a great brewery, and to indulge in a small piece of
malice, at one and the same time.
'I must show my sense of your ingratitude,' he said, 'by somewhat
severe measures, and therefore you will arrange at once for the
repayment of the money I have advanced to you. I must remind you that
there is such a thing as imprisonment for debt. As for the money which
your son embezzled from our firm, I must leave my father to settle
that with you. In the mean time----'
'In the mean time,' interrupted the man in possession, to the
astonishment of all, 'I'm the master of this house, being in
possession; and as you're not down in the inventory, I must request
you to leave.'
And without allowing the idle young dog to utter another word, the man
in possession, with a wrist of iron, twisted him round, and thrust him
from the old grocer's shop.
So young Mr. Million, for a fresh supply of wild oats, had to go to
another market. And doubtless succeeded in obtaining them: they are
plentiful enough.
Ben Sparrow could not but thank the man in possession for his friendly
interference.
'Don't mention it,' said the man in possession, adding, with an odd
smile, 'he's not down in the inventory, you know.'
The interview had caused old Ben and Bessie great agitation, and left
them sadly distressed; but nothing could exceed the consideration of
the man in possession. He did not ask them for a word of explanation.
When, indeed, the old man stumblingly referred to it, he turned the
conversation, and asked for a sheet of paper and an envelope. These
being supplied to him, he wrote a note, and when, after putting it in
the envelope and addressing it, he looked up, his hitherto sad face
wore such a bright expression that Ben whispered to his granddaughter,
'Really, Bessie, he is a good fellow; he puts heart into one;' and
said aloud, 'Can I post the letter for you, sir?
'No, thank you,' was the reply; 'I can send it by a messenger. I
mustn't let you out of my sight, you know. The landlord said I was
accountable for you.'
Old Ben began to feel as if he were in prison again.
It was dark when Tottie was brought home; she ran into the parlour
calling for grandfather and Bessie, and jumped into their arms, and
kissed them, and pulled old Ben's hair; she seemed to bring light in
with her. 'Is that Tottie?' asked the man in possession in a tremulous
tone.
'Yes, sir, yes,' replied old Ben. 'Go to the gentleman, my dear.'
Something like a sob came from the man in possession as he lifted
Tottie, and kissed her; and when, a little while afterwards, the lamp
was lighted, and Tottie was seen curled up contentedly in the man's
arms, eating sweets which he was giving her: with such a sweet tooth
as Tottie had, it was no wonder she was easily bought over: old Ben
whispered to Bessie,
'Depend upon it, my dear, he has got a little daughter at home, and
that makes him fond of Tottie.'
Everything about this strange man was so gentle, that they actually
looked upon him as a friend instead of an enemy.
SOFTLY, SWEETLY, PROCEEDS THE HYMN OF HOME.
'It is a story about two friends--' It is the man in possession who is
speaking. Tottie is lying in his arms as contentedly as if she has
known him all her life; he has told her the prettiest of stories, and
the child has crowed and laughed over them, until she is almost tired
with the pleasure and excitement. And now, although it is very nearly
eleven o'clock, and time to think of going to bed, Bessie and her
grandfather find themselves listening to a story which he says he
desires to tell them. Of course they dare not refuse to listen.
'It is a story about two friends--mainly about those, although the
dearest hopes of others better and purer than they are mixed up in it
The story is a true one. What shall I call these friends, so as to
distinguish them? Shall I say George for one---- What is the matter,
my dear?' For Bessie has looked with a startled glance into the
stranger's face. 'George is a common name enough, and this man whom I
call George is a good man, in every sense of the word. Say, shall I
call him George?'
'Yes, if you please,' replies Bessie faintly, turning her face from
him.
'And the other--I will call him Saul.'
'Bessie, my dear!' exclaims old Ben Sparrow. 'Do you hear? Saul and
George!'
Bessie's hand steals into his, and the stranger continues.
'Say, then, Saul and George. They lived and grew to manhood in just
such a neighbourhood as this. Saul was the elder of the two by six or
seven years; but notwithstanding the difference in their ages, they
became firm friends. They talked much together, and read together; for
Saul was a great reader, and took delight in studying, and (according
to his own thinking) setting wrong things right. I believe that, at
one time of his life, he really had a notion that it was his mission
to redress the wrongs of his class; at all events, it is certain that
he elected himself the champion of his fellow-workmen, and as he had
the fatal gift of being able to speak well and fluently, the men
listened to him, and accepted his high-flown words as the soundest of
logic. George admired his friend, although he did not agree with him;
and when he was a man he took an opportunity of vowing eternal
friendship to Saul. Such a vow meant something more than words with
George; for he was constant and true to the dictates of his heart
Where he professed friendship, there he would show it. Where he
professed love, there would he feel it. And it might be depended upon
that neither in his friendship nor his love would he ever change. He
was no idle talker. Saul, working himself into a state of false
enthusiasm respecting his mission, waited but for an opportunity to
raise his flag. The opportunity came. A dispute arose between master
and men in a certain workshop; Saul plunged himself into the dispute,
and by his fatal gift inflamed the men, and fanned the discontent
until it spread to other workshops. Neither men nor masters would
yield. A strike was the result. In this strike Saul was the principal
agitator; he was the speaker and the man upon whom all depended, in
whom all trusted. Hear, in a few words, what occurred then. After
making things as bitter as he could; after making the men believe that
the masters were their natural enemies; after making a speech one
night, filled with false conclusions, but which fired the men to a
more determined resistance; after doing all this, Saul suddenly
deserted his followers, and left them in the lurch. He told them that,
upon more serious consideration, he had been led to alter his mind,
and that he was afraid of the misery a longer fight would bring upon
them and their families. The men were justly furious with him; they
called him names which he deserved to be called; and the result was
that the men returned to work upon the old terms, and that all of
them--masters and men--turned their backs upon the man who had
betrayed them. Only one among them remained his friend. That one was
George. From that day Saul began to sink; he could get no work; and he
dragged down with him a woman who loved him, who had trusted in him,
and whom he had robbed of her good name. Stay, my dear,' said the man
in possession, placing a restraining hand upon Bessie's sleeve; the
girl had risen, uncertain whether to go or stay. 'You must hear what I
have to say; I will endeavour to be brief. This woman had a child, a
daughter, born away from the neighbourhood in which Saul was known.
Her love was great; her grief was greater. Saul showed himself during
this time to be not only a traitor, but a coward. He took to drink.
What, then, did this good woman--ah, my dear, how good she was only
Saul knows!--what did this good woman resolve to do, for her child's
sake? She resolved that she would not allow her child to grow up and
be pointed at as a child of shame; that she would endeavour to find
some place where it could be cared for, and where, if happier times
did not come to her, the child might grow up in the belief that her
parents were dead. Shame should not cast its indelible shadow over her
darling's life. Saul, in his better mood, agreed with her. "I have no
friends," said this woman to Saul; "have you? Have you a friend who,
out of his compassion for the child and friendship for you, would take
my darling from me, and care for it as his own?" Saul had no friend
but one. George! He went to George, and told his trouble, and this
dear noble friend, this Man! arranged with a neighbour to take the
child, and bring her up. He promised sacredly to keep Saul's secret,
and only to tell one person the story of the poor little forsaken one.
"I may marry one day, Saul," he said, "and then I must tell it to my
wife." In this way the mother obtained her desire; in this way came
about her love's sacrifice!'
Tick--tick--tick--comes from the old-fashioned clock in the corner.
Bessie has sunk into her chair, and her head is bowed upon the table.
She hears the clear tick, and thinks of a year ago, when, standing at
the door with her lover, it sounded so painfully in her ears. What
pain, what pleasure, has this strange man brought to her! For she
knows that the story he is telling is true, and that Saul's friend,
George, is her George, whom she has loved truly and faithfully during
all this sad year. What pain! What pleasure! What pain to feel that
George is parted from her for ever! What pleasure to know that he is
without a stain, that he is even more noble than her love had painted
him! She raises her head; her eyes are almost blinded by her tears;
she stretches forth her arms for Tottie.
'Let me nurse her!' she sobs.
'No, my dear,' says the man in possession; but he places Tottie's lips
to hers, and then stoops and kisses Bessie's tears which have fallen
on the little one's face. 'There is more to tell. Shall I go on?'
'Yes.'
'A happy time comes to George. He falls in love with a tender-hearted,
pure-souled girl----'
Bessie kneels at his feet, and looks in bewilderment at the man's
strange face, at his snow-white hair, and in gratitude raises his hand
to her lips.
'There, there, child!' he says; 'sit down: you interrupt my story.
They are engaged to be married, and George is anxious to make a home
for his bird. But trade is slack, and he can save no money. Then comes
a false man, whom we will call Judas, into the story, who, under the
pretence of friendship for George, gives him a passage-ticket to the
colonies, where George can more quickly save money to buy the home to
which he yearns to bring his bird. But on the very night, within three
hours of the time when George is to look his last upon the little
house in which he was born, he learns from Saul that this pretended
friend has played him false, has told him lies, and has given him the
ticket only for the purpose of getting him out of the country, so that
Judas can pay court to the girl who reigns in George's heart. Other
doubts and misunderstandings unfortunately accumulate in these
critical moments; George learns that the girl was seen to go into the
house where Judas's father lives; learns that Judas has given her a
pair of earrings; learns that Judas was seen by George's mother to
place a letter in the girl's hands----'
'It was for grandfather!' cries Bessie. 'It contained money for
grandfather to help him out of his trouble!'
'Hush! my dear! What can you know of this story of mine? When George
learns all this he is in an agony of despair. He takes the ticket from
his pocket, and is about to destroy it, when Saul falls on his knees
at his friend's feet, and begs, entreats in _his_ agony for the
ticket, so that _he_ may go instead of George. For Saul's dear woman
has left him; has charged him, by his love for her and for their
child, to make an effort to lift them from shame; and he sees no way--
no way but this which is suddenly opened to him. George gives his
friend the ticket, and the next day Saul bids good-bye to the land
which holds all that is dear to his heart.'
The man in possession pauses here, and old Ben Sparrow gazes earnestly
at him. When he resumes, his voice grows more solemn.
'Saul reaches his destination, and after much wandering finds a
shelter in the mountains with a little colony of gold-diggers. He
makes a friend there; David. Another; David's wife. God rest their
souls! Another; David's little daughter. Saul finds gold, and thanks
God for His goodness. He will come home and make atonement But the
snow season sets in, and he and his companions are imprisoned by
mountains of snow whose shallowest depth is sufficient for a man's
grave if he is buried upstanding. An awful night comes, when the
snow-drift walls up their tents. In the morning the tents are hemmed
in; the diggers cannot open their doors. Near to the tent in which
Saul and David and David's wife and David's little daughter live is a
tree. Saul climbs to the roof of the tent, breaks through it, climbs
on to the tree, and calls to his friends to follow him. David tries,
and fails; he falls back into the tent, and hurts himself to death.
Saul, in an agony, calls out for David's little daughter, and the
mother succeeds in raising the child through the roof of the tent;
Saul clutches the little girl and takes her to his heart. All this
time the storm is raging; the snow rises higher and higher. David
commands his wife to save herself; she refuses, and stays to nurse
him, and slowly, slowly, my dears! the snow falls; the walls of the
tent give way; and David's wife meets a noble death, and both find
their grave.'
Awe-struck they listen to this strange man's story. A look of pity
steals into his face--and then he murmurs to himself, 'No; why should
I bring sadness upon them this night?' And says aloud:
'The tree to which Saul clings for dear life with David's little
daughter, one other man manages to reach. His story you shall hear
to-morrow; sufficient here to say that it is a strange one, and it
comes strangely to Saul's ears. He bequeaths his gold to Saul for a
good purpose. But this man is weak; his strength fails him in the
night; and when the next morning's sun rises Saul and David's little
daughter are the only ones left. Can you picture Saul to yourself
clinging to the tree, holding in his arms the life of a dear little
one? Can you realise the agony of the time? Can you believe that his
grief and tribulation are so great during the two terrible days that
follow, that his hair turns snow-white----'
'But he is saved?' cries Bessie and her grandfather at once.
'He is saved.'
'And David's little daughter?'
'Is saved also, God be thanked!'
They draw a long breath.
'But little remains to be told. Saul comes home, bringing David's
little daughter with him--bringing gold with him. He seeks his dear
woman. He marries her. He hears that the old man and the dear girl who
have protected and reared his child are in trouble--that an execution
is to be put into the old man's shop for rent----'
'And he becomes a man in possession!' cries old Ben, starting up in
indescribable excitement. 'O, dear! O, dear! He becomes a man in
possession!'
The tolling of a bell is heard.
'As you say. Is not that the Westminster clock beginning to chime the
hour? Listen for one minute more. When Judas comes in this afternoon,
do you think the man in possession is asleep? No; he is awake, and
hears every word that passes, and such a joy comes into his heart as
he cannot describe--for he thinks of George, that dear friend, that
noble friend, that Man! What does the man in possession do when Judas
has gone? He writes a letter, doesn't he? Hark! the last hour is
tolling! Twelve!'
The door opens, and Bessie, with a wild cry, moves but a step, and
presses her hand to her heart. George stands before her, pale with the
excitement of the moment, but hopeful, and with love in his eyes.
'George, my dear boy!' cries old Ben, grasping the young man's hands.
'Can you forgive me, Bessie?' asks George.
A grateful sob escapes from the girl's overcharged heart, and the
lovers are linked in a close embrace.
As if this happy union has conjured them up, there enter on the
instant Jim Naldret and Mrs. Naldret, she nursing David's little
daughter. And behind them, with a wistful look, with hands that are
convulsed with excess of tenderness, with eyes and face and heart
filled with yearning love, stands the Mother hungering for her child!
Tenderly and solemnly Saul places Tottie in Jane's arms. The Mother
steals softly into the shop with her child; and Saul follows, and
kneels before her. Presently she takes him also to her breast.
'Dear wife? he murmurs; and a prayer of infinite thankfulness for the
mercy and the goodness of God comes to his mind.
Half-an-hour afterwards, he enters the room with Jane and their child.
'Bessie,' he says, 'this is my wife, Jane.'
And as Bessie kisses her and caresses her, the sorrow of the past
melts into gratitude for the present.
They sit and talk.
'George and I are going into business together,' says Saul. 'We shall
start a little shop of our own.'
'And stop at home,' remarks Mrs. Naldret, 'and be contented.'
'Yes,' replies George, 'on bread-and-cheese and kisses. I shall be
able to buy my pots and pans now.'
Somehow or other George has come into possession of the little silk
purse again.
'Bessie!' exclaims Mrs. Naldret 'My dream that I told you last year'll
come true!'
The maid blushes. She is dreaming happily now. So are they all indeed.
Old Ben hopes that they will not wake up presently.
Silence falls upon them. And in the midst of the silence, the sounds
of music steal to their ears, and they gaze at each other with earnest
grateful eyes. It is the waits playing 'Home, sweet Home.'
'Do you remember, George?' says Bessie, with a tender clasp.
Softly, sweetly, proceeds the hymn of Home. The air is filled with
harmony and prayer.
THE END.
* * * * *
LONDON: ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W.