"That is like sin," the boy said to himself, and he turned indoors with a sigh.
As he passed Mrs. Kay's door, he saw that a light was burning within, and he could hear her moving about, with a noise as though she were lifting heavy things.
"She's not drinking to-night, then," he said to himself. He crept into bed, and was soon sound asleep.
Early in the morning, he was wakened by a great commotion in the passage. Emerging from his hole to see what it meant, he perceived that the place was strewn with Mrs. Kay's belongings, and that a cart stood at the door, waiting to receive them. Tumbling as quickly as possible into his clothes, he ran to learn more.
"Why, Mrs. Kay!" he cried. "Are you shifting?"
"Does it no look like it?" she asked grimly.
"I'm sorry for that," said Bert, who bore no malice on account of harsh words and blows received from her in the past. "Where are you going?"
"That's no business of yours," she replied. "Just hold your tongue, can't you? I've enough to do without your bothering me with questions."
"Can't I help you?" asked Bert.
"Yes, you may, if you'll be careful," she said, somewhat mollified; here, "you may carry these books out to the cart."
Bert looked curiously at the pile of shabby books she gave him. On the top lay a small old Bible. As he carried it out, the breeze lifted the old, broken cover, almost carrying it away, and Bert caught sight of a name written on the fly-leaf, "Priscilla Grant, from her loving mother."
Slowly he spelt out the long name, then tried in a whisper to pronounce it.
"Pris—cilla! That sounds like the name Mr. Corney said was his sister's. How odd that it should be in this book! I wonder if it's Mrs. Kay's?"
But Bert kept his wonder to himself. He did not dare to ask any more questions.
Mrs. Kay's possessions were not very numerous. In a short time they were all packed into the cart, and having given up the key of her room to the landlady, she took her departure, walking beside the cart.
"So she's gone," said Bert, with a sigh. "I'm sorry."
"Then it's more than I am," said Mrs. Brown, as she glanced round the dusty, littered room her lodger had vacated. "She's good riddance, I say, for I never knew when I should get her money, and she was a nasty-tempered woman."
"Where has she gone?" asked Bert.
"I'm sure I don't know," returned the landlady; "that's no business of mine. She's paid me what she owed, and that's all I care about."
The Queen's Jubilee
IT was the morning of the 21st of June. Bert had risen almost as soon as it was light, and, having made very special ablutions ere he donned the ragged garments, which had anything but a festive appearance, he was going to supply himself with a goodly number of the papers and programmes for which he hoped to find a ready sale that day. But ere he started, he stood for a moment at the area railings, and looked down into the sailor's room. Early as it was, Mr. Corney was astir. Bert saw him busy brushing his boots, with Cetywayo perched on his left shoulder, making the work more difficult, though it went on briskly notwithstanding, to the accompaniment of one of the sailor's favourite hymns.
Mr. Corney ceased singing when he caught sight of the boy.
"Hullo!" he cried. "So you're up betimes?"
"And so are you," returned the boy. "Are you going to see the Jubilee, Mr. Corney?"
"Ay, I'm going to see what I can see. Such a day will never come again in my life. I mean to have a look at Queen Victoria, anyway. It's years and years since I last sighted her. It was in London too—the first time that ever I came to London from Scotland."
"From Scotland!" exclaimed Bert, in surprise. "Are you Scotch, then, Mr. Corney?"
"Ay, I'm a Scotchman," he replied.
"How strange I never thought of that!" said Bert. "Now you say so, I notice that you speak very much like Mrs. Kay."
"And who is Mrs. Kay?" he asked.
"Why, she used to live in the first front room; but she shifted a fortnight ago. You could tell she was Scotch directly she opened her mouth."
"And you can't find me out so quickly? Ah, well, I suppose I have lost a bit of my Scotch tongue, knocking about the world. But a Scot I am, and a loyal one too, for I mean to see the Queen to-day. It's thirty years since I saw her, and her family has grown considerably since then. Such an array of Princes and Princesses there'll be in the procession to-day as never was seen before, they tell me."
Bert sighed. "I wish my Princess were here to see it all," he said to himself.
Then he consoled himself with the thought that, if only he made a nice sum of money this day, he would start on the morrow for Hampshire. "And won't the Princess be surprised and pleased to see me!" he thought.
"Well, good-bye, Mr. Corney; I'm off," he shouted. "I hope you'll get a good place and see 'everythink.'"
The dreary street in which Bert lived lay at no great distance from the stately squares and crescents of West London. Laden with papers, he soon found his way to the Marble Arch, and taking up his station there, did a brisk trade amid the ever-swelling stream of persons which swept by, intent on gaining a good position from which to view the show.
London wore an entirely new aspect on that brilliant morning. Its sombre streets, with their prosaic monotony of outline and hue, were transformed by vivid touches of colour and artistic decorative effects, till they glowed with a beauty few Oriental cities could surpass. Everywhere there was a lavish display of flags, bunting, floral decorations, and emblazoned mottoes proclaiming a nation's love and loyalty.
Early as was the hour, the streets were full of people, for many had risen with the lark, and not a few, busied with final preparations, had been astir all night. Already the church bells were making a merry din, and giving the keynote of the engagements of that festive day. Carriages, cabs, and omnibuses went by, carrying people to their chosen places along the route. Every minute the crowds increased. All seemed in good temper. The true spirit of jubilation was abroad.
Bert's spirits rose as he saw the signs of general festivity. He, too, grew excited, and his shrill little voice rose eagerly in the cry: "Now then, here you are! Special edition. Corr'ct account of the Jub'lee. Order of the processions. List of Roy'lties. All you want to know, for one penny."
Faster than he could have hoped, his papers disappeared. Some who bought them looked pityingly at the boy's odd little figure in the short, tight, ragged jacket which he had outgrown, small though he was for his years. They noted how thin and white was the little face, lit up by those eager eyes. But Bert had no pity for himself at that moment. As he dropped the pennies into the pocket of his ragged coat—there was no hole in the pocket; he had seen to that—he felt as proud and elate as a man who is making his fortune. He was getting quite rich, and his riches opened up to him such a joyous prospect. To-morrow he would be off to Hampshire to see the Princess.
There! The last paper had gone. Now he was free to go and see what he could, and take his share in the excitement of the day. He had already decided whither he would turn his steps. From the Marble Arch to Hyde Park Corner was not very far. Bert had been told that here the finest possible view of the procession might be had, and, undeterred by the crowds already pressing in that direction, he too made for this point of vantage.
Although it still wanted more than an hour to the time when the procession was to start, there were thousands of men and women, boys and girls, packed together on the broad pavements. The roadway, too, was blocked with vehicles. The squeezing was intense, the heat stiffing, yet Bert dauntlessly pushed forward into the crowd, and continued to work his way towards the front. He wanted to see what passed, and he would see nothing if he remained at the back of the pavement behind lines and lines of people.
In vain people pushed him back and told him to keep behind. Bert was small and thin and wiry, and he pushed his way through every slightest opening, and got the better of persons bigger than himself with a skill which excited the ire of some and the amusement of others. Yet Bert would have had a poor chance of seeing the procession had not a woman who blocked his way suddenly fallen forward, unconscious from the heat and pressure. Instantly there was a cry for the ambulance officers. Some of these came forward to remove the sufferer, and in the hustling that resulted from the disturbance Bert found himself carried to the very edge of the pavement, close to a mounted constable, who, seeing what a little chap he was, moved his horse a pace or two, so as not to intercept his view.
Just as Bert was congratulating himself on his good luck, there passed before him the stretcher on which the policemen had placed the woman who had swooned. To Bert's consternation, he recognised in the still, purple, apparently lifeless visage of the woman, the face of Mrs. Kay. He uttered a cry, and would have run after the ambulance, had not the mounted constable called to him sharply to come back. Bert watched as the policemen bore their burden across the broad road, now clear of all traffic, for the procession was momentarily expected, to the ambulance station below the arch at the top of Constitution Hill. Poor Mrs. Kay! Was she dead? Had the sun's heat killed her? For Bert had heard of people dying of sunstroke.
But now there rose from the direction of the Green Park the sound of swelling voices raised in joyous acclamation. Louder and louder rose the cries, and with a thrill of strange emotion, which brought tears to his eyes, Bert realized that the supreme moment had arrived. The Queen was coming!
In a few moments, the splendid cavalcade appeared. When the Queen came, attended by her magnificent body-guard of princes, the public enthusiasm knew no bounds. Foreign royalties were all very well; but here was the one whom her people loved, and whom they had gathered in such numbers to greet with every sign of loyalty and rejoicing. Next in interest to the Queen came the members of her family. Bert's shrill little voice had shouted lustily for the Queen; but as the carriages containing the princesses went slowly by he was too lost in admiration of their gentle looks and pretty dresses—the laces and satins and furbelows, which to his childish imagination suggested lives of unlimited luxury and enjoyment—to think of cheering.
"There's princesses for you!" he said to himself. "They're the real thing, they are; and yet if my Princess was rigged up like that, I guess she'd look just as well."
And there passed before his mind a picture of Prin, as she had appeared in her old, shabby frock and broken shoes. Then he remembered how different she had looked when she went away with the nurse.
"But she'll get shabby again when she comes back," he thought with a sigh. "We shall never get enough money to buy nice clothes."
But now the last carriage belonging to the procession had gone by. The police relaxed the restraint under which they had held the crowd. To the relief of every one, the great pressure was at an end. People were free to wander across the road and into the Green Park. Bert made use of his liberty to run to the ambulance station and inquire for Mrs. Kay.
"Oh, she's coming round," said the policeman of whom he made inquiry. "What do you know about her? Is she your mother?"
Bert shook his head, and explained that she was only an acquaintance, lately a neighbour, whereupon the policeman pushed him with little ceremony out of the way; but the boy had caught sight of Mrs. Kay, lying with her eyes closed, and that purplish tint still on her face, and it struck him that she looked very bad.
He turned towards the Green Park; but as he passed through the gateway, some one touched him on the shoulder. He looked round, and to his surprise found Mr. Corney beside him.
"What, you here, Mr. Corney!" he exclaimed. "It seems as if I was to see people I know. There's poor Mrs. Kay in there." And he pointed towards the little room in the base of the arch where the ambulance patients were sheltered.
"Mrs. Kay?" repeated Mr. Corney, in momentary bewilderment, till he remembered when he had heard mention of this individual before. "Was it she they carried in there just before the procession came? I saw her face as they went by, and, do you know, she reminded me of my sister! A very different sort of person, of course—not too respectable, I am afraid—older and stouter than Priscilla would be too, but still like her. It's strange how one sees likenesses sometimes."
Bert nodded; but he was not paying great heed to what the old sailor said. There was so much to divert him in all he saw.
In the relief of being able to move freely, the crowd was waxing merry. Vendors of fruit and sherbet had come to the fore, and little picnic parties were being formed here and there on the grass. Carriages too, most of them empty, were passing by, for the road was open again for traffic for a little while.
Bert became aware that he had eaten nothing since a very early hour, and that he was parched with thirst. He resolved to spend one of his halfpence on a glass of sherbet, and was turning to look for the seller of this cooling refreshment, when his attention was attracted by an open carriage which was driving towards the Park.
There were several prettily dressed children in the carriage, accompanied by a woman, who appeared to be their nurse. On the back seat was a girl older than the other children, and more quietly dressed than they were. Her complexion was very fair, and long golden locks fell over her shoulders. Bert's gaze was instantly arrested by this girl; she was so like Prin. He had no idea, however, that it was his sister, and could hardly believe his eyes when, as the carriage passed, the girl turned in his direction with a movement of the head familiar to him, and he saw that it was indeed Prin.
"Prin! Prin!" he cried aloud the next moment, and darted after the carriage, heedless of danger to himself.
Prin heard the cry and looked back. She recognized the ragged, dusty, deplorable little form pursuing the carriage. For a moment her eyes met those of her brother, and he knew that she saw him. But suddenly her face grew very red. She turned round quickly and looked in the opposite direction.
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Instantly Bert understood. The Princess did not wish to see him. She was ashamed to call him her brother. The thought smote him with a pang of sharpest pain. He fell back at once, heedless of the perils of the busy road. A mounted policeman, suspecting the boy of begging to the annoyance of those within the carriage, was following at his heels.
Bert's sudden halt took him by surprise. He tried to pull up his horse, but there was not time. The animal reared wildly, but struck Bert as it reared. The boy fell senseless on the road.
Again the ambulance stretcher was in requisition. Bert was placed in it, and carried at once to St. George's Hospital, for it was feared that his hurt was serious.
In the Hospital
BERT was not likely to die. His worst injury was a broken rib, and that having been skilfully set, he was likely to do well. He did not suffer acute pain; yet the boy was miserable enough as he lay on his little bed in the hospital ward. He was enduring pangs which he could not describe, and which the best of nurses could not have relieved.
Shakespeare pronounced it "sharper than a serpent's tooth" to have a thankless child, and the sting of the ingratitude that sins against love is under all circumstances hard to bear. Bert could not have put his feelings into words, but his heart ached at the remembrance of how Prin had turned from him. It seemed cruel of her, for she must have known how he had suffered from loneliness and heartache since she went away.
"I could never have treated her so," Bert said to himself; "no, not if I had become the greatest swell that ever was."
It appeared that the Princess had risen in the world. How came she to be driving in that grand carriage with those smartly-dressed children? Had she left Hampshire for good?
"Oh, she might have written and told me," groaned Bert; "and to-day I meant to go down there to see her!"
The boy grew restless and feverish under the strain of his mental trouble. Mr. Corney, who had been greatly distressed to see him borne off to the hospital, and quite at a loss to understand how the accident had happened, had quickly followed him thither, and he came again and again to see him. But he, kind though he was, could not enter into Bert's state of mind. He was convinced that the boy was under a delusion regarding his sister. It was not really Prin, but some one very like her whom he had seen. Bert shook his head, and pressed his lips firmly together at the suggestion.
"It was Prin, and she saw me," he said; and it was impossible to persuade him otherwise.
In vain, Mr. Corney tried to argue with him.
"Don't you remember that I saw some one very like my sister?" he asked. "And yet it was not my sister."
"It may have been," said Bert. "You have not seen her for a long time; she may have altered."
"Oh no; it is impossible that that could have been my sister. Priscilla was a most respectable woman, and that poor woman looked like a person who drank. Besides, you said you knew her. You called her Mrs. Kay."
"Oh yes, I forgot. Of course it was Mrs. Kay," said Bert. But he was no less convinced that he had seen Prin.
"People do change, though," he remarked, somewhat irrelevantly. "I never could have believed that Prin would have looked on me and turned away like that."
"Ay," said old Corney, "it was not like a sister, and that's what makes me think you must be mistaken. Well, there's one Friend will never treat you like that, Bert," and he began to sing softly his favourite hymn,—
"'I've found a Friend, oh, such a Friend!'"
"Wouldn't He be ashamed of a ragged little chap like me?" asked Bert wistfully.
The old sailor's face brightened with a beaming smile as he shook his head and said,—
"Not He. Neither our rags nor our sins can separate us from the love of Christ. He is not ashamed to call us His brothers."
The thought dropped like balm on Bert's wounded spirit. Long after Mr. Corney had gone, the refrain of his hymn,—
"'I've found a Friend, oh, such a Friend!'"
Rang on in Bert's heart. That night, for the first time since his accident, he enjoyed sound, refreshing sleep.
After that, his condition daily improved. When he had been a fortnight in the hospital, he was allowed to sit up, and soon he was able to move about the ward. One day he received a great surprise. Some changes were being made in the arrangement of the beds, and there was wheeled into the ward from an adjoining one a woman who looked very ill, though she evidently belonged to the class of convalescents. Turning to look at her as she went by, Bert recognised, to his astonishment, Mrs. Kay. He watched while the nurse placed her in an easy chair and arranged her pillows comfortably; then, when she was left alone, he walked across the ward and stood beside her.
"Why, Mrs. Kay," he said, "I did not know that you was here."
She started nervously at the sound of his voice, for she was very weak, and when she spoke her words were not gracious.
"Goodness me, boy! No more did I know that you was here; but that's no reason why you should startle me so. I've been very ill, and the least thing goes through me."
"I've been ill, too," said Bert, with some importance. "I met with an accident on Jubilee Day, and they brought me in here."
"Why, I was taken ill at the Jubilee, too," said Mrs. Kay; "I had a kind of a fit, and they could not bring me round, so I was carried to the hospital. I've been awfully bad in my head since; but I'm better now, though I don't feel good for much. No more Jubilees for me. It was the heat and the squeezing that did it."
But as she spoke Mrs. Kay knew well that it was not the heat alone that had caused her illness. Her intemperate habits were accountable for it. One of the medical men had told her this very plainly, and had, moreover, warned her that if she did not give up the drink, her life would soon come to an end. And Mrs. Kay was very depressed and miserable. She shrank from the thought of illness and death, yet she felt powerless to resist the wretched craving, which even now possessed her, for the stimulant in which she had so long indulged.
"You look very bad," said Bert sympathetically; "are you really better?"
"Oh, I suppose so," she said, with a heavy sigh. "They're going to send me home in a day or two."
"Where's your home?" asked Bert.
"That's no business of yours," said she sharply; "it's not much of a home, I'm thinking, for there's no one in it to care whether I die or live."
"Your husband's dead, isn't he?" said Bert.
"Yes, he died many years ago. He was a ship's carpenter at Liverpool. Ah, if you'd seen the home I had when I married—but there! Don't let me think of that. I'm low enough now; but I was once in very different circumstances."
"Did you ever have a brother?" asked Bert, who seemed to be in the mood for asking questions.
"Yes, I'd a brother once, but he turned out a good-for-nothing fellow. He ran away to sea, and broke my mother's heart. Then the ship he was on board of went down, and he with her, and I thought to myself that it was good riddance of bad rubbish; but now—now—I don't know—"
Mrs. Kay's voice faltered; in vain she tried to steady it; then to Bert's consternation her head sank forward on her hands, and she sobbed aloud.
"Oh, Mrs. Kay, what is the matter?" he asked.
"Nothing," she sobbed, "only I'm thinking there wouldn't be much to choose between us now. I never meant to be bad, but things were so against me. My husband died, and my two little children died, and I was left all alone, with no one to care what I did, and so I became what I am."
"There was some One who cared, I suppose," said Bert softly.
But if Mrs. Kay heard his words, she did not understand them. She was ignorant of the love of Jesus, although she could have answered any question as to the doctrines of Christianity. To her Jesus was only a Name, the chief factor in a formula, and her very knowledge of the truth concerning Him seemed to close her heart against Him.
"Mrs. Kay," said Bert, whose love of asking questions was not to be checked, "did you ever know any one of the name of Priscilla?"
"Priscilla!" she exclaimed in astonishment, "why that's my own name! Priscilla Grant I was before I married. Whatever made you think of that?"
Bert did not explain what had caused him to ask the question. Indeed, he was too much surprised at her reply to find anything to say. Such an extraordinary idea had come into his head. What if Mrs. Kay were Mr. Corney's sister after all! Suppose she were his sister, and he had not known her!
Bert fervently hoped that Mr. Corney would come in ere Mrs. Kay was taken back to her own ward. But the thing he so much wished did not come to pass. Contrary to his expectation, the old sailor did not appear that afternoon, and Bert feared that ere the next "visitors' day," Mrs. Kay would have left the hospital.
It was so. Two days later she came into his ward to bid him good-bye. She looked wretchedly ill and tremulous. Indeed, she declared that she felt "all of a shake," and far more fit to be in bed than to be going abroad.
"But they say that I'm better, and shall get on, all right now, if I'm careful, so I suppose it must be so; but I can't help wishing I'd died, for I'm sure my life isn't worth living."
And remembering what he had seen of her life when they had lived under the same roof, Bert was inclined to agree with her; but he was very sorry for her, nevertheless, and would have said something to cheer her if he could. Nothing occurred to him, however, except to say, "Don't talk that way, Mrs. Kay. You'll feel better when you get home. I'll come and see you when I get out of the hospital, if you'll let me."
But she shook her head at the suggestion, and though she bade Bert good-bye with more kindness of manner then she often displayed, she departed without telling him where she lived.
On the following afternoon, the ward was full of visitors, and Bert looked for his friend, Mr. Corney, to make his appearance, but for a while he was disappointed. In despair, he was beginning to persuade himself that his friend must be ill, when, almost at the expiration of the visitors' time, the old sailor appeared at the door of the ward.
Bert uttered an exclamation of joy as he caught sight of him; but as his friend drew nearer, the boy's feelings changed. For something had evidently gone wrong with Mr. Corney. He did not look like himself. His cheerful, beaming expression was gone.
He looked pale and worn and heavy-hearted. His very walk was different. He had passed for an old man before, but a brisk and sprightly one. Now, however, he seemed aged, and bowed by some infirmity, mental or physical.
"Why, Mr. Corney!" exclaimed Bert. "What is the matter? Are you ill?"
"No, no, boy, I'm all right. There is nothing the matter with me. I've had a shock, that is all. How are you?"
"Oh, I am getting on very well. I still have to wear the bandages, you see. When they are taken off, I shall be allowed to go away; but I don't want to go. I like being here."
"Yes, yes," said the old man mournfully, "you might be in a worse place. There are many worse places in the world than this."
"I know there are," said Bert; "but, Mr. Corney, I wish you would tell me what is the matter. I am sure you are in trouble."
"So I am, Bert, so I am," said the old man, shaking his head; "there's no denying it; but it won't make it better to talk of it."
But Bert could not be satisfied without knowing his friend's trouble, and it may be that Mr. Corney was secretly longing for sympathy, for the boy soon won his confidence.
"Bert," he said, "I've found my sister; but I've found her in such a way that I could almost wish I had not found her. But God forbid that I should say that! No, let me rather thank God that I have found her; but it's a bitter disappointment, an awful grief, to find her such an one as she is."
"How did you find her, Mr. Corney?" asked Bert, after a pause so long that he feared the old man was not going to tell him any more.
"Oh," groaned Mr. Corney, "it's a shame even to speak of it! But it was like this. It was very hot last evening, and I went out for a bit of a stroll. I had got into one of the bigger streets, when I saw a crowd at a corner near a public-house. I went across to see what had happened, and there was a woman leaning against the railings—drunk. I never can bear to see a drunken woman. It's bad enough for a man to get drunk; but for a woman, it's an awful fall. Well, when I came to look at her, this was the very woman I saw on Jubilee Day—the one that was taken away on a stretcher, you know."
"Yes—Mrs. Kay," said Bert, full of interest, as he saw what was coming.
"Ay, that was what you called her—her name is really Mackay. I thought her like my sister then; but oh! The horror of it! She is my sister—my sister, Priscilla Mackay, whom I left seventeen years ago, a respectable, well-living woman, the wife of a good Christian man. Oh, I can't tell you what a woman Pris was—a clean, clever housewife—a wee bit pernicketty in her ways, and somewhat sharp of her tongue; but one who was respected by her neighbours, and went to church twice every Sabbath, and was a pattern mother to her two wee bairns. She was ashamed enough of me; she shook me off as a disgrace; and I never meant to go near her again, till the Lord changed my heart. And, strangely enough, intoxicated though she was, she knew me before I knew her, and she cried out to me, calling me by my name. And what do you think she said?
"'Ah, Corney,' she cried, 'it's my turn now. I'm the one that's going to the bad. The Bible says that the first shall be last, and that's how it is with me.'"
"I am not surprised," said Bert; "I began to think that Mrs. Kay was your sister."
"Ah, you don't understand. Even now it seems impossible that it can be so—that Pris can have come to that."
"It's just the drink that has done it," said Bert, speaking with a wisdom beyond his years, born of painful experience. "There's nothing like drink for dragging people down. It brought my father to his grave."
"Say, rather, it is sin," said old Corney. "Sin of any kind means ruin, sorrow, death. I see that now as I never did before."
"Who made sin?" asked Bert. "Was it the devil?"
"Nay, it was rather sin that made the devil; at least, I remember hearing a preacher in Scotland say that it was nothing but sin that made the devil a devil."
Bert was silent for a few moments, his thoughts being such as could not readily find expression.
"Where is Mrs. Kay now, Mr. Corney?" he asked presently.
"At home with me," he said; "I've hired a room for her in the same house. Her own poor things had been sold for the rent while she was in the hospital. Ah, poor soul! Poor soul!"
"Then you love her still?" said Bert.
"Still!" repeated Mr. Corney. "Why, I love her more than ever I did before. How can I help it, when I see her so miserable? And was not I just such a sinner myself, and did not Jesus love me and save me? And He can save her. But I must be going. It is not well to leave her long alone."
And Mr. Corney went away, leaving Bert with his heart full of a new, strange wonder and pain. Long after Mr. Corney had gone, Bert mused over the sad story he had told. He thought of it in the quiet of midnight, when most of the patients were asleep in the dimly-lighted ward, and no sound broke the stillness save an occasional groan from some sleepless sufferer, or the light movements of the nurse as she ministered to the same.
Grave thoughts were in the boy's mind at that hour, thoughts which gradually quickened into dread. His heart turned to Prin, with a sorrowful longing in which there was now no resentment. He was ashamed that he had felt so bitterly towards her. His thoughts grew more and more oppressive. The dark side of life presented itself to his imagination, and he could not shake off the horror of it. He remembered his father's prayer, and the meaning of it was clear now. Suddenly he sat up in bed, and, with clasped hands, breathed forth in a fervent whisper the words:—
"O God, deliver me from evil—and Prin too—for Jesus' sake!"
An Interview with the Princess
BERT'S cure was complete. The outside bandages were removed. He was pronounced fit to go home.
The nurse wondered what kind of home he had, as she helped him to don the ragged garments he had worn when he was brought into the hospital. She was sorry to part with her good little patient. He was still more sorry to leave her.
"You'll be able to find your way home alone?" she said.
"Rather," replied Bert, with an expressive nod.
"You've neither father nor mother, I think you told me?"
Bert nodded again.
"Then what relation to you is that old man who used to come to see you?"
"No relation at all. He is my friend," said Bert, with some pride.
"Then have you no one belonging to you?"
"I have a sister," said Bert proudly.
"Older than you?"
"Yes, older and better—altogether different. You'd never believe how clever Prin is, and pretty too—I call her the Princess."
"I hope she is good to you?"
"I should think she is," said Bert stoutly; "when she is at home," he added, as an afterthought.
The claims of duty prevented the nurse from pursuing her inquiries. She hastily bid Bert good-bye, and he walked away with a very serious face, striving hard to keep the tears from his eyes.
A pleasant sense of freedom came to him, however, when he found himself outside the walls of the hospital. After all it was good to be able to move about and go where he listed. Bert was not conscious of weakness. A broken bone is not like a disease; he had eaten and slept well during his stay in the hospital, and having had much more nourishing food than he was able to provide for himself, he had gained rather than lost strength since his accident. He felt in no hurry to reach the miserable street in which he lived, though he anticipated with pleasure the welcome he would receive from the old sailor.
Had he known the hour of his dismissal, Mr. Corney might have come to the hospital to fetch Bert; but probably the old man would have found it impossible to leave his sister, whom he needed to watch constantly, if he would save her from the intemperance that threatened to prove fatal to her.
It was in the afternoon that Bert came out of St. George's Hospital, and the gay traffic which distinguishes Hyde Park Corner was at its greatest height. He stood for a while to watch the smart equipages that went by, half expecting to catch sight of Prin seated in one of them. Presently, he crossed the road and examined with interest the place where his accident had occurred.
"It was just here I caught sight of the Princess," he said to himself. "I could hardly believe my eyes, at first, and even now it seems to me like a dream. I wonder where she is. Is she still in London? Surely if she were, she would try to see me."
With the thought, a sudden fear smote Bert.
What if Prin had been to the street to seek him, while he was in the hospital, and, not finding him, had given up the search! "But surely I should have heard of it if she had been there," thought Bert. "Mr. Corney would have told me."
It seemed strange that Prin should be in London and make no effort to see her little brother. But the ways of the Princess had often appeared unaccountable to Bert.
Bert lingered no longer to recall the painful circumstances that had marked for him the Jubilee Day. He walked off briskly, but some impulse, not too evident, withheld him from taking the direct way home. He crossed the road and turned towards Park Lane. Presently he was passing along that aristocratic thoroughfare, finding much entertainment in observing the fine houses and the park, and the smart people who were moving about.
Suddenly his heart leaped within him, for there was Prin. A carriage was approaching him, and she was seated within it. He stood at the corner of one of the streets running out of the Lane, and the carriage dashed past him and stopped before a door about half-way down the street. Prin was very near him as the carriage went by, but she gave no sign of seeing him, and he had not dared to call out, as he had done before. But he noticed as she passed that her face was very red.
It took Bert a few moments to recover from the surprise, then he hastened after the carriage. He was in time to see its occupants alight. First there stepped down a lady wearing the wide cloak and flowing veil which mark the professional nurse. Then, with the help of the footman, she lifted down a girl apparently about Prin's age, with a face as white as a snowflake, who had to be supported on each side as she moved towards the open door. Prin followed, carrying a cushion and wrapper. She looked straight in front of her, or she must have seen her brother hurrying towards her. By the time he reached the house, the great door was shut, and the coachman was turning his horses round.
Bert watched the carriage drive away. Then he surveyed with a sinking heart the handsome oaken door. If only he had the courage to sound the knocker and demand to see his sister! But he dared not.
Yet he was resolved that he would not go away without seeing her. If he stayed there all night, he would wait till she came out. There was a lamppost close by. He threw his arms about it, and leaned against it till he was tired. Then he sat down on the edge of the pavement with his back against the lamppost.
Meanwhile a pair of eyes within the house were anxiously watching his movements. When it appeared that he was determined not to go away, a window above the door was raised a few inches and a voice, clear, though carefully subdued, called to him:
"Go away, Bert; go away at once. It is very naughty of you to come here."
Bert looked up quickly. The voice was undoubtedly Prin's, but he could see nothing of the speaker.
"I'm not going," he made answer boldly; "I shan't go away till I've seen you."
"You must go. I tell you to go!" The voice had the old authoritative ring, and it betrayed anger too, but Bert was not now to be daunted by it.
"I'll go, p'raps, when I've seen you," he said, "not before. You're my sister, and I mean to see you."
This unexpected self-assertion on Bert's part evidently discomfited Prin. There was a pause of some moments, and when she spoke again it was to suggest a compromise.
"I can't see you now, but I'll try to see you presently, if you're a good boy and do as I tell you. Go into the Park and sit on the seat nearest the gate, and I'll come to you there as soon as ever I can."
"All right," said Bert, becoming again an obedient subject. He rose from the pavement, and taking one last look at the house, walked slowly away.
Almost at the end of the street there was an entrance into the Park, doubtless the gate Prin had referred to. He went inside and found a comfortable seat on a bench in the shade. But the time was long, and he grew very hungry ere Prin appeared.
At last he saw her hurrying towards him, with the pucker on her forehead which he knew of old as a sign that she was "put out."
"Oh, here you are, Bert," she said as she approached. "Now then, what do you want?"
"Why, I want you, of course," cried Bert, amazed at the coolness of the question; "what else should I want? Do you forget that you've been away for months? I want to know how it is you are in London, and what you are doing in that big house, and when you are coming home."
"Home!" she repeated, in a tone of disgust. "Do you mean to that hole in the area?"
"Why, no," said Bert, looking greatly disturbed; "that room ain't ours any longer. Mr. Corney lives there now, and I—I sleep in the corner under the stairs."
"So you want me to come home to a corner under the stairs!" cried Prin sharply. "Well, you are a nice brother!"
Bert was taken aback by her turning upon him in this fashion. Tears of disappointment sprang to his eyes.
"No, I didn't mean that exactly," he said; "but tell me about yourself, Prin. Why did you never write to me again? And how came you to leave that nice home in the country with the lady who kept cows, and where you used to ride about in a carriage every day?"
"A carriage!" exclaimed Prin, with a laugh. "Why, it was the milk-cart! I did not know the difference then, but I do now."
"But how?" questioned Bert.
"Oh, I can't tell you everything," exclaimed Prin impatiently, "you'd never understand. Mrs. Hamblyn isn't a lady exactly. She has charge of one of Lord Ravenscourt's dairies, and lives in a pretty cottage close by. Mrs. Thornton, the lady who came to see me when I was ill, sent me to her, and she was very good to me; but after a while Lord Ravenscourt's family came to the Park, and I got to know the children, and I used to play with them in the hay, and they took a great fancy to me, especially the eldest, Lady Millicent, who is very ill. She would send for me when she was too ill to go out; she liked me to talk to her and amuse her, and when they were all coming to London to see the Jubilee, the children wanted me to come too, and Lady Ravenscourt said she would take me. Wasn't that a bit of luck for me?"
"Yes, indeed," said Bert wistfully. "Why, Prin, you're a lady yourself now."
He had closely observed Prin while she talked. He noted that she had grown taller and prettier than ever. She was dressed very neatly, but in finer material than he had ever known her wear before. Her gown was daintily finished with frills at neck and wrists. To Bert's inexperienced eye the Princess appeared very like the real article.
"Not I," she cried, with a flash of scorn for his ignorance in her eyes. "I only wish I were! You've no idea what it is to be a lady. The lovely things that Lady Millicent has! Her father just dotes on her, and he is for ever giving her presents, though she is too ill to care about them. He has given her a little jewelled watch, and a diamond star, and a musical box, and she hardly cares to look at them. She'd give them to me if I asked her for them, I verily believe."
"But you wouldn't do it, Prin?"
"Of course not, you stupid! I only said it to show how little she sets by them. I believe anybody might take them, and she not miss them."
Bert shook his head with an expressive grimace. He did not believe in any one holding jewels so lightly. But the thought was quickly effaced by more personal considerations. He looked wistfully at his sister, and said, with a tremor in his voice,—
"Don't you want to know nothing about me, Prin? Have you forgotten Jubilee Day?"
"What about it?" she asked, with a fine air of unconsciousness.
"Didn't you see me running after the carriage? Didn't you know I was knocked down?"
"Oh, was that you, and were you hurt?" asked Prin. "I saw there was a crowd, but I could not see much for the dust. Were you badly hurt?"
Bert began to talk of his experiences in the hospital. Prin listened with ill-concealed impatience. When he went on to tell the story of Mr. Corney and his sister, she quickly interrupted him.
"Oh, don't talk of that horrid Mrs. Kay! Of course she'll always drink. I guess her brother 'll wish he had never found her."
"Oh no," cried Bert, "he is very glad. He wants to save her. People can be saved from evil, Prin."
"Can they?" she said indifferently. "But now, Bert, I hope you've said all you want to say, for I must run back. They'll be wondering where I am, for I said I only wanted to post a letter."
"But, Prin, you'll let me see you again?" pleaded Bert.
"Now, don't be tiresome," said his sister. "How could I have a little scarecrow like you coming to the house? I'd be ashamed for the servants to know that you were my brother. And we shall soon be going back to the country. I'm to go to school again then, and afterwards I'm to learn the dressmaking, for Lady Millicent says I must be her lady's maid. But nurse says she'll not live to need a lady's maid."
"She looks ill enough," said Bert, remembering the white face he had seen. "Ah, Prin, I guess she'd gladly give up all her jewels to have your health."
"No doubt she would," said Prin; and for a moment a softer look came to her face, which, despite its youthful prettiness, had a hard, keen look. "Well, good-bye, Bert. I must not stay another minute."
Bert caught her by the arm. For a moment he could not speak, there was such a choking sensation in his throat.
"Good-bye, Prin," he said hoarsely at last. "Then you've done with me now? You'll never come back to me?"
"How can I?" she asked impatiently. "How could I live the old life? You'd better do as the lady said, get Dr. Barnardo to take you into his home."
"Ah," said Bert bitterly, "it's plain you don't want me."
And he turned from her without another word and walked away.
She stood for a moment looking after him, conscience-struck.
He trudged along and never turned his head, a mean, shabby, little figure, looking strangely out of place amid the flowers and trees and gaily-dressed children. Prin felt a pang of self-reproach as she sped back to the house.
The Princess Returns
BERT had a warm welcome from Mr. Corney when he appeared at the top of the area steps. Cetywayo seemed to remember the boy who had been kind to him, and in a dignified and distant manner accepted Bert's caresses.
Mrs. Kay, too, greeted him kindly; but she looked ill and wretched. The sore struggle with her besetting sin was almost more than she could endure. It resulted in a depression which sometimes manifested itself as hopeless apathy, and sometimes as extreme irritability. She was a prey to the most terrible remorse, and, brooding over the past, could find no hope for the future. In vain her brother strove to cheer her, in vain he spoke of Him who is the sinner's Friend, and by whose grace he had himself been delivered from sin. His sister had no faith to lay hold of the Hand stretched out to her, and every now and again a relapse into intemperance shattered her confidence in herself and plunged her deeper in despair.
But Mr. Corney had not lost hope for her. His face had the strained look of one who bears a burden; but his smile was bright as he welcomed Bert, and proceeded to prepare a festive meal in honour of his return.
The boy was pleased and grateful; but the old man was quick to perceive that he too had a burden on his heart.
"No doubt he is sad at leaving the hospital, where the nurses were so kind to him," thought Mr. Corney, and he did his best to make the boy feel that he loved him.
Bert was cheered by the old man's kindness, but he kept silence concerning Prin. Not even to Mr. Corney could he tell how he had seen his sister, and she had cast him off.
By-and-by it appeared that there were to be fresh changes in Bert's life. Mr. Corney had resolved to leave the miserable street in which he lived, and seek a home for himself and his sister somewhere in the country.
"I'd like to go back to Scotland," he said, "if I could possibly get the money to carry us so far. My sister has the little bit of money her husband left her. It comes in quarterly, and she's been wont to drink it all as she had it. I've saved a trifle, and I'm a handy man at odd jobs, so I doubt not we shall be able to make a living.
"It's the only chance for her," he added sorrowfully, "to go where she's out of the way of the drink. Here it's always before her, as you may say. These streets reek of it. But in God's beautiful country, and the bonny air of Scotland, she may lose the craving; though it's God's grace only that can save her, I know."
"Oh, Mr. Corney! What shall I do if you go away?" cried Bert, in sudden fear. "There'll be no one left."
"I've thought of that," said Mr. Corney heartily, "and you must come with us, Bert—come with us—that's what you must do. We'll see if we can't make a man of you in Scotland."
Bert's eyes brightened at the words; but after a moment's reflection, he shook his head.
"I couldn't go," he said; "I couldn't go where Prin would not be able to find me if she wanted me. No, I must stay here."
"Then you think your sister will be coming back here?" said Mr. Corney.
"I don't think nothing," Bert replied, "but I mean to stay here."
And from this resolve, he was not to be moved. When Mr. Corney and his sister departed at the end of August, Bert remained behind in the stifling, ill-smelling street.
He knew that Prin had long ere this quitted London. He had paid another visit to the house near Park Lane, and had seen by its closed, deserted appearance that the family was away. Prin was not likely to return to London for many months to come, and still less likely was it that when she came, she would want him; yet Bert clung to the place where they had lived together during the few months that had elapsed after their father's death until the Princess fell ill. The unreasoning instinct of a faithful, loving heart held him there.
It was the close of a fervid day in September. In the country, the trees were beginning to glow with the brilliant hues which tell of the summer's decline; but in London only such tokens as the cry of "sweet lavender," or the display of mellow pears and early apples on the barrows of the costermongers, testified to the waning of the season. It was hotter than it had been in June. Though the sun had set, the baked pavements and walls still gave forth heat, and there was no perceptible cooling of the atmosphere.
The unlovely life of the street in which Bert lived was being carried on mainly out of doors. The noise of brawling and strife, the shrill voices of children mingling with the cries of street vendors, made a continual hubbub there. Bert, having just returned from selling papers, sat at the top of the area steps with his back to the street, gazing down sadly at the empty room which had been occupied by Mr. Corney and Cetywayo. It was growing dusk, but the noise in the street only increased as daylight faded.
Bert was paying no heed to what went on behind him. Drunken quarrels and fights had ceased to interest him, and no one as a rule noticed him. He started, therefore, and turned round in fear as he felt a hand upon his shoulder.