"He died that we might be forgiven,He died to make us good,That we might go at last to heaven,Saved by His precious blood."
"He died that we might be forgiven,He died to make us good,That we might go at last to heaven,Saved by His precious blood."
"He died that we might be forgiven,He died to make us good,That we might go at last to heaven,Saved by His precious blood."
"He died that we might be forgiven,
He died to make us good,
That we might go at last to heaven,
Saved by His precious blood."
"That is true—we are saved by His precious blood. He died on the cross that He might draw us to Himself. He wants you to go to Him—yes, all of you, even the most sinful. He has said, 'Him that cometh to Me I will in nowise cast out.' Oh, if there are any amongst you who have not found Him, go to Him to-night, trusting only in Him, and He will give you forgiveness for your sins and peace for your souls. The blood of Jesus Christ, the blood shed on Mount Calvary on that first Good Friday so long ago, cleanseth from all sin."
The little gentleman ceased speaking and stepped off the platform, whilst the vicar, who had been working the lantern from the centre of the hall, took his place and offered up a short earnest prayer, after which the evening hymn "Glory to Thee, my God, this night" was sung very heartily, and the assembly began to disperse.
Mrs. Berryman insisted on lingering till the hall was nearly empty, as she did not like to be pushed about in a crowd, she said, and the consequence was that Mr. Blackmore caught sight of her and Melina as they rose from their seats, and, leaving the vicar, to whom he had been talking, overtook them before they reached the door.
"I am so glad you came," he said, as he touched Melina on the arm to attract her attention; "did you like the pictures?"
"Oh yes, sir," she answered, "they were beautiful! I—this is my grandmother, sir," she added, as his glance turned to Mrs. Berryman.
He held out his hand to the old woman, who, rather reluctantly it appeared, shook hands with him.
"I have often thought that I should like to know you, Mrs. Berryman," he said kindly; "I have known your granddaughter some time, as I dare say she has told you?" He spoke inquiringly.
"Yes," the old woman assented.
"She was the first friend I made in Hawstock —I shall always remember that. You know I am helping the vicar in the parish? Yes. I wonder if I may call upon you some day? I am acquainted with your neighbour, Mrs. Jones—"
"I don't have anything to do with my neighbours," interposed Mrs. Berryman, in such a brusque manner that Melina blushed with shame; "I make it a rule to keep myself to myself." She spoke as though to do that was a virtue.
Mr. Blackmore's eyes, full of kindliness and good will, yet searching too, were fixed gravely on the old woman's lined countenance, reading its expression.
"I can never understand how anyone can do that," he remarked, "I am sure that I couldn't; but then I'm naturally a sociable disposition. Do you mean that you would rather I did not call upon you, then?"
Mrs. Berryman hesitated what response to give to this direct question. She glanced at Melina, who was looking at her appealingly, and, contrary to her custom, decided to show consideration for her granddaughter's feelings.
"I did mean that," she answered, "but if you like to call, sir, please do."
"Thank you," said the little gentleman.
He did not prolong the conversation further, but said "good night"; and after that Melina and her grandmother left the hall and turned their footsteps homewards. It was a lovely night, with a clear sky, bright with stars, and a soft breeze which was very refreshing.
"Now you know Mr. Blackmore, Gran," the little girl remarked; "what do you think of him?"
"I think he means well," Mrs. Berryman admitted; "he seems very earnest, and he evidently believes all he talked about to-night—about Jesus having died for our sakes."
"Oh yes!" Melina's voice was full of eagerness. "Are you glad you went with me?" she inquired.
"Glad? No."
"Didn't you like the pictures?"
"Well enough, but I wish now I hadn't gone to see them."
"Oh, why?"
"Because I don't want Mr. Blackmore to call on me, and I had to say he might as he'd been kind to you. I don't want to have anything to do with strangers—I want to be left alone."
Melina thought it wise to make no response to this. She walked on by her grandmother's side in silence for a while, but presently she said:
"I'm so happy to-night, Gran, that I feel I must speak of it. My heart is very, very glad."
"Indeed! Why?"
"I think it's because I've learnt to love Jesus," was the softly-spoken admission.
"Love Jesus?" echoed Mrs. Berryman, in amazement.
"Yes," the little girl said, a thrill of deep earnestness in her voice; "I really do love Him, and I'm going to be a Christian if I can." The eyes she raised, as she spoke, to her companion's face shone with a bright, steady light.
"Well," exclaimed her grandmother with emphasis, "this beats anything I ever heard in my life!"
"STOP! I say, wait for me, Melina!"
It was the afternoon following Good Friday, and Melina, who had been to do some errands for her grandmother, was on her way home. She glanced around at the sound of a familiar voice addressing her and saw William Jones, who was hurrying to overtake her. A moment later he reached her side.
"So you and your grandmother were at the town hall last night," he remarked, as they walked on together; "the pictures were fine, weren't they?"
"Oh yes!" Melina answered, "indeed they were! I liked them—all of them. I saw you in the hall, but I didn't know you noticed us. Gran would go with me."
"And you didn't want her, I suppose?" he suggested.
"Well, no," she admitted; "I would much rather have gone alone."
The boy nodded understandingly. "What are you going to do on Monday?" he inquired.
"Nothing particular."
"Mother and father and I are going for an excursion to the seaside; we generally do on the Easter bank holiday."
"How nice!"
"This year we're going to Hawmouth. If the weather's fine, and it promises to be, we shall have a rare good time, I expect. We shall take our dinner with us and have it on the beach, and our tea we shall have at a tea-shop, and get home to supper."
This seemed a delightful programme to Melina. "I've never been to the seaside," she said, with a faint regretful sigh.
"Never been to the seaside!" her companion echoed, in deepest amazement. "And Hawstock is only twelve miles from Hawmouth too!—only about a quarter of an hour's journey by train!"
"I know. I've often wondered if I could walk as far as that and back again in a day, but I'm afraid I couldn't."
"No, of course you couldn't; you mustn't think of trying."
"I don't now; but you can't imagine how I long for a sight of the sea. I've seen pictures of it in the picture shops in the town, and oh, it must be grand!"
William Jones nodded. "I wish you were going with us on Monday," he said, looking at her thoughtfully. "I wish—" He paused abruptly, and walked on in silence for a few minutes; then he began again: "I say, Melina, don't you wonder what's become of your father?"
"Yes, that I do! Gran won't tell me—perhaps she doesn't know herself."
"Perhaps not. Father says that he believes that he went abroad—to Canada. Maybe he's making a fortune, and one of these days he'll be coming home."
"Oh, I do hope he will!—that is, if he's a nice man like your father, William. But if he's making a fortune, don't you think he'd send home some money for me? He must know I'm a great expense to Gran."
"I suppose that's what Mrs. Berryman says—that you're a great expense to her; but I don't believe you are. Why, she spends hardly anything on you; it's very mean of her to be so screwy, especially when she could do so much better for you if she liked."
William Jones, who was quoting the opinion of his mother, looked quite indignant as he spoke. Melina made no response; she was recollecting the hoard of money she had discovered that Mrs. Berryman possessed.
"You see, your grandmother can't be really poor," the boy continued; "if she was, she couldn't lend money, that's certain."
"What do you mean?" the little girl inquired in response. "I don't believe Gran would lend money to anyone. I—well, I don't think she's kind enough to do that."
"Do you mean to say that you don't know—" William Jones broke off suddenly, then exclaimed: "Well, I never! You don't mean to say that she's kept it a secret from you?"
"Kept what a secret from me?" questioned Melina, thoroughly puzzled; "what is it I don't know?"
"That your grandmother's a money-lender. That's her business—to lend money. The idea of her keeping you in the dark about it! That shows she knows she's doing wrong."
"Is it wrong to lend money, then?" Melina asked. Her face was expressive of astonishment and incredulity. She thought that her grandmother valued money too much to lend it; but, supposing she did lend it, where was the harm?
"It's wrong if too much is charged for it," William Jones explained, amazed at his companion's ignorance. "Ah, I see you don't understand! It's like this—but don't you let on to Mrs. Berryman that I've been talking to you about her affairs. Promise me that."
The little girl gave the required promise without hesitation, and the boy continued:
"When your grandmother lends money, it's to very poor people, and for small amounts, and when they pay it back she makes them give her a great deal more than they borrowed—double sometimes. Now that isn't right, is it?"
"No, indeed," Melina returned, "of course it's not!"
"It's what is called usury," William Jones said, "and the person who does it is a usurer—a wicked person who only cares for making money and robs the poor."
"Oh!" cried Melina, very shocked. She was thinking of the wretched-looking creatures who so frequently called to see Mrs. Berryman, and were interviewed by the old woman in the parlour. She could not doubt but that her companion had spoken the truth.
"Mother says to rob folks of their money, as your grandmother does, is as bad as being a regular pickpocket," William Jones continued; "I heard her talking about it to father only yesterday, and he agreed with her. Really, Melina, your grandmother's a dreadful old woman, and it's no wonder, is it, that people—respectable people, I mean—don't care to have anything to do with her?"
"No," Melina responded, with a choke in her voice. Her face was white and set.
"Perhaps I ought not to have told you that Mrs. Berryman is a money-lender," the boy said, rather uneasily; "don't you trouble about it, you can't help it."
"No," Melina agreed, "but it's so—so shameful! I understand now why everyone's been so against me—it's been on account of Gran! Oh, now I know this, I don't think I can ever go to see the Browns again! Oh, suppose they should find out—"
"You may depend they know all about your grandmother," William Jones interposed, "or at any rate Mrs. Brown does. For certain Mr. Blackmore has told her."
"The little gentleman!" The hot colour rose to Melina's cheeks, then died away, leaving her paler than before. "Does he know?" she asked in a tremulous voice.
Her companion nodded. "Mother told him," he asserted; "he was very sorry to hear it, and—"
"But he is coming to see Gran!" Melina broke in; "if he knows that she is so wicked as you say she is, why does he want to have anything to do with her?"
The boy kept a puzzled silence for a few minutes whilst he considered this point, then a gleam of comprehension crossed his face.
"Because he's a Christian," he replied; "because the love of God's in his heart—that's what makes him so kind. Folks who've got the love of God in their hearts care for other folks even when they ain't good like themselves; they want to help 'em and make 'em better."
"You don't mean to say that you think the little gentleman could care anything about Gran?"
"Yes, I do."
"It says in the Bible, 'Beloved, let us love one another; for love is of God,'" Melina said reflectively. "Are you a Christian, William Jones?" she inquired.
"Not much of one, I'm afraid," he answered, looking rather taken aback at her question.
"I'm not much of one either," she said; "I haven't been one at all very long."
At the corner of Jubilee Terrace they came upon a group of boys, who, the minute they caught sight of Melina, commenced to make disparaging remarks about her. William Jones stopped to remonstrate with them, whilst the little girl walked on. As she paused on the doorstep of her home, she heard a voice inside say:
"You shall have the money next week, Mrs. Berryman, indeed you shall! We've had so much sickness of late, and so many expenses, that—but whatever happens you shall have the money next week!"
An instant later the door opened from within, and a sad-faced young woman with a baby in her arms brushed past Melina and hurried away. Melina was standing looking after her when Mrs. Berryman came out of the parlour.
"What a dawdle you are, child!" the old woman said testily; "come in and shut the door." Then, as her granddaughter obeyed, she took her by the shoulder and pulled her, less roughly than usual, into the kitchen. "Humph! you don't look very well, as Mrs. Jones said," she observed; "I hope you aren't going to be ill."
"I feel quite well, Gran."
"That's right. You were always a thin, peaky little thing, as I told Mrs. Jones. I suppose you're wondering how I came to be talking to her? She called in to see me just now, to invite you to go to Hawmouth with her on Monday."
"Oh, Gran What did you say?"
"That I'd no money to give you for holiday-keeping; but she said her husband would be pleased to pay your expenses—it's to be his treat."
"Then I'm to go?" Melina asked, trembling with excitement.
"Yes, if the weather keeps fine."
"Oh, I hope it will! I do so hope it will!"
"I'm not sorry you're to have a treat," Mrs. Berryman said, "for—I'll give you your due—I think you deserve it. You've been a better girl lately, and I find you haven't stayed away from school at all. Now, I don't mind your turning religious if so be that makes you less troublesome; but mind you this—keep a still tongue in your head to those Joneses about me, or it'll be the worse for you. I can't abear to be talked about."
"I have never talked about you, Gran—at least, only when you've served me badly, and—"
"Oh, you stick to it that I've served you badly, do you?" Mrs. Berryman interrupted with a frown.
Melina raised her eyes to the old woman's face with a world of reproach in their dark depths. "Gran," she said, "you know."
Her grandmother thrust her away from her. "I've corrected you when you've done wrong," she said, "as it's been my duty to do. Stop staring at me—it's rude to stare."
"I'm sure I didn't mean to be rude," Melina returned. She removed her eyes from Mrs. Berryman's ill-tempered countenance, and asked: "May I run in next door for a minute? I should like to thank Mrs. Jones for inviting—"
"Oh, go if you like!" Mrs. Berryman broke in; "you'd better find out what time you are to start on Monday—I forgot to inquire."
Mrs. Jones was laying the cloth for supper when Melina knocked at the back door, and, from the kitchen window, she beckoned to the child to come in.
"Oh, Mrs. Jones," the little girl began, as she entered the kitchen, "I don't know how to thank you—I don't indeed! Gran has just told me that I'm to go to Hawmouth with you, and oh, it seems almost too wonderful to be true! How good of you to think of it! I've never been to the seaside in my life!"
"Then I'm very glad you're going with us on Monday," Mrs. Jones replied, a smile on her comely face; "you must be ready to start by half-past seven, for the train leaves at a quarter to eight and it will take us more than ten minutes to walk to the station."
"I'll be in good time, never fear!" Melina assured her.
"On second thoughts I think you'd better be ready before that, though, and come in here to breakfast. Yes, that will be best. Breakfast at seven sharp, mind."
"Oh, how nice! Oh, thank you, Mrs. Jones!" Melina's face was beaming with delight, but it clouded slightly as she continued in a more subdued tone: "Gran says Mr. Jones is going to pay for me on Monday. I—I don't think that is quite right—"
"Oh yes, it is," Mrs. Jones broke in quickly; "don't worry your head about that. We shouldn't have thought of inviting you to join us on Monday if we hadn't meant to pay all expenses."
"Oh, how kind you are!" Melina breathed softly, her dark eyes shining with a grateful light through a mist of happy tears.
Soon after that she took her departure, whilst Mrs. Jones proceeded with her interrupted task of preparing for supper, her conscience reproaching her because she had never thought of giving her little neighbour a pleasure before.
"God forgive me," she murmured to herself; "I might perhaps have made life happier for her if I'd tried."
SEVEN o'clock in the morning on Easter Monday found Melina breakfasting with her neighbours. The breakfast of fried bacon and delicious coffee seemed quite a luxurious meal to her, accustomed as she was to commence the day fortified only with a cup of weak tea and a slice of bread spread with margarine or dripping, and, encouraged by a remark from Mr. Jones to the effect that the more she ate the better she would please him, she thoroughly enjoyed it.
"How are you getting on, my dear?" Mr. Jones asked every now and again, as the meal progressed.
And Melina answered each time: "Very well, thank you, Mr. Jones," and gave him a shy pleased smile, with a very grateful feeling in her heart.
Immediately breakfast was over a start was made for the station, Mrs. Jones and Melina walking ahead, while Mr. Jones followed with William, the two latter taking turns in carrying a large covered basket which was full of provisions. They arrived at the station in good time for the excursion train by which they were to make the short journey to Hawmouth.
"I say, Melina, who'd have thought that you'd be going with us?" remarked William, as, with Melina and his mother, he waited on the platform whilst his father procured their tickets.
"Yes, who'd have thought it!" Melina returned gaily; "I can scarcely believe it—really! It's like a dream—a beautiful dream! Oh, how glad I am it's such a fine day!"
"It's warm, too, for April," said Mrs. Jones,—"more like summer, I call it."
Melina was secretly delighted that it was so warm, for on that account she had been able to dispense with her shabby old jacket. She was looking very nice in her new serge frock and sailor hat; and, though her shoes were shabby, she had blacked them so carefully and managed to put such a polish on them that they did not show how much they were worn.
"I wonder what you'll think of the sea, Melina," said William; "I've been telling mother it'll be your first sight of it. You'll be able to get some pretty shells, if you like them, and—oh, here's father!"
Mr. Jones joined them, and, a minute later, their train ran into the station and they took their seats in it at once.
Melina sat next to Mrs. Jones, with Mr. Jones and William opposite. The father and son were wearing their best clothes, and the former had donned a sky-blue tie and put a flower in his button-hole.
"Now we're off!" said Mr. Jones, nodding at Melina, as the train began to move slowly out of the station.
She gave a low laugh expressive of intense delight, and, bending forward, whispered to him: "I've never been by train before!"
"You don't say so!" he exclaimed in astonishment.
"Never," the little girl said impressively, "this is the first proper holiday I've ever had."
"Then I hope you'll enjoy it, my dear," he answered; "it shall not be my fault if you don't."
Looking out of the window Melina noticed that the railway line ran parallel with the river, the Haw, which flowed by Hawstock and emptied itself into the sea at Hawmouth.
"Why, Mr. Jones, how wide the river's getting!" she exclaimed presently; "and oh, there's quite a big ship! How deep the water must be here!"
"Yes," he assented; "at the next curve of the line we shall come in sight of the sea. There now, lookout!"
Melina did look out; but instead of expressing the surprise and admiration her companions had expected to hear, she sat silent, too awe-struck to speak, her eyes fixed on the wide expanse of water which, on this beautiful spring morning, shone like silver in the sunshine. A few minutes later the train ran into a cutting, and then slowed into Hawmouth station and stopped.
Melina never forgot the happy hours which followed. The morning she spent on the esplanade in front of the sea: the tide was high, and, Mr. Jones and William having gone to bathe, and Mrs. Jones having sat down on a seat to rest, she strolled about by herself, looking at the other excursionists and listening to the band which was playing. By and by she returned to Mrs. Jones, and they sat talking and enjoying the fresh salt air and the glorious sunshine, whilst they watched the sea-birds hovering around and the sails of distant ships, which stood out plainly against the blue horizon. Then Mr. Jones and William joined them, and the contents of the big basket were brought to light and they had dinner. The meal consisted of meat pies, made by Mrs. Jones herself, and now pronounced the best she had ever made, with ginger-beer to drink.
By this time the tide was receding; so, as soon as dinner was finished, a move was made for the beach, where, subsequently, they explored the rocks, which were now uncovered. There Melina gathered a quantity of pretty shells with which she filled her pocket, and saw beautiful anemones of varied hues, in the pools between the rocks, besides all kinds of pretty seaweeds. The afternoon passed so quickly that she was quite surprised when Mrs. Jones said it was time for tea.
They had tea at a restaurant. That was a novel experience for Melina, too; and afterwards they returned to the esplanade, where they remained till they were obliged to hurry to the railway station to catch the train home.
"I shall never forget this day as long as I live," Melina declared, as, at half-past nine o'clock, she and her friends were walking from the railway station at Hawstock towards Jubilee Terrace; "and I shall never, never, never be able to thank you enough, Mr. Jones—"
"Now, now," interrupted Mr. Jones, "no more of that! I don't want to hear anything about thanks. I'm glad you've enjoyed my little treat; it's been a real pleasure to us to take you with us, I'm sure."
"Yes, that's so," agreed Mrs. Jones. "Are you very tired, Melina?" she inquired.
"Oh no," the little girl replied, "not in the least! I wish the day was only just beginning!"
As they turned the corner of Jubilee Terrace they saw, by the light of the street lamp, that a man was standing on Mrs. Berryman's doorstep. He moved off as they approached, and met them.
"Excuse me," he said, addressing Mr. Jones; "can you tell me if Mrs. Berryman lives at No. 2?"
"Yes," Mr. Jones assented, "she does."
"Ah, then I was rightly informed! I've knocked at the door several times, but I can't make anyone hear. Perhaps, as it is getting late, I'd better go back to the town and come again to-morrow."
So saying the man, who was tall and of respectable appearance, walked away.
"Now, I wonder who that is," said Mr. Jones. "I don't know him, and yet it seemed to me I'd heard his voice before. I expect your grandmother heard him knocking right enough, eh, Melina?"
"Oh yes," Melina agreed; "but she wouldn't go to the door because it's late, and she'd be afraid he was a robber."
"A robber!" echoed Mr. Jones in astonishment, adding, "Why, I should never have guessed Mrs. Berryman was the sort of woman to be nervous like that! We'll wait and see you get admission, anyway."
Apparently Mrs. Berryman had been watching for the return of the excursionists from her parlour window, for before Mr. Jones had time to knock, she opened the door. The passage of the cottage was in darkness, so that he could not see her face, but he heard by the thickness of her speech immediately she spoke that she was not quite sober.
"So you've brought my granddaughter back at last," she said; "I hope she's behaved herself."
"Why, of course she has," Mr. Jones answered; "she's been a very good little maid, and we've had a most pleasant day."
"Humph!" ejaculated the old woman. She stretched out her hand, and, taking Melina by the arm, pulled her into the passage. "Good night," she said, and forthwith shut the door in her neighbours' faces.
"There's manners for you!" exclaimed William indignantly.
"I hope she'll give that poor child some supper," said Mr. Jones; "I'm glad to remember that she ate a good tea."
"Poor Melina!" sighed Mrs. Jones sympathetically; "what a home-coming for her after a day's pleasure! Poor little girl!"
Meanwhile Mrs. Berryman had drawn Melina into the kitchen, which was lit by a small hand-lamp on the table. On the table, too, stood a bottle of spirits and a tumbler.
"Who was that knocking at the door just before you arrived?" Mrs. Berryman demanded.
"I don't know," Melina replied, "he was a stranger. He spoke to Mr. Jones and asked if you lived here, and when he heard that you did he said he'd call again to-morrow."
"Who can he be?" the old woman muttered to herself. "Did you see what he was like?" she inquired.
"I only saw that he was tall, and I think—oh yes, I am sure that he wore a beard! Mr. Jones thought he knew his voice—"
"What!" cried Mrs. Berryman. "It couldn't have been—no, of course it couldn't—he wouldn't come without writing—he—"
She paused in the midst of her incoherent speech, and, turning to the table, took up the tumbler and drank from it. Then she addressed Melina again.
"Go to bed," she said; "do you hear what I say? Go to bed."
Melina left the kitchen and went upstairs to her own room. She was not very hungry, for, as Mr. Jones had remarked, she had made a good tea, so she did not mind being kept without supper. She undressed herself in the dark, and then knelt down in her night-gown by her bedside to pray: she never went to bed without praying now, for she had learnt to feel that God was really her friend—a tender, loving Father, who cared for her and to whom she could tell all that was in her heart. She had only just finished her prayers when she heard her grandmother's footsteps on the stairs, and, springing hastily to her feet, she jumped into bed. A minute later Mrs. Berryman opened the door and looked in; she was carrying the hand-lamp she had used in the kitchen.
"Are you in bed, child?" she inquired.
"Yes, Gran," Melina answered, adding timidly, for she was always afraid of the old woman if she had been drinking, "Good night."
"Good night," Mrs. Berryman said; then she went to her own room.
The little girl drew a breath of relief. When Mrs. Jones had asked her if she was tired she had answered, as she thought, truthfully in saying she was not; but now she discovered that she was really very weary—doubtless excitement had kept her from feeling so before. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep; but though her limbs ached with fatigue, her mind was still on the alert. In imagination she went over the delightful experiences of the day and listened to the mysterious murmur of the sea.
"I've been so happy, so very, very happy," she thought, "but now it is all over. It was dreadful coming back to Gran—to find she had been drinking again. Oh, what must the Joneses think of her! But there, they know what she is!"
Then she remembered all William Jones had said to her about her grandmother; she had scarcely thought of it during the day; and a great sense of shame filled her heart, and she burst into tears. She wept bitterly until, at length, thoroughly worn out, she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, from which, some while later, she awoke with the feeling that something was wrong. She sat up in bed, coughing, to find the room full of smoke. With a cry of horror she realised what was amiss. The house was on fire.
THOROUGHLY wide awake now, Melina jumped out of bed and rushed to the door. It was closed, and, as she opened it, she was met by a volume of smoke ascending the stairway: evidently the fire was downstairs. The smoke almost blinded and choked her; nevertheless she called "Gran! Gran!" as loud as ever she could, and made her way into her grandmother's room, which was over the parlour. It did not surprise her to receive no answer, for she knew Mrs. Berryman was always a heavy sleeper, more especially when she was the worse for drink; so, going at once to the bed, she put out her hands, intending to shake the old woman and thus awaken her, but to her dismay she found the bed unoccupied. It took her but a few minutes after that to ascertain that her grandmother was not in the room at all.
In a panic of fear Melina now rushed out on the landing, meaning to go downstairs in search of Mrs. Berryman, but she found it was quite impossible to do that, for the smoke was momentarily growing denser and great tongues of flame were shooting up the stairway; so she went into her bedroom and hastily dressed herself, then returned to her grandmother's room, where the smoke was rather less thick than in her own, and made her way to the window, which she opened wide, calling loudly as she did so, "Help! Help!"
To her great joy she had an answer at once, a voice in the street, which she recognised as a neighbour's, shouting back:
"All right! Keep by the window, and we'll get you out in a few minutes. Some one's gone for a ladder, and we've sent for the fire-engine."
"Where's Gran?" demanded Melina.
"Mrs. Berryman?" said the same voice; "isn't she up there with you?"
"No," the little girl replied, "and I can't find her! I think she must be downstairs."
There was a murmur of consternation from below, and, leaning out of the window, Melina saw, by the light of the street lamp, that a small crowd had congregated, amongst whom she thought she recognised Mrs. Jones.
"Is that you, Mrs. Jones?" she called.
"Yes," came back the response; "keep up your heart, Melina! Please God the ladder will soon be here!"
"The smoke's stifling me!" cried Melina in accents of terror; "the room's full of it!"
"They—my husband and some others—are breaking into the house from the back. Ah, here comes the ladder, and—yes, the fire-engine at last!"
Two minutes later, just as the fire-engine arrived on the scene, a ladder was placed against the window, and Melina, with assistance, descended it in safety. Mrs. Jones caught her in her arms as she reached the ground; and the little girl, who was feeling sick and dizzy, was glad to lean against her for support.
"Thank God, you're safe," Mrs. Jones said. Then, before she could add any more, William rushed up to them, crying excitedly:
"They've found her!—they've found Mrs. Berryman! She's awfully injured, and they've taken her to the hospital! She was lying at the foot of the stairs, and—"
"Now then, out of the way there!" broke in one of the firemen; "what are you thinking of, standing about in the way like this?"
"Let us go!" cried Melina; "oh, I don't know where we can go!" She was quite unnerved, and trembling in every limb.
"You aren't hurt, are you, Melina?" questioned William.
"No, but I feel so—so, and I can't see properly."
She put her hands to her eyes, which were smarting from the smoke; her strength was failing her, and but for the support of Mrs. Jones she would have fallen.
"She's ill, mother," she heard William say. His voice sounded a long, long distance away, and after that consciousness left her altogether.
When Melina regained her senses she found herself lying on the sofa in Mrs. Jones' parlour, Mrs. Jones standing by her side bathing her forehead with cold water. She struggled into a sitting position, and began to ask questions at once. How did she come there? Had the fire been put out? Where was her grandmother?
"You fainted," Mrs. Jones explained, "as a result of fright and having been nearly smothered with smoke, I expect, and some one helped me to carry you in here. The firemen think they'll be able to prevent the fire spreading to the other cottages if they can keep it from reaching the roof; they've got the better of it already. As to your grandmother—well, you heard William say that she's hurt; she's in the hospital by this time, and she'll get every attention there. Take my advice and lie where you are for a bit; if you'll promise to do that I'll go to the door and inquire what's become of my husband."
"Very well," Melina agreed; "only please don't be very long. Why, it's nearly daylight! Oh I'm glad of that!"
Mrs. Jones hurried away, and a few minutes later Melina heard her talking to some one in the passage.
"Yes, that's a very good idea of yours," the little girl heard her say; "she'd be better away from here—out of all the excitement."
"Then I'll take her back with me now," was the response, spoken in a voice which the listener recognised.
An instant later Mrs. Jones reappeared in company with Agnes Brown's father. He had been to the railway station to book the passengers for an early morning train, and had there been told of the fire in Jubilee Terrace, and had come to have a look at it before returning to Gladstone Street to breakfast.
"I want you to come home with me, my dear," he said to Melina; "your kind neighbour, here, thinks with me that you'd better come. What do you say?"
"Oh yes, yes!" Melina cried. She rose from the sofa as she spoke; then a sudden thought struck her, and she said hesitatingly: "I wish I knew more about Gran—perhaps I ought to go to the hospital myself to find out—"
"No," interposed Mrs. Jones decidedly, "not without you are sent for. Go with Mr. Brown like a good girl; I am sure you ought."
After that, Melina very thankfully accompanied Mr. Brown to his home. Thus it came about that the Browns had an unexpected visitor to their early breakfast that morning. They made Melina sit down with them at the table, and though she had previously declared herself not hungry, she drank some coffee and ate some bread and butter. Mrs. Brown was rather silent during the meal, as was her husband, both fearing that Mrs. Berryman's condition must be very serious; but Agnes and the boys kept up the conversation, asking Melina numerous questions.
"I think you must have been most frightened when you found that the stairs were on fire," remarked Agnes; "oh, weren't you dreadfully scared?"
"Yes," assented Melina. "I was afraid I should be burnt alive; I did not think anyone would be about, and I did not know what the time was—that it was so near daybreak."
"Who first found out about the fire?" asked Agnes.
"An engine-driver who goes on duty at five in the morning," replied Mr. Brown; "he was passing Mrs. Berryman's back door when he saw that the scullery was full of smoke and flames, and gave the alarm immediately."
"It was terrible waiting at the window before the ladder came," Melina said, shuddering; "the smoke was getting thicker and thicker. I tried to pray, but I couldn't—not properly. I didn't seem able to think." She appeared very troubled.
"Many a prayer has never been put into words, my dear; God reads our hearts, you know. Prayer is the uplifting of the heart to God."
It was Mrs. Brown who said this. Melina looked at her eagerly; then exclaimed, with a brightening face and in a tone of relief:
"Oh yes! Then I am sure I prayed in my heart!"
After breakfast, when Mr. Brown had gone to the railway station again, accompanied by the boys, who intended to go on to the scene of the fire, Mr. Jones arrived and had an interview with Mrs. Brown. He did not stay long; and directly he had taken his departure, Mrs. Brown went upstairs to Melina, who was with Agnes in the latter's bedroom.
"Your neighbour, Mr. Jones, has been here, Melina," she began gravely; "he desired me to tell you that your grandmother has been severely burnt about the body and is suffering from shock; you see, she is a very old woman—"
"Oh, is she going to die?" gasped Melina.
There had been a time, not long since, when the thought of her grandmother's death would not have moved her in the least; but now she was deeply agitated. God's love had softened her heart, and she burst into tears.
"Oh, how dreadful if she should die!" she sobbed, as Mrs. Brown hesitated to reply; "why, only last night she was drunk! Oh, she is not fit to die—poor Gran!"
Agnes put her arms around her friend and tried to comfort her, and by and by Melina regained her composure. Then Mrs. Brown spoke again. "I have something more to tell you, Melina," she said,—"something that will be a great surprise for you. Your father has returned."
"My father has returned! Oh, are you sure? Yes, yes, I see you are! Oh, where is he? When did he come?"
"He arrived at Hawstock last night, and went straight to his mother's. It was rather late and Mrs. Berryman would not go to the door to him; she did not guess who he was, I suppose—he had not written to say he was coming—"
"Oh," broke in Melina, "was that my father? Why, I saw him—he spoke to Mr. Jones!"
"So Mr. Jones told me. Mr. Jones did not recognise him then, but he has since done so. It seems that your father slept at an hotel last night, and this morning the first news he heard was of the fire. On learning who it was that had been injured he went to the hospital to see his mother. He saw her; she was conscious and knew him; I believe he is with her now."
"Oh! And Mr. Jones has seen him this morning?" questioned Melina.
"Yes, for a few minutes at the hospital."
"I wonder when I shall see him," Melina said wistfully; "I have so hoped and longed for him to come. And oh, I do wonder what he is like!" she added with an anxious sigh, whilst the expression of her face told of her conflicting feelings.
Before Mrs. Brown had time to reply there was a knock at the front door, and she went downstairs to answer it. She returned almost immediately, her countenance even graver than it had been before.
"Melina, Mr. Blackmore has come to take you to your grandmother," she said; "she has asked for you. You must go at once."
The little girl, trembling with agitation, hastened to obey. She had come to Gladstone Street without a hat, but Agnes now lent her one, and, having put it on, she hurried downstairs, where she found Mr. Blackmore. He took her hand without a word, and led her to a cab which was waiting outside the door.
"Get in, Melina," he said.
She did so, and he followed her, seating himself opposite to her. Then the cab drove off.
"Is Gran dying?" she asked in an awed voice; "please tell me."
"She cannot live out the day," he replied. He paused for a minute, then went on: "She expressed a wish to see me; I was sent for, and, of course, went to her at once. We had a little talk together—"
"Oh, sir," broke in Melina, "is she very frightened?"
"No, not now. God has been very merciful to her; He has given her time to repent—now, at the eleventh hour. Like the dying thief on the cross, she has turned to Jesus when this world is passing—she has gone to Him at last."
"Gran has gone to Him! Do you mean—"
Melina broke off abruptly, for the cab had stopped before the hospital. The little gentleman opened the door and stepped out on the pavement, then assisted his companion to alight, and together they passed through the entrance of the great building into the vestibule beyond.
At that minute a door at one side of the vestibule opened, and a grey-haired, middle-aged nurse, who Melina subsequently learnt was the matron, appeared in company with a tall man, whose dark bearded countenance looked very grave and sad. The nurse glanced quickly from the little girl to Mr. Blackmore, then addressed the latter.
"It is all over, Mr. Blackmore," she said; she collapsed quite suddenly after you left, and never spoke again. "My dear," she added, turning to Melina, "do you understand? Your poor grandmother is dead."
Melina had never loved her grandmother—it had been impossible for her to do so. Nevertheless she felt deeply shocked, and, being in an overwrought condition, she burst again into tears; whereupon the tall man stepped forward quickly; and, folding her in his arms, covered her face with kisses.
"Oh," gasped Melina, "are you—yes, you must be my father!" She was quite sure no one but her father would kiss her like that. "Oh, father, why didn't you come before?"
"I wish I had," he answered brokenly; "oh, I wish I had!"
WHEN John Berryman, Melina's father, shortly after his wife's death, had emigrated to Canada and left his infant daughter with his mother, he had arranged to pay a certain sum monthly for the child's support. Up to that time Mrs. Berryman, though not a teetotaller, had not drank to excess, and, though inclined to be penurious, the love of money had not so warped her character as to make her unscrupulous as to how she obtained it. She had never been an affectionate mother, but her son had believed she would, at any rate, do her duty towards her little granddaughter; and, as he had always regularly kept up the monthly instalments he had promised to send her, he had never dreamed of the possibility that Melina might be neglected in any way.
Unhappily, however, in her old age Mrs. Berryman had succumbed to two powerful evils—the love of money and the love of drink. She had done so by degrees; but as she had kept her son's whereabouts a secret from everybody, no one had been able to enlighten him as to her mode of life, and he had pictured her, retired from business, living comfortably with his little daughter on the income which he had all along been supplying, and had gradually increased as he had become better off. Thus the years had slipped by until it had occurred to him how much he would like to pay a visit to England to see his mother and Melina; he might take them back with him to Canada, he had thought. So he had come home without writing to tell Mrs. Berryman to expect him, having meant to give her a pleasant surprise, and the evening of Easter Monday had found him in his native town.
How different, alas, had his meeting with his mother been to that which he had anticipated! When he had stood by her side, as she lay dying in the hospital, and listened to her confession of wrongdoing, he had felt absolutely stunned; and it was not until after her funeral, when he began to inquire into matters, that he discovered that the greater part of the money he had sent her she had saved and put in the Post Office Savings Bank, whilst one of the firemen had found a tin containing more than thirty pounds in the chimney of her bedroom in Jubilee Terrace.
"I really think my mother must have been crazy," John Berryman remarked to Mr. Blackmore one afternoon, as he stood talking to him in the garden at South View; "she must have been a regular miser; and see how she served my poor little girl! She never told her anything about me—not even where I was or that she ever heard from me; and the Joneses say that she served the child most unkindly at times—when she had been drinking, I suppose."
"Yes, when she had been drinking," agreed Mr. Blackmore; "she was not herself then. Drink almost invariably kills its victims' best qualities, and brings out their worst. It was so in your mother's case, no doubt."
John Berryman heaved a deep sigh. He had had a long interview with Mr. Blackmore in the latter's study at South View, during which he had told him of his plans for the future; and presently he was going to see Melina, who was still staying with the Browns.
"I shall never be able to repay you for your kindness, sir," he said; "but believe me, I shall never forget all you have done for me and mine. Melina's told me what a good friend you've been to her—the first friend she ever had, poor child, so she says; and I shall always remember how you comforted my mother when she lay dying, how you prayed for her when she said she was not fit to pray for herself, and commended her to the love and mercy of God. I could not have helped her as you did; you seemed so sure—"
"Ay, so I was," Mr. Blackmore said, as the other broke off as though hardly able to explain his meaning, "sure of the Saviour—sure that He would keep His promise, 'Him that cometh to Me I will in nowise cast out.' I believe, Berryman, that in those last brief hours of her life, your mother turned to Him, and that He was with her as she passed through the valley of the shadow of death." The two men had by now strolled to the garden gate. As John Berryman opened it he said in a voice which trembled with emotion:
"I believe it, too."
A few minutes later he had taken leave of Mr. Blackmore and was walking towards Gladstone Street. Arrived at the Browns' house, he was met at the door by Melina, who put her arms around his neck and, drawing his face down to hers, kissed him. Already there was an affection between father and daughter which was rapidly growing stronger.
"I'm keeping house alone," she explained; "I would not go out with Agnes and her mother because I thought you might come this afternoon, father. You know I did not see you yesterday all day."
"All day?" He repeated the words with a smile. "Were you disappointed, then?" he inquired, as he followed her into the parlour.
"Yes," she assented, "indeed I was."
John Berryman sat down, and his little daughter took a chair near him, her eyes fixed on his face—a face with strongly marked features, and an expression of straightforwardness about it which made it very attractive. For a few minutes there was silence, then Melina said:
"I went to Jubilee Terrace yesterday, and had a look at No. 2. What a good thing it was the fire was put out before it reached the roof! But oh, father, I'm sorry all the furniture was burnt, for it would have been yours now Gran is dead, wouldn't it?"
"Yes; but it was of little value."
"The only thing I mind having lost was my Bible," said the little girl, "and I do mind very much about that. It was mother's Bible, you know, and I might have saved it if I had thought of it, but I was too frightened to think at all. And oh, father, I forgot to tell you that Gran had a lot of money in her bedroom chimney—"
"Ah, you knew of that, did you? It is quite safe; it was found by one of the firemen."
"Oh! It will be yours now, won't it, father? I never told Gran I knew that she had it; I saw her counting it one day—she saved it, I suppose."
John Berryman made no immediate response. He felt a reluctance, which was very natural, in talking of his mother; and when at length he spoke his voice was very grave and sad.
"Your grandmother saved a lot of money which she ought to have spent," he said, "part of which is rightly mine, for I sent it to her; but the rest I shall give away—to the hospital and the poor of the town. I have told Mr. Blackmore my intention; he considers I shall be doing right."
"Oh, father!" Melina exclaimed. She was silent for a minute, reflecting on what he had said, then she added, "I think I understand what you feel."
"I feel that the money was taken from the poor, and I must make what amends I can."
"I did not know until quite lately, father, what Gran's business was; then William Jones told me."
"Never let us speak of it again, Melina!"
"No, we never will," she agreed. "I saw both Mr. and Mrs. Jones when I was at Jubilee Terrace yesterday," she proceeded to inform him, "and Mr. Jones told me what I had not heard before—that it was Gran who set the house on fire."
"Yes," replied her father, "that was so. She explained that she got up in the night to get something from the kitchen, and let the hand-lamp she was carrying fall. The oil caught fire, and she could not extinguish it; she was going to arouse you when she became giddy and fell—at the foot of the stairs, where Mr. Jones and those who had helped him to break in the backdoor found her."
Melina guessed the "something" her grandmother had gone to fetch from the kitchen had been drink, but she did not say so; and her father abruptly changed the conversation by remarking:
"I have been thinking that I cannot let you stay here much longer. It has been most kind of the Browns to keep you so long; but there is room for you in the house where I am lodging, and—"
"Oh, I should love to be with you, father!" Melina broke in.
He smiled and looked pleased. "I had intended to stay a month or so in England," he said, "but now—well, not having found things as I expected has made me alter my plans."
"You will go back to Canada soon, you mean?" Melina's voice sounded anxious and subdued.
"Yes. I've done very well there—I have all along. I laboured on a new railway first of all, then I got a post on a farm, and afterwards a friend entered into partnership with me and we took some land for ourselves. My partner's looking after everything during my absence, so he's pretty busy—he'll be glad to get me back."
"Yes. I—I expect so," agreed Melina.
Her father looked at her questioningly, for the expression of her face was troubled. "I daresay you will be sorry to leave your friends in Hawstock," he said, "but—"
"Father, father!" interrupted the little girl excitedly, "do you mean that I am to go with you? Oh, do you really mean that?"
"Why, most certainly I do. You did not think I should leave you behind me, did you? I want my little daughter—"
"Oh!" interrupted Melina, her face aglow with happiness, "you can't want me half so much as I want you!"
The tears were running down her cheeks, but they were tears of glad relief; and her heart, which had been often so sad and lonely, was full of joy.
"Come, Melina, my dear, it is time for us to say 'good-bye.'"
It was the evening before the day on which the Berrymans were to leave Hawstock, a beautiful May evening which was drawing to a close, for the sun had nearly set, and a soft, grey mist was settling over the town; and the speaker was John Berryman, who, with his little daughter, was paying a farewell call on Mr. Blackmore.
The scene was the study at South View. Mr. Blackmore sat near his writing-table, close to the open window, through which a gentle breeze was wafting the scent of wallflowers, whilst his visitors were seated farther back in the room. Melina had improved in appearance during the last few weeks; she looked less painfully thin, and faint roses had appeared in her cheeks. But the roses faded now as her father reminded her that it was time for them to say "good-bye" to Mr. Blackmore. She had said several "good-byes" that day, which had made her very sad, to Mr. and Mrs. Jones and William, and to each member of the Brown family, but it seemed to her that to say "good-bye" to Mr. Blackmore was the greatest trial of all.
"Yes," she assented, "I suppose it is." There was a tremulous note of sorrow in her voice.
"One minute," said Mr. Blackmore; "I have something to give you, Melina, before we part."
He opened a drawer in his writing-table as he spoke, and took out a small, morocco-bound Bible, which he handed to her.
"Oh, sir, how kind of you!" was all she could say for a minute, but her face told more than her words that she was deeply touched and pleased. She opened the Bible and saw, written on the fly-leaf: "Melina Berryman, from her friend, Raymond Blackmore."
"Thank you; oh, thank you!" she cried; then she looked at Mr. Blackmore hesitatingly, and asked: "Please, sir, would you write something else?"
"Something else?"
"Yes, please. My mother wrote a text under her name in her Bible, her favourite text—"
"And you want me to write your favourite text?" he questioned.
"No, sir, I would like you, please, to write yours." He took the Bible from her, did as she desired, and returned the book to her. She read what he had written: "'The gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord,'" then met his glance with one full of understanding.
"Thank you," she said softly; "thank you very, very much."
A few minutes later the little girl was walking between her father and Mr. Blackmore through the flower-scented garden towards the garden gate, where, subsequently, good-byes were exchanged.
Melina's eyes were dim as she shook hands with Mr. Blackmore and heard his kind voice say:
"Good-bye, Melina. God bless you and keep you, my dear."
"Good-bye, sir," she answered, smiling at him bravely through her tears; "and God bless you," she added. "Oh, I know He will!"
Then her father took her hand and led her away; but at the corner of the road she glanced back, and saw that the little gentleman was leaning over the garden gate looking after them. The sunset glow was falling full on his face, so that she could see it plainly; and thus, in after years, she always pictured it, illuminated with golden light.
THE END
Spottiswoode & Co. Ltd., Printers, Colchester, London and Eton.