image015
MISS CRAWFORD'S PROPOSAL.
PHIL went about his work in much better spirits after his visit to Miss Crawford. It seemed strange to him now that he had once felt so ungracious and unfriendly towards her. He did not know her then; that was it. He had thought she was a fine lady who patronised her poorer neighbours, and Phil's English heart revolted against the idea. When he saw that she met him on the equal ground of their common humanity, talked to him of his great longing to become an artist, sympathised with him that he could not continue his education, and devised plans for his self-improvement, then Phil's gratitude and affection flowed out to her like a river, and next to Millie she had the warmest place in his heart. Millie he could love, and pet, and caress, but she was as simple as a baby, and sadly ignorant of many things that he had at his tongue's end. Now in Miss Crawford, he had found a friend older and wiser than himself, one who would direct him, and tell him how best to get the help he needed to carry on the studies which, notwithstanding the difficulties attending the resolution, he determined should still be pursued.
In his new-found happiness even Phil's temper improved. He was more respectful to his uncle; and, one evening after supper, actually volunteered to read aloud to him from his new book. Richard Hunt was but little interested, however, and was soon snoring an accompaniment to his nephew's not unmusical voice. Nevertheless his attempts to conquer the sullen indifference with which he had invariably treated his uncle, who certainly did little to merit the boy's respect, met with their own reward. Phil was happier, as we all are for trying to do right, and Millie's face grew daily more and more cheerful.
"If uncle would but be always sober and give me enough money to keep house with properly, how happy we should be!" she thought.
She had heard no more from their landlady respecting their arrears of rent, but she noticed that her uncle's watch was missing, and rightly guessed that it had been pawned to meet the debt.
August was not yet over, when one day Phil, coming in to dinner, found Miss Crawford and Millie together.
"Ah! Phil," said Miss Crawford, holding out her hand—which he was proud enough to take, though he wished his own had been cleaner to meet it—"you are the very boy I was wishing to see. Here is your sister quite unmanageable this morning. No, Millie, you be quiet," she added, as Millie opened her mouth to utter an emphatic denial of the charge that was brought against her. "I will tell your brother, and you will see that his opinion entirely agrees with mine;" and she nodded her head merrily.
"Now listen, Phil. These are the facts of the case. Dr. Bethune, a friend of mine, whom Millie knows, has bought a lovely cottage at Bournemouth for the express purpose of accommodating any little sick folks that may happen to need a change of air. An old woman—and a very kind one she is, too—has been put in this cottage to nurse those children who are weakly enough to require nursing, and to see that all are happy and well cared for. Now, Dr. Bethune is going to send off three of his little patients who have been ill, but there is room for a fourth visitor, and he and I both wish Millie to make that fourth. But I cannot get her even to listen to me. She says such a thing is simply impossible; and when I argue the point, she overwhelms me with solemn assertions that you and your uncle would starve to death in her absence, turn the house out of window, and commit all kinds of absurdities. Now, just tell her that she is a conceited little woman, and that you can keep house almost as well as she can."
"Yes, indeed, you ought to go," said Phil heartily. "You know you have been ailing ever since aunt died. The sea air will set you up splendidly for next winter. I think, Miss Crawford," he continued, turning to her, and lowering his voice, "Millie is afraid that uncle and I shall quarrel, but I promise I will do my very best to keep the peace."
But Millie still hesitated.
"Do go, there's a darling," Phil said coaxingly. "'Tisn't like stopping away for ever, you know."
"Well, she need not decide now," said Miss Crawford; "and, indeed, nothing can be arranged till we know what your uncle says about it. You had better talk it over when you are all three together, and then, Phil, you must come over to my house and tell me what you have decided to do."
Phil readily promised he would do so.
"Isn't she a darling?" cried Millie enthusiastically, when Miss Crawford had gone.
"She is more than that," replied Phil slowly, "she is an—an angel."
He had tried to find a comparison that was less common, but he could think of none other that was so appropriate.
Phil did all in his power to persuade Millie to go to Bournemouth, but she was most unwilling to consent. She shook her head in reply to all his arguments, and said that she could promise nothing till she had spoken to her uncle, for whose return they waited long that night.
It was past midnight when at last he came. Then his unsteady footsteps and thick hoarse voice told the children only too plainly that he was the worse for drink. He went straight to his own room, and threw himself upon his bed. Millie was relieved that he had done so. She could not bear to see the wretched degraded object that he so frequently made himself.
"There," said Phil, as they heard his footsteps pass the door of their living-room, "we must put off speaking to him till to-morrow. Go to bed now, dear. For my part I shall sleep here."
With which he placed a couple of chairs side by side, and threw himself upon them. It was a hard bed, but he preferred it to sharing his uncle's room.
It was not until two days after that Phil trudged joyfully off to Baverstock House to tell Miss Crawford their uncle had given his consent to her kind proposal, and that Millie had at last been persuaded to go to the seaside.
Miss Crawford was at home, and delighted to hear that she should now be able to give her little protégée the benefit of a change of air.
She told Phil she intended to take the children herself to Bournemouth, and see them comfortably established in the cottage. Then she went on to say that Dr. Bethune had long wished to carry out this idea of sending his little convalescent patients to the country, but want of means had hitherto prevented it. It was owing to the fact that a sum of money—a thank-offering for recovery from a dangerous illness—had been placed at his disposal that he was at length enabled to put his scheme into execution.
As Miss Crawford talked to him, Phil remembered her remark to the gentleman who had been her companion on Waterloo Bridge. Her words had puzzled him at the time: he understood them now.
"Do you think you could bring Millie's box and meet us at Waterloo Station on Thursday?" Miss Crawford asked him presently.
"I will try," replied Phil. "At what time ought I to be there?"
"The train leaves at one o'clock, but you had better be at the station by half-past twelve. Is that an inconvenient hour for you?"
"I think I can manage it," said Phil. "We are not busy at the shop in the middle of the day. I dare say they'll give me extra time if I stay later at night to make up for it."
"Very well, then, I shall consider it settled. Stay, here is a shilling to pay for the cab."
"The box won't be heavy. I can carry it, thank you," said Phil, drawing back.
Miss Crawford saw that he preferred to be independent, and did not press the matter.
"Now, Phil," she said, as he rose to leave, "I have a parcel for you to take home. It is a present for Millie."
The boy crimsoned to the very roots of his hair.
"You are very kind, Miss Crawford," he stammered, "but uncle gave Millie some money last night to get some things for herself. I—I think she has everything, thank you. You have been—you are—" In his pride and his confusion Phil broke down.
"Phil," said Miss Crawford, laying her soft white hand on his shoulder, "I understand you, and I admire your independent spirit. But don't you know that we are put into the world to bear one another's burdens, and to help each other? But how can I help you, if you won't let me? If I were poor, and you were rich, would you not give to me?"
Would he not? She read the answer in the shining depths of his earnest, loving eyes.
"And, Phil," she continued in a minute or two, "you will be dull without Millie. Here is an old drawing-box of my own that I should like to give you. It may amuse you in your spare time."
She broke off his thanks, and he went home—heavy-handed, but light-hearted.
Great was Millie's gratitude for the contents of that parcel. The little serge dress, broad-brimmed hat, and thick pair of boots were most acceptable—more acceptable even than Miss Crawford believed they would be. Her uncle had certainly given her a small sum, but it had been barely sufficient to pay for the pair of stockings and the dress that were absolute necessities. The only pair of boots that she possessed were so old that she feared that she must ask Phil, or her uncle, to get her some new ones. Yet she could not bear the idea of doing so; for, as it was, Phil gave up every penny that he earned, and had she gone to her uncle she knew that the only way in which he could have supplied her need would be to pawn another of their few remaining pieces of furniture. So to Millie Miss Crawford's present brought great relief and joy, and she received it with no feeling save that of loving gratitude.
On the appointed day, Phil, having obtained permission to extend his dinner hour, reached home in a great hurry, to find Millie ready and waiting for him. She had had her dinner, but she was so excited at the prospect of the journey, and so anxious for the welfare of those whom she would leave behind, that eating was a difficult matter. Phil took a mouthful as he stood, put some bread and cheese into his pocket, and shouldered his sister's box.
Millie had made many friends in the short time that she had lived in Swift Street. Now they all gathered round her to wish her a pleasant journey, and to say good-bye. Even the rough rude Nora Dickson said with something very like a sob in her voice:
"Good-bye, Millie. I'm real sorry to lose you, that I am."
"It won't be for long," called out Millie cheerfully. "I'm glad to go, of course, for some things, but I'd sooner stay here, after all."
Phil thought that he never should get her away, but at last the good-byes were all said and Millie was trotting along by his side. It was an intensely hot day: the sun beat down upon them with an ardour that was almost unbearable; the pavement seemed to scorch their feet. There was not a breath of air stirring; not a breeze from the river even lightened the oppressiveness of the atmosphere. Phil sighed for the different scene that would soon gladden his sister's eyes.
"Bring me home some seaweed, darling," he said; "I'll bury my nose in it, and 'twill seem like a whiff from old Father Neptune himself."
"I wish you were coming too, Phil," she said wistfully.
"Nonsense," he replied, forcing himself to speak lightly. "You'll have plenty of company without me, I'll be bound. I dare say Miss Crawford will stay with you a good part of the time. O! Millie," he added, as a sudden recollection struck him, "Bournemouth is such a pretty place. One of the men in the shop used to live there, and he says it's perfectly lovely. Write and tell me all about it, won't you?"
She could only nod a reply, for they had arrived at the station, and there was Miss Crawford waiting on the platform.
"Good children to be punctual," she said. "I expect the others every minute. One of them is a little cripple, so his mother will bring him in a cab. Dr. Bethune promised to see the other two safely here. Now, Phil," she continued, "don't you think it will be wiser for you not to wait? I will take good care of Millie, I assure you."
"Yes, perhaps it would. The parting must come. It would do no good to linger over it."
Something called away Miss Crawford's attention, or she made believe it did, while Millie and Phil said good-bye to each other. Phil had no idea it would be such hard work to give his sister that last kiss. They had never been separated for a single day before, and now that Millie was starting in real earnest, he almost wished that he had never persuaded her to leave him, even for so short a time as a fortnight. However, he would not let her see how much he felt it. He gave her a last loving look, a hurried kiss, and was gone.
He could not return the same way by which he and Millie had come together. He chose another road that would take him back to Oxford Street by a less familiar route than up Drury Lane. It seemed to Phil that, with the loss of his sister, his guardian angel had left him. With a sinking heart he thought of the lonely evenings that would now be his, and of the long hours of weary waiting for his uncle's return at night. How difficult it would be to "keep the peace" after all! Poor Phil! With Millie gone, he felt that he had no good influence at work to aid him in resisting the temptation to indulge in sullenness and discontent. He was helpless indeed, for he knew not how to obtain that strength which "is made perfect in weakness."
image016
image017
PHIL BREAKS HIS WORD.
BIG BEN was striking ten as Phil reached home that night. He had stayed over time at business to compensate for his long absence in the middle of the day, and had walked leisurely back to Swift Street. He did not care to hurry himself, for he knew that Millie would not be awaiting him, and even Miss Crawford's drawing-box could not make up for her absence.
On entering the room he found his uncle already there. He was seated at the table with bread and cheese and a jug of ale before him. Phil saw by his heated face and bloodshot eyes that he had been drinking. A feeling of intense disgust and dislike arose in the boy's heart, but he said nothing. He took a chair and sat down as far-away from the table as he could.
"Come here, can't you?" said his uncle.
"Yes, when you have finished," replied his nephew coolly.
"O! O!" returned his uncle in what he intended to be a satirical voice, but his words were so indistinct that Phil could hardly catch them, "so you're such a grand gentleman that you can't eat with poor men like your relations. A pity you should be dependent upon them, isn't it?"
Phil started up with an angry retort upon his lips, when lo! Millie's gentle face and pleading eyes arose in his memory. He sat down again, and was silent.
"Come here, I say, can't you?" began Richard Hunt again.
"No, I won't," said Phil doggedly. "Take your own time; when you have finished, I'll have my supper."
"If you don't come to the table this minute, I'll turn you out of my house, do you hear?" growled the wretched man.
"No, you'll not turn me out, for I'll go of my own accord," cried Phil, his subdued passion breaking suddenly forth. "I'll rub along somehow till Millie comes back, and then she shall choose between you and me. But mind, the moment I can offer her a decent home, no power of yours shall keep us apart. I'll have her then, whether you will or no."
Never before had Phil spoken to him in that manner. For a moment he was literally struck dumb with amazement. Then he shouted in a fury of rage and drunkenness:
"You dare to speak to me like that?"
"Yes, I dare," returned Phil, with flashing eyes.
"Then I'll—I'll—"
Rising from his chair, he staggered towards his nephew, who stood with his arms folded across his breast, biting his lips and breathing hard, as he watched his uncle's approach. But Phil was not a coward, and there was no trace of fear upon his countenance.
It was by no means a dignified or safe proceeding on Mr. Hunt's part. The floor appeared to be swaying beneath his feet, and he clutched hurriedly at the table, at the wall, at anything, in fact, that would support his unsteady steps. He was close upon Phil, and had raised his arm as if to strike him, when he suddenly lost his balance. To recover it, he grasped, as he thought, the little shelf on which Millie kept her books. Instead of that, however, his hand descended heavily upon Miss Crawford's drawing-box which had been placed there for safety, and which, being wider than the shelf, projected some little distance from it. There was a crash—down tumbled the box, and down went Richard Hunt at full length upon the floor.
It was useless to give vent to his anger in words. Phil silently picked up the scattered paints and pencils, and replaced them in the box.
His uncle made a few desperate struggles to regain his feet, but finding that impossible, he turned over on his side, and lay there a most deplorable object. He muttered a few incoherent words, but they gradually ceased, and, to his nephew's disgust, he was soon snoring heavily.
image018
As Phil was about to extinguish the light,a sudden thought struck him.
"Will nothing bring him to his senses?" said Phil to himself, as, his passion having subsided, he glanced with loathing at the unconscious object of his remarks. "He gets worse and worse. I cannot stay here alone with him. I'd sooner sleep under an archway, or in any hole I can creep into, than with such a wretch as that. I'll put out the candle in case of accident, and be off."
As Phil was about to extinguish the light, a sudden thought struck him. His uncle had a deep and intense horror of fire; had always had indeed since the terrible accident that had killed his little baby-girl. A good blaze would frighten his uncle out of his wits, or perhaps into them, and Phil smiled grimly at his miserable joke. Besides he felt that it would be a sweet revenge for those insulting words that his uncle had cast at him. If only he could manage to kindle a fire that would do no damage to the house, and yet be sufficient to lighten up the room brilliantly, and restore his uncle to his senses!
Well would it have been for Phil had he resolutely put aside the evil desires that prompted him! Little did he know what misery and trouble he was bringing upon himself and others by indulging in that wicked spirit of hatred and revenge. Millie! Millie! Is your dear presence so near, and yet has your gentle face no power to stop him? See, Phil studies how best he can put his plan into execution, but for some time, he shakes his head negatively at each suggestion.
"I have it," he exclaims at last.
In the fender, piled up for the morning's use, are a number of little bits of dry wood, and a heap of straw and shavings, which Millie had considerately put there before she left. With trembling fingers Phil places the candlestick in the fender, and builds around it with the sticks and shavings, till only half the candle, which is a long one, is visible above the heap. It will blaze up finely presently, he thinks. His uncle will be sure to wake and the flames will frighten him well night to death—and Phil laughs triumphantly. Perhaps he'll be sober for a good while after that. Anyhow it shall be a lesson to him. Then surveying his work with a wicked delight, and with a last glance at his uncle, who is still snoring on the floor, he goes out of the room resolving to spend the night as best he can in the streets.
On the landing he pauses. Something whispers him to enter the tiny room belonging to his sister. Would that he had yielded to that better impulse!
But no, he creeps downstairs, and passes unnoticed into the narrow street, where he mingles with the noisy crowd. He runs hither and thither in his excitement. His blood is tingling with a savage pleasure at the thought of the deed which he has just accomplished. He gloats over it, and laughs aloud as he pictures what will happen by-and-by in Swift Street. But presently getting very warm and very tired, he leans against a door-post to rest himself; and with quietness and reflection a feeling comes over him that after all he has done a childish and a foolish thing. The little pile of sticks and rubbish will blaze away around the hissing candle for a few minutes, and then die out again, while his uncle, unconscious even of the event, will remain undisturbed.
And now that he has carried out his grand speech about leaving home, what is he to do? He knows of no place where he can pass the night. He has read of archways under which little homeless children creep for shelter, but just now he cannot recall to his memory the situation of a single one. Besides, to lie in the open air and the dirt, with anybody that might choose to keep him company! He grows sick at the very idea. He has fourpence in his pocket. It will be a rough lodging that so small a sum can procure, but that is what he must seek, he supposes. He need not go in search of it just at present, however. He has plenty of time and he will put off the evil moment as long as possible.
So he wanders disconsolately up and down the Strand, watching the people as they come out of the theatres, and drive away in their carriages. A young lady with fair hair and a pretty face reminds him of Miss Crawford. Phil cannot bear to think of her. What would she say if she knew how he had been keeping his promise to her and Millie? How disappointed she will be in him! She will never believe him, never trust in him again.
With fresh anguish at his heart, he leaves the noisy crowded Strand, goes down Wellington Street, and passes on to Waterloo Bridge, just as he had done with Millie on that moonlight night a few weeks ago. On the very same seat that they had occupied then, he sits down now. Poor boy! Already he regrets the hasty measures that he has taken, but his pride is too great to allow him to return to his uncle. Big Ben's ruddy face tells him that it is not yet twelve. How slowly the time goes! There will be hours yet before morning. He buries his face in his hands and acknowledges how foolishly he has behaved. Conscience whispers him to forget his uncle's words and go back to Swift Street. Again his pride refuses to let him, and he remains there seated on the bridge.
Presently there flashes across his memory the story of Millie's dream. She had said, "I stretched out my hand to you again, Phil, but you were gone; I could not see you anywhere."
Suppose that dream meant something after all—that his father and mother and sister would all meet together some day in another world, and that he would be shut out from their company, and left alone. It was likely enough to happen, Phil groaned in his misery. He guessed, if the truth were known, that he and his uncle were suitable companions for each other. He was going to the bad as fast as he could go. And yet he had intended to do well. Miss Crawford had bidden him take heart, and lead a nobler, a more unselfish life. Not in so many words, perhaps, but Phil had understood her meaning and had pledged himself to fulfil her wishes. Here was a fine ending to his grand resolutions!
Perhaps, after all, it was not too late. He would go back and take up his life from where he had left it only a couple of hours ago. Most probably his uncle would have forgotten their quarrel, and the bitter words that had been uttered on both sides. And he would try to do better. Ah! If only Millie had not gone! But perhaps God would help him if he asked Him. Miss Crawford believed in God, he knew, and so did Millie. With that thought, he turned his back to the pavement, and with his eyes fixed on the starry sky, he humbly prayed that God would forgive, and bless, and help him. Then, with a heavy heart, he retraced his footsteps.
What is the cry which he hears as he once more emerges into the busy Strand? He stands still to listen—"Fire! Fire!"
Surely—? O! No, not that; not his work. God forbid! Phil, always fleet of foot, flies like lightning towards home. How dear the place has suddenly become to him!
"Fire! Fire!" is still the shout.
He is in the midst of a crowd now, but he dives under the elbow of one and pushes aside another with a strength that astonishes even himself.
"Fire! Fire!"
"Where?" some one asks.
"In Swift Street," is the reply.
Phil hears, and the words enter his heart like a sword. He is quickly there. Yes, yes, it is, as something had seemed to tell him from that first cry of "Fire! Fire!"
Smoke and flames are issuing from the top story of one of the houses—their house. The inmates are rushing from it, and from the neighbouring dwellings, in terrible confusion. Little children, with just a shawl or a blanket wrapped around them, are handed over to the excited crowd; men and women, half dressed, are huddling together with pale terrified faces, or running hither and thither to see that their friends are in safety. Phil makes his way through the throng of people to where a little group are gathered around a man who lies in a half unconscious state upon the ground.
"Uncle," shrieks Phil, "I have killed you." But nobody in the excitement and bustle of the moment heeds that bitter cry of remorse.
At the familiar voice, Richard Hunt opens his eyes, and says hoarsely:
"The little lass! Save her, Phil!"
"She is away—at Bournemouth. Don't you remember?"
"No, not gone—come back—save her," he replies, and then sinks back exhausted.
With a bound Phil gains the door of their house, from which smoke is now rapidly issuing. Eager hands are put forth to hold him back, but before they can prevent it, he is rushing up the narrow staircase in frantic haste. Hotter grows the air as he ascends. He can scarcely breathe now. O the cruel flames that lick around him! With a desperate struggle, he reaches the last flight. What is this bundle on the topmost stair? It is she—Millie in her little white night-dress; her long hair floating down her back, her small hands folded in prayer.
"'Tis I—Phil," he shouts. "I'll save you, Millie."
But she is dead, or in a faint, and does not hear him. He snatches her from the ground, and taking her in his arms, gropes his way through the smoke that almost suffocates him. Down the stairs he goes, staggering beneath the weight of his load. His heart beats wildly and he feels his strength failing him. O, he must hold out a moment longer; he is nearly at the bottom.
He hears a sudden cry from without—"The engine! The engine!"
Friends are cheering him on—"Bravo! Well done, brave boy," they shout.
Thank God! The air grows cooler. Only a few more steps and then—a crash from above, and a burning beam comes tumbling down. Phil sees the danger, and bends his body forward to avert the blow from his precious burden. He sinks beneath the weight of the descending wood; but even as he falls, a couple of brave firemen rush to the rescue. They throw off the blazing log, raise the fearless boy—helpless and unconscious now—and carry both children in safety to the open air.
The fireman who holds Millie in his arms thinks at first that she is dead, but she has only fainted. She is not burnt, her night-dress is hardly scorched; some of her pretty hair is singed, "that is all," the people say. How they clap and cheer the brave men who have saved them! But their loudest cheers are for Phil himself, who lies there so white and still—for Phil, whose noble act of heroism will never pass from the memories of those who witnessed it.
image019
image020
IN THE HOSPITAL.
IT was many hours before Phil regained consciousness.
He opened his eyes to find himself occupying a bed in a hospital ward. How came he there? He wondered—and O! What a fearful pain quivered in his right shoulder and down his back! By his bedside stood a gentleman who met his questioning glance with a smile, and said gently:
"You are in safe hands, Phil. I think you have heard my name before. I am Dr. Bethune, Miss Crawford's friend."
"What is the matter with me? Who brought me here?" Phil asked faintly.
"Don't you remember? Your house caught fire, and in saving your sister, you got badly burnt."
Yes, Phil remembered now. The hot blood rushed to his face, and then receded, leaving him deadly pale.
"Don't talk, my boy," said Dr. Bethune. "I will explain it to you, and then you must lie still, and try to go to sleep. Millie is well and uninjured. You saved her life. Had it not been for your heroism and noble self-forgetfulness, she must have perished in the fire. Unfortunately a burning piece of wood fell upon your shoulder before you reached the bottom of the stairs. I fear you will have a good deal of pain to bear, but we are clever people here, and mean to pull you through if such a thing be possible."
"I don't understand," said Phil feebly and making long pauses between each sentence, "I don't understand how Millie came to be at home. I thought she had gone away with Miss Crawford. I took her to the station myself."
"And they would have gone, Phil, but at the last minute it was found impossible for one of the children, a little crippled boy, to leave London until the following day. He could not travel alone, and Miss Crawford thought it better to wait for him. So Millie went home again."
Phil closed his eyes. His throbbing head would not let him think, and the pain in his back made him sick and faint. He tried to move, but with a low moan of agony, he gave up the attempt, and lay with a white face and knitted brow, trying to bear his suffering as best he might.
"Poor fellow!" said Dr. Bethune compassionately. Then he gave him a draught that seemed to have the effect of deadening his pain, for presently he fell asleep.
Days passed, and Phil grew no better. Millie came to visit him as soon as she was allowed. He was happier after he had seen her; for she looked no worse than usual—a little paler perhaps, that was all. The only drop of comfort in Phil's bitter cup of sorrow was that he had saved his sister; he had risked his life for hers. He recollected some sweet words that he used to hear his mother read on Sunday evenings at Chormouth:
"'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.'"
He was still greatly perplexed as to how Millie could possibly have been in the house on the fatal night of the fire, unknown to him, and begged her to explain the mystery.
She told him, as Dr. Bethune had already done, that as one of their party was not forthcoming, Miss Crawford had considered it wiser for all to postpone the journey till the following day. She then went on to say that she returned to Swift Street feeling utterly worn out, and with a severe headache that increased as the evening advanced. Her uncle came in about nine o'clock, but by that time she was so unwell that, after putting the supper on the table, she was obliged to go to her room and lie down.
Very soon she fell into a sound sleep—so sound a sleep, indeed, that even the crash of the drawing-box as it tumbled to the floor did not disturb her. Poor child! She was accustomed to noises all day and all night. She awoke to find herself half suffocated with smoke; and great was her horror, on opening the door, to see their sitting-room in flames. She endeavoured to escape down the staircase, but fear paralysed her limbs, and she sank senseless to the floor.
Phil knew what followed.
She supposed her uncle awoke on the first alarm of fire, and in the confusion and terror of the moment completely forgot her. But, Millie said, he had scarcely mentioned the awful occurrences of that night, and she dared not break upon his reserve, and question him.
Phil rarely spoke to the doctors and nurses, except to thank them for their kindness and attention. To Dr. Bethune, however, he sometimes opened his heart.
"Will you tell me the truth, Sir?" he said one day, as Dr. Bethune stood by his bedside. "Will you tell me if there is any hope for me?"
"I can hardly say at present, Phil," the doctor replied. "Yours is a very bad case, and we do not see the improvement that we expected; but there is no immediate danger. When there is, you shall know, I promise you. All that human skill can do for you will be done, rest assured of that."
For a few minutes Phil neither moved nor spoke. Then he said:
"I should like to see Miss Crawford, Sir. I have something to tell her in case I should die. Do you think she will come?"
"I am sure she will. You shall see her to-morrow."
Phil smiled gratefully.
The doctor was as good as his word. He carried Phil's message that same evening to Miss Crawford, and early on the following day she was at the boy's bedside. To his amazement she took his scorched, blistered hand in hers, and reverently kissed it.
Phil pulled it hastily away.
"Don't do that, Miss Crawford," he said. "You don't know what you are doing."
"Yes, I do," she answered, with tears in her eyes, "for I know you to be such a brave, fearless boy, that I am proud to own you as my friend."
A sob rose in Phil's throat.
"Miss Crawford, if you don't want me to die of shame, don't speak so," he said humbly. "It is because you don't know that you say so. I asked to see you because I could not die with the dreadful load there is upon my conscience. I tried to tell Dr. Bethune, but I couldn't get out the words. O Miss Crawford, you will hate me so when you hear it."
"Hush, my boy! You must talk quietly if you wish to keep me here," she said very soothingly. "I promised Dr. Bethune that I would not let you get excited. You are not quite yourself, or you would not say such things."
Phil strove to subdue his agitation.
"Lean down closer, Miss Crawford," he said, after a few minutes, "I don't want anybody but you to hear. There, let your hand stay under mine, so," and Phil laid his on the top of hers, "and when you begin to hate me, draw it away; but let me keep it till you do begin to hate me, won't you?"
In broken sentences, and with many interruptions, Phil got through his story. He need not have feared: Miss Crawford did not withdraw her hand; only when he arrived at the very saddest part of all, and he knew that she could guess the end, her other hand came to keep the first one company. With so gentle a touch did she place it upon Phil's that it did not hurt him in the least, while in a voice of infinite pity, and with the tears running down her cheeks, she said:
"Poor boy, poor boy! And you went through all that!"
It was over at last. Phil felt inexpressibly relieved that he had unburdened his mind, and confessed his sin.
"Phil," said Miss Crawford presently, "I cannot help thinking how good God has been to you. Have you thanked Him?"
"Yes, indeed, I have," he replied. "But sometimes I wish that after I had saved Millie, He had let me die. Nobody wants me here. I am no good to anybody."
"Don't talk so, dear boy. What, would you have Millie left alone in the world?"
"No, that is all I care to live for," he answered sorrowfully; "for though I have troubled her so, I know it would break her heart to lose me. Miss Crawford," he added earnestly, "if I die, you'll never forget Millie, will you?"
"I promise you I will not. I saw her yesterday, and she gave me such good news of your uncle. He has been perfectly sober ever since the night of the fire."
"I am glad of that for his own and Millie's sake," Phil replied. "I get anxious about her at night, and wonder what she is doing." Then after a pause he continued, "I should like them to know that I did it; you know what I mean. Will you tell them, please?"
"I will, but you must let me choose my own time for doing so. Now, Phil, will you make me a promise in return for mine?"
"I will do anything you ask me, Miss Crawford," he replied eagerly, delighted at the thought of doing a service for one who had done so much for him.
"Then read a chapter from this book every night and every morning," she said as she took from her bag a beautiful little Bible. "See," she continued, opening it at the fly leaf, "I have written your name here, and beneath, a favourite text of mine—'We love Him, because He first loved us.' Phil, I want you to know more about those things that are so dear to Millie and me, and this will teach you, if you will read it prayerfully. God has been very good to you in saving your life," she went on earnestly. "It was wonderful that you escaped, I am told. You ought to be very grateful to Him, Phil, and not only full of gratitude, but full of love to Him. O! If you once felt how much He loved you, you could not help giving back your love in return."
"I will try, Miss Crawford, and you must pray for me," he said humbly.
Very willingly did she promise that she would. Then after a little further conversation she took her leave, saying she would come again soon.
As days and weeks rolled on, Phil became gradually stronger and better, but still the slightest movement of his back was torture to him, and he could not even turn in his bed without assistance. He became at length weary and sick with hope deferred.
"Doctor, shall I never walk again?" he said one day to Dr. Bethune, in a half-tired, half-impatient voice.
Receiving no answer, he supposed his question had not been heard, but as Dr. Bethune at that moment turned hastily away to another patient, he had no chance of repeating it.
When Miss Crawford came that afternoon accompanied by Millie, he made the same inquiry of her. But she hesitated, and Millie's lips quivered as her eyes met her brother's.
"O! Do tell me," he said anxiously. "Surely I shall walk again some day!"
Then very gently Miss Crawford told him his spine had been so injured by the fall of the burning wood that the doctors feared he would never recover from the effects, though in time he might perhaps walk with the help of crutches.
"What! Lie still all my life long?" he moaned when she had finished. "Never walk nor run again! O! I can't bear it. I'd rather die."
A sob from Millie broke the silence that ensued.
"O my darling brother," she said, as she knelt by his bedside, "I will be legs, and feet, and arms, and everything to you, if you'll only let me. Uncle knows about it, and he is so sorry for you. He would have been to see you, only he's afraid that the sight of him would distress you. And he says, Phil, that he'll never touch that dreadful drink again as long as he lives, and that you shall never want for a home as long as he has health and strength to work for you. And he means it, dear. He is so good and kind now."
All this Millie sobbed out at intervals, but Phil made no reply.
"Don't think it unkind of me," he said presently, "but I'd rather be alone for a while. I can't talk about it yet."
So they said good-bye to him, and Miss Crawford did what she had never done before. She put back the thick black hair from his forehead, bent down, and as she kissed him, he heard her whisper, "'Nevertheless not my will, but Thine, be done.'"
All through that night, a storm of conflicting emotions raged in poor Phil's heart. He said to himself that he could not, would not live to endure so cruel a fate. What, never walk, nor run, nor jump again? Never draw himself up to his full height, and feel that delicious sensation of strength and power tingling through every vein in his body? Be a helpless cripple all his life long—a thing as useless as a log of wood? Be compelled to lie perfectly still? Be at the entire mercy of others, utterly dependent upon them for the gratification of every wish, the supply of every want? No, it was too hard a punishment for such a sin as his had been. What was it but a few passionate words, a small act of revenge, committed under great provocation? How was he to know that such dire results would be the consequence? They had not been his desire. Besides, had he not acknowledged and repented of his sin? Had he not gone almost beyond human power to make atonement? O it was cruel! It was most unjust!
But lately Phil had learnt something of his Saviour's love, and with the dawn of morning a wondrous calm fell upon his troubled mind. It was no punishment after all, perhaps. It might be that God had sent this hard and bitter trial to prove him. Then, God helping him, he would stand the test and "suffer and be strong." Again he seemed to hear the sweet, low words:
"'Nevertheless not my will, but Thine, be done.'"
It must have been an angel's voice, Phil thought, for there was no Miss Crawford there to whisper lovingly to him. So, with a peaceful smile upon his face, he fell asleep, and the first beam of the rising sun, stealing across his pillow, made a halo of glory about his head.
image021
image022
MILLIE'S REAL FAIRY.
IT was not until the middle of October that Phil was considered sufficiently well to leave the hospital. In consequence of Miss Crawford's kindness, without which the plan would have been impracticable, it was arranged he should go straight to—Where do you think? Why, to dear old Chormouth.
Knowing the benefit that Phil would probably derive from sea air, and being well aware that it was the place above all others that he would prefer to visit, Miss Crawford had asked Richard Hunt to allow his nephew and niece to spend a month in their native village; and that there might be no hesitation because of the expense that such an arrangement would necessitate, she had expressed her willingness to pay more than half the expenses if Mr. Hunt would advance the remainder.
To Millie's openly expressed joy, he gladly consented.
Phil did not say much, perhaps he could not, but Miss Crawford understood the look of radiant delight with which he heard the good news, and was satisfied that he was happy.
The eventful day of the journey at length arrived. Phil was conveyed as comfortably as possible in an invalid's carriage to the station, and travelled on his couch in state with Millie and his uncle in close attendance.
"You wait upon me as if I were a prince," he said gratefully.
His uncle said nothing, but he smiled and looked pleased. He had been an altered man since the night of the fire. With good resolutions to lead a different life, there had sprung up within him a great regret for his past conduct. He felt deeply too for Phil, and blamed himself as being the cause of the accident that had deprived the boy of the use of his limbs.
Miss Crawford had never yet breathed a word of what Phil had confessed to her, and she made the boy promise that for the present it should remain a secret between themselves. She acted from wise motives. She hoped Richard Hunt would so learn to pity his nephew, that the pity would grow into love, too deep and sincere to be affected by the knowledge that Phil's own cruel and revengeful deed had occasioned the fire and all the trouble which ensued.
But the boy winced under the unaccustomed kindness of his uncle, and longed to make a clear breast of it then and there.
Phil was glad to arrive at his journey's end. It had tired him far more than he would have believed possible; every limb was aching, and he was so faint and weary when the train drew up at Chormouth Station that Millie was quite frightened. They went straight to the rooms that Miss Crawford had secured for them in Mrs. Blake's pretty cottage on the cliffs, where, as soon as he had seen them comfortably established, and Phil reviving, their uncle left them, to return to his work in London.
The sea air did wonders for Phil. He soon began to sit up a few hours every day, and great was Millie's joy when he was lifted into a bath-chair and she had the happiness of wheeling him along the path at the top of the cliffs. Poor boy! He was so light and thin now that she could do it without the least fatigue. Then Millie would stop while Phil gazed with delight over the vast restless ocean, and watched the big white clouds sailing overhead. The neighbours, seeing them there, would come up for a chat, or to beg their acceptance of a particularly fine fish for their dinner. Phil would hold quite a levée round his chair, and there was sure to be quite a contention as to which of his old friends should have the pleasure of drawing him back to Mrs. Blake's cottage.
Happy days they were! A month flew by all too rapidly, and Millie began sorrowfully to think of their return to London. It was not for herself that she grieved. She dreaded the effect of the close air of the big city on Phil's weak body. The brother and sister had changed places indeed, for now she was by far the stronger of the two. But Millie's dreary anticipations were never realised, and events occurred that never in her wildest dreams had even entered her head.
One cold afternoon—it was too cold and unpleasant a day for Phil to leave the house—Millie sat by the window, and gazed thoughtfully out upon the grey, stormy sea. It was rarely now that she had the opportunity of indulging in quiet thought; but just at present she had nothing in particular to do, and Phil was sleeping soundly. He had been in great pain during the preceding night, and had slept but little. Glad, therefore, that he was getting the rest which he so much needed, his sister took care not to disturb him.
Millie had long wished to visit her mother's grave, and this afternoon, as old and fond recollections crowded to her memory, the wish grew deeper, and she felt that she must go. The churchyard was some distance from the village; it was too long a journey for Phil to make over rough roads, and she had never liked to leave him while she went alone. But now that he was sleeping so quietly, she thought surely she might take the opportunity to gratify her desire. After a little hesitation, Millie decided that she would go; so having begged Mrs. Blake to keep a watchful eye upon Phil, she started off.
Quickly she passed up the straggling street, and by her own old home, at sight of which the tears rushed to her eyes, and the yearning at her heart grew painful in its intensity. By the village school she went; she was glad that the children were not yet dismissed from lessons, and that consequently the road was quiet, instead of noisy with the merry crowd that would gather there a little later on.
Then climbing the long, steep hill, she arrived at the churchyard where her mother lay. She found the grave readily enough, though no stone marked the spot with the name of her who rested beneath it. No, there was no need for that. Millie singled it out in a moment, and with a return of the old loneliness and grief with which she had at first mourned her loss, she moaned:
"My mother! O! My mother!"
So she cried out her sorrow there, till she felt relieved and comforted. Then she knelt down in the quiet "God's acre" and prayed earnestly for herself; and for those she loved. Rising from her knees she plucked a few pieces of grass for Phil, and, pressing her lips to the cold earth, took a mute farewell of her mother's grave. Then observing for the first time how quickly the shades of night were falling, she hastily began her homeward journey.
As she approached the churchyard gate, a man entered it from the high road, and came towards her. Millie stood aside on the narrow path to allow him to pass. On perceiving her, however, the man stopped, and said:
"Can you tell me, my child, where to find Mrs. Guntry's grave?"
"Mrs. Guntry's?" repeated Millie, thinking that she must have misunderstood him.
"Yes, she was a friend of mine. I'm a stranger in these parts now," said the man, "and shall soon be off again, but I'd like to see her grave before I leave the village."
The voice was strangely familiar to Millie. Where had she heard it before? She raised her eyes and gazed anxiously into his face. Why, surely it was none other than—
For a moment a feeling of terror seized her. It was so dark that she could not see clearly; the wind moaned among the branches of the leafless trees, and a superstitious awe seemed to freeze her senses. Then the old faith that her father was living, nay, did live, rushed to her heart with overwhelming force.
"Why," she said, with a little cry of joy, "'tis father himself. Father, dear father, don't you know me?"
"It can't be our little Millie. 'Tis, though, sure enough. Millie, my own precious child, I was told—"
You can imagine the rest for yourselves.
* * * * *
"Phil," said Millie, trying to tone down the happy ring in her voice, but which, nevertheless, would make itself heard, "I am afraid you have been dull all by yourself. Don't you want your tea badly? Why didn't you begin?"
"I waited for you. Why, how pretty you look to-night, Millie! The candle shines upon your face, and your cheeks have such a pretty pink colour in them, while as for your eyes, they sparkle like jewels. When I get better, I'll try my hand at painting your portrait."
"So you shall, dear. Phil, I have such good news for you."
"Have you? Is Miss Crawford coming down?"
"No, better news than that."
"I can't think of anything that would be better. It would be uncommonly jolly to hear we hadn't to go back to London, but might just live here always. But that can't be, so it's no good guessing."
"I think it might be managed, dear, after all."
"Have you had a fortune left you, or when you were out, did you meet a fairy who made you a present of the wonderful wishing cap?"
"Yes, that's it, Phil. I met a fairy, a real fairy. My darling, do you remember—" Millie changed her voice and spoke seriously and solemnly—"do you remember how I have always said, as mother did, that father would come back to us again some day?"
Phil breathed hard; his face flushed, then became as pale as death.
"I have seen somebody this afternoon," Millie continued, "who told me that I was right after all. Father is alive. We shall see him soon. Only think of that, my darling."
But Phil made no answer; he had fainted, and Millie's cry for help brought her father and Mrs. Blake to his bedside.
As soon as there were signs of returning consciousness, Millie whispered her father to leave the room till she had more fully prepared her brother to meet him. Then, when Phil had quite recovered, she made him drink his tea and eat a piece of toast before she would allow him to say a word.
Millie was vexed with herself beyond measure. She accused herself of having been too hasty, and not sufficiently careful in breaking the news to him; but had she been twenty times more gentle, Phil's nerves were so weakened by suffering, that the least shock would have unnerved and prostrated him.
He knew all at last, and there was indeed a joyful meeting between father and son. How they feasted their eyes on each other, and how Philip Guntry's heart sank as he noted the bright hectic flush upon the boy's cheek, the wasted body, and the thin trembling hands!
"O father, it's so nice to have you," Phil said when, the first raptures over, he began quietly to realise his happiness. "You won't go to sea again, but you'll stay with us, and nurse me, won't you? Though," he added in an undertone so that Millie might not catch the words, "I don't think I shall be here so very long to want you."
Then nothing would do but that he must be wrapped in the warm flannel dressing-gown Miss Crawford had given, and that his father must take him in his arms and nurse him, "just as you used when I was a baby, you know," he said.
And Millie, drawing up a low stool, leant her head against her father's knee.
Sitting thus, they listened to the story of Philip Guntry's preservation in the midst of awful and many dangers.
He told them how, on one fearful night, when the winds were roaring like thunder among the sails, and the waves were dashing mountains high, the "Cynthia" struck upon a rock. There was barely time to get out the boats before the vessel sank. He and seven others were the last to leave the wreck.
During many hours of darkness they tossed about in their frail boat, at the mercy of wind and waves. When morning dawned they saw no signs of the rest of the crew, and doubted not they were the only persons saved. For days they drifted along, starvation staring them in the face, and they had begun to despair of their lives, when, to their joy, they sighted land.
It proved to be an uninhabited island, where for many months the sailors, lived as best they could. They made some kind of shelter for themselves, fed principally on the eggs of sea-fowl, and kept a constant watch for a passing vessel. A long time elapsed, however, before the welcome sail appeared in sight, and O! How anxiously and eagerly they waited to see whether the thin curl of smoke arising from their fire of dried leaves and wood would be observed, and bring friends to their assistance!
And their hope was realised, a boat being sent out from the ship to fetch the poor fellows on board. The vessel was bound for a distant colony, and as soon as it reached its destination, Philip Guntry sought for and obtained a berth in a vessel homeward bound. Owing to various delays the passage had been a tardy one, but he reached England at last, and set out at once for Chormouth. Arrived at Moultonsea, a large town about four miles from Chormouth, he had met with an old comrade, who told him the sorrowful news of his wife's death, and that his children were living with their uncle in London.
"I couldn't bear to go away till I had seen your mother's grave," Philip Guntry said in a husky voice, as he finished his story, "or I should have gone straight to London. A good thing it was I came, for here I found my little daughter; and," he added, as his encircling arm drew her closer to him, "a right welcome sight she was."
* * * * *
Miss Crawford and Richard Hunt each received a letter from Millie containing the glad news. The former rejoiced with them in their happiness as deeply as she had sympathised with them in their troubles, and their uncle begged a holiday from his employers and hastened off to Chormouth to greet his brother-in-law. He brought with him a long letter for Millie from Miss Crawford, and inside it there was a tiny note addressed to Phil, and marked "Private."
It contained only one line.
"You may tell everything now, dear Phil."
Phil was glad to have permission to speak; for the weight of the secret had been a heavy burden to bear. He longed to confess and ask forgiveness of his uncle, even as he had confessed his sill to God. That he might die with the deed still upon his conscience, had often been an appalling thought.
It was when they were all gathered around the cheerful fire on the Sunday evening of Richard Hunt's visit, and Phil was again enfolded in his father's strong arms—no other resting place was half so comfortable—that he said:
"Uncle, I have something to tell you. I fear you will hardly be able to forgive me. I wanted to tell you long ago, but Miss Crawford would not let me. I—I—O," he continued, leaning forward his poor bent body, and putting up his hands in supplication, "if I could, I would kneel at your feet and beg your forgiveness for what I did, but I can't. Uncle, it was not through any fault of yours that the house caught fire. I did it to frighten you. I set it on fire myself."
There was a dead silence. They all fancied he was rambling in his mind, and so did not know what he was saying.
Phil swallowed down the thickness in his throat, and went on:
"You were not sober that night. You said some hard words to me, but I deserved them. O yes, I know I did. I was very angry, and wanted to 'pay you out.' Don't turn away from me, uncle—" that was the boy's fancy, Richard Hunt had but put his hand to his face to brush away a tear—"I have been so sorry ever since. I deserve to be a cripple all my life. I put the shavings and the wood around the candlestick, and I hoped it would flare up and frighten you out of your sleep. I never thought—I never dreamt the house would be burnt. I went out in the streets for an hour or two, and came back just in time to—you know," and he pointed to Millie. "Uncle, can you forgive me now?"
"My poor Phil! 'Forgive you?' Will you forgive 'me?'" sobbed Richard Hunt, fairly overcome, and to Phil's amazement, he sank on his knees before him.
Phil bent down—he could just manage to do that—and kissing his uncle, said gratefully and reverently:
"You have made me so happy, dear uncle. Thank you very much. May God forgive us both!"