THE LITTLE GENTLEMAN

BY

ELEANORA H. STOOKE

AUTHOR OF

"COUSIN BECKY'S CHAMPIONS," "ROBIN OF SUN COURT,"

"GRANFER AND ONE CHRISTMAS TIME," ETC.

WITH FRONTISPIECE BY E. R. MARQUAND

LONDON

NATIONAL SOCIETY'S DEPOSITORY

19 GREAT PETER STREET, WESTMINSTER, S.W.

NEW YORK: THOMAS WHITTAKER, 2 & 3 BIBLE HOUSE

1910

(All rights reserved)

CHAPTER I

MELINA MAKES A FRIEND

"HULLOA, Melina, where are you going? How is it you aren't at school? You'd best look out or your Granny'll get the attendance officer around her again about you, and then she'll give you what you won't like!"

The scene was the corner of Jubilee Terrace, a row of small red-brick cottages on the outskirts of Hawstock, a large provincial west of England town, on a cold January morning; and the speaker—William Jones—was a tall, well-grown boy of about twelve years of age, comfortably clad, who had that minute emerged from one of the cottages and encountered an ill-tempered-looking little girl, a year or so his junior, to whom he had addressed himself.

"D' you think I'm afraid of the attendance officer?" demanded the little girl, who was called Melina Berryman. She spoke in a high, shrill voice, the voice of a scold, and her manner was argumentative. "And I ain't afraid of Gran either, so there!" she added.

The boy laughed unbelievingly, whilst his blue eyes twinkled with amusement as they travelled over his companion from the crown of her battered hat, decorated with a draggled plume of cocks' feathers, to the tips of her toes, which had worn through her stockings and were peeping out of her shabby boots. He was not really an unkind boy; but Melina Berryman was the butt of all the children who lived in Jubilee Terrace, and he found considerable amusement in teasing her. It was such fun to bait her into an ungovernable passion, to see her thin white countenance distorted with anger and her big eyes flash, and to listen to the volley of abuse which would flow so glibly from her lips when, facing her tormentor, she would look for all the world like a little wild animal, with her lips drawn back from her gleaming white teeth, and her shock of tousled hair.

"I ain't afraid of Gran either," she repeated, and she nodded her head knowingly; "she can't wollop me now." Her tone was triumphant.

"Why not?" asked the boy. "She gave it to you last week. I heard her; and I heard you afterwards—crying. My, how you did go on!"

Melina flushed and bit her lip, then scowled. She and her grandmother, her father's mother, occupied the cottage next door to the one in which William Jones, who was an only child, lived with his parents, a respectable couple who had but little intercourse with old Mrs. Berryman, who—the truth must be told—did not bear a good reputation and was addicted to drink. The inhabitants of Jubilee Terrace were nearly all of the working classes, people who laboured honestly; therefore they had been anything but pleased when old Mrs. Berryman, who it was said earned her livelihood by money-lending to the poorest of the poor, had a year or so previously taken up her abode at No. 2. She was a cross-grained woman who never passed a civil word with anybody, and it was generally thought that she was unkind to Melina, which was indeed a fact.

"You were at it for the best part of an hour, I should think," the boy proceeded, "howling like a good 'un! I wondered how you could keep it up. If you hadn't stopped when you did, mother would have paid Mrs. Berryman a visit; she threatened to, and—"

"Oh, I'm very glad she didn't," interrupted Melina; "if she had, Gran would have served me worse than ever afterwards."

"And yet you say you aren't afraid of your grandmother!"

"Not now. She's ill."

"Ill? Perhaps she'll die."

Melina shook her head; there was hopelessness in the gesture. "No such luck!" she exclaimed callously.

"Oh, Melina, you wicked girl, to speak like that!" William was really shocked, and looked it. "Has she had a doctor?" he inquired.

"No. She says she can't afford one, and wouldn't have one if she could; she says it's a bad cold she's got."

"I dare say it is. I've been home from school several days with a bad cold myself; this is the first time I've been out. I don't stay away from school for no reason, Melina, like you."

Melina regarded her neighbour with a sneer on her face, then deigned to explain that her absence from school to-day was accounted for by the fact of her grandmother's illness.

"I've got to look after Gran," she said; "I'm going to do some errands for her now, so I can't stay here any longer wasting my time with you." And, having spoken thus impolitely, she turned the corner of Jubilee Terrace and disappeared from sight.

In the street adjoining Jubilee Terrace was a small all-sorts shop which was also one of the branch post offices of the town. There it was that Melina made her purchases. For a shilling she bought several packages of groceries—a pennyworth of this, twopennyworth of that, and so on; and then, carrying her packages, she started for home. She was turning the corner into Jubilee Terrace when she came suddenly face to face with William Jones, who deliberately jutted his elbow against her, with the result that she let most of her packages fall. A cry of dismay escaped her lips as she perceived that a screw of paper, which had held two ounces of tea, had broken open, and that the tea was strewn on the muddy pavement.

"Oh, I say, I'm sorry," William was beginning truthfully, for he had not meant to do any real harm, when he was cut short by Melina, who sprang towards him with uplifted hand and dealt him a stinging box on the ear.

"You wicked, wicked boy!" she panted, and was about to hit him again when some one grasped her by the shoulder, and a man's voice said:

"Stop, stop! What is the meaning of this?"

Melina tried to free herself from her captor, but in vain; then she twisted herself around and looked him in the face, her eyes full of angry tears, her usually pale cheeks aflame. She found she was being held by a plain, under-sized man, a stranger to her, who was gazing at her in a nearsighted way through a pair of eyeglasses.

"Let me go!" she cried; "I hate him—ah, how I hate him!"

"Hush, hush!" said the stranger, "I don't think you mean that. Yes, yes, I saw what he did. It was very rough—very clumsy of him. But see, he is picking up your parcels for you; I don't think much damage has been done, except to the tea."

"It was two ounces and it costs tuppence," said Melina, in a voice which was tremulous with passion, "and it's all spoilt. If Gran wasn't ill she'd beat me, and he—" shaking her fist at the aggressor— "wouldn't care; she'll keep me without dinner now, I expect."

"If she does, I'll get mother to give you some," William said hastily. He had gathered together her packages, and now gave them to her, but she was not to be easily appeased.

"I'll be even with you yet," she declared, "that I will! You needn't think I'll forget this! You bumped against me on purpose, you know you did!"

The boy did not attempt to deny it. He was feeling glad that none of his friends had been present to witness what had passed, for he would not have liked it to have been known that Melina had boxed his ears; but he admitted to himself that he had done wrong, and, not wishing to prolong the scene, he murmured a few words of apology and turned away. The little girl gazed after him wrathfully till he disappeared within the door of his own home, then, overcome with agitation, her tears broke bounds and ran down her cheeks.

"Oh, don't cry, don't cry!" said the stranger kindly. All this while he had been holding her by the shoulder, but now he released his grasp, and, putting his hand into his pocket, produced two pennies, which he gave her, saying as he did so:

"There, you will be able to buy another two ounces of tea for your grandmother, and then you won't be kept without your dinner, will you?"

"No," she answered, with a brightening face. "Thank you, sir. I didn't want to go without my dinner because I'm—oh, so hungry! I only had a little bit of dry bread for breakfast at eight o'clock."

"And now it is past noon! Do you live alone with your grandmother?"

"Yes," sighed Melina. "My mother died when I was a baby, and father—he was Gran's son—gave me to Gran. I wish he hadn't, I'm sure."

"Your grandmother is very poor?" he questioned.

The little girl's face clouded again, and she hesitated before she answered "I don't know."

He looked at her in puzzled silence, noticing her unkempt appearance. She would have been a pretty child if she had been less painfully thin, but, as it was, she was a mere bag of bones. Whilst he was thus scrutinising her, she was no less attentively observing him. He was a very little gentleman, she thought, but there was something about him which she found attractive—perhaps it was the expression of good will with which he was regarding her. No one had ever looked at her like that before.

"Do you live near here?" he inquired.

"Yes, sir," she replied; "at No. 2 Jubilee Terrace."

"Ah! Then we shall meet again. I have come to live at Hawstock, to be a lay-helper in the parish."

Melina said "Yes, sir," though she had not the least idea what a lay-helper was. She was moving away when the little gentleman detained her.

"I hope you are going to forgive that boy who acted so rudely to you," he remarked; "I think he was ashamed of himself, and he apologised, you know."

"That was only because you were here," Melina said bluntly; "I know William Jones very well, and—" significantly—"he knows me."

Her pale face had flushed again; but, meeting her companion's eyes at that moment, something in them—a look of mingled sorrow and sympathy—caused her lips to quiver suddenly. "I—I am so miserable," she faltered, "everyone—yes, everyone is against me." She brushed a hand hastily across her eyes, then added: "Oh, I must hurry back to the shop for the tea, and get home to Gran!"

But once more the little gentleman detained her.

"You complain that everyone is against you," he said; "won't you tell me what you mean? Is not your grandmother kind to you?"

She shook her head, and, pulling up the loose sleeve of her blouse, exhibited a skinny arm covered with bruises. "That's her doing," she said, with a bitter laugh that sounded strangely from a child's lips; "no, she ain't kind to me—not when she's in drink anyway. When she's sober she lets me be."

"And is she your only relative? Your father—what of him?"

"He went away—I don't know where—years ago, when I was a baby. I don't remember him. Gran's always saying he'll come back some day. I wish he would; p'r'aps he'd be kinder than Gran."

The little gentleman looked at her pityingly. "Poor little girl," he said, "you must let me be your friend, will you?"

"Oh, sir!" exclaimed Melina in amazement. "I—oh, you can't mean it! You are a gentleman, and I—" She broke off with an expressive glance at her ragged frock.

"I do mean it," he said, smiling; "I hope to make many friends in this parish before long, and I shall count you as my first. By the way, you have not told me your name?"

"It is Melina Berryman, sir."

"Well, then, Melina, remember that I am your friend, and you will know that there is some one in Hawstock who is not against you—some one who would do you a good turn if he could and will pray for you to our Father in heaven."

"Do you mean God?" asked Melina.

He assented. "'If God be for us, who can be against us?'" he quoted.

The little girl gave him a quick, shrewd glance. "You ain't a parson," she said; "I wonder what makes you talk like that! I don't want to think of God. I'm afraid—" She broke off abruptly.

"Afraid of Him who gave His dear Son to be the Saviour of the world? Oh, surely not! Don't you know that Jesus is your Saviour? Don't you know that He promised 'Him that cometh to Me I will in nowise cast out'? He wants you to go to Him, to trust Him, to give Him your love, and then you will never feel lonely or friendless more. He is the one perfect Friend who never changes, never fails anyone. I can answer for that."

The little gentleman paused, his face glowing with the light of that faith which had been his guiding star for many a long year, and, taking one of Melina's little cold hands, he pressed it kindly.

"Good-bye, little girl," he said, "and God bless you. Before long I hope we shall meet again."

CHAPTER II

MELINA AT HOME

WHEN Melina returned to her grandmother she found her sitting up in bed, holding her sides and coughing, looking a miserable object indeed. Mrs. Berryman was an old woman of between seventy and eighty years of age, with a lined face, the skin of which looked like parchment; beady black eyes, exceedingly sharp; and a quantity of coarse white hair.

"You've been dawdling," she said in a harsh voice, as soon as her fit of coughing was over and she could find breath to speak; "you'd catch it if I was up and about, you lazy baggage, you! Get me a cup of tea, do you hear, and be quick about it!" She sank back on her pillow, and Melina heard her mutter to herself: "I don't know what's taken to me! I'm as weak as a cat!"

The little girl went downstairs, and, ten minutes later, came back with the tea. Her grandmother tasted it and made a wry face, but subsequently drank it.

"How do you feel, Gran?" Melina inquired, with more curiosity than sympathy in her tone.

"Bad," answered the old woman curtly.

"Don't you think you ought to have a doctor?"

"A doctor? No. I don't believe in doctors. I've told you so before."

Keeping a safe distance from the bed, Melina surveyed her grandmother meditatively. "What'll become of you if you get worse?" she asked presently; "you may die, you know."

"Die!" Mrs. Berryman shrieked forth the word with an angry glance at her granddaughter.

"Yes," nodded Melina, "and then you'd have to be buried, of course. I was wondering—would it have to be a parish funeral, with the workhouse hearse, and—"

"You wicked, cruel girl!" broke in Mrs. Berryman. "How dare you talk like this to me! I'm not going to die—not now, at any rate; but if I did, what do you think would become of you?"

Melina reflected for a minute, then replied: "I suppose I should go to the workhouse—I don't know that I'd altogether mind. Mrs. Jones said the other day that I should be better off in the workhouse."

"The impertinent, interfering creature! And you—oh, you are an ungrateful girl! After all I 'ye done for you, to talk like that! Haven't I given you shelter and food for more than ten years, and yet I don't believe you'd care if I was dead and buried!"

"No," admitted Melina frankly, "I don't believe I should. You've never been kind to me, Gran; often you've beaten me something cruel, you know you have! Why, my back and arms are sore and covered with bruises now from the beating you gave me last week!"

"I'm a bit heavy-handed, perhaps," Mrs. Berryman admitted hastily, "but you're enough to aggravate a saint sometimes, Melina. When I beat you, it's for your good—to make you a better child."

"But it doesn't make me better," Melina said. For once in her life she felt she had the advantage of her grandmother, and she was taking a naughty pleasure in the fact; she could say what she liked, for the old woman was too ill and weak to touch her. "The more you beat me the worse I am," she declared, "and I hate you—oh, you don't know how I hate you for being so cruel!" Her eyes flashed with indignation, and her thin frame trembled.

Astonishment kept Mrs. Berryman silent for a minute, then she said in a tone which was very mild for her:

"That's a nice way to talk to your grandmother! Don't stand there staring at me like that! Here, take my keys and get your dinner—you'll find some bacon in the corner cupboard; and don't let me see you again till I call for you. I'm going to try to get a nap, for I feel just worn out."

From under her pillow the old woman drew a bunch of keys, which she extended to her granddaughter, who took it in silence and went downstairs into the kitchen. The little girl knew which key fitted the lock of the corner cupboard, and, having unlocked the cupboard, she took therefrom a lump of fat bacon and a very stale loaf. She cut herself some bread and bacon, and, being very hungry, made an excellent meal; having done which she locked away the remains of her repast and the groceries she had purchased, and slipped the bunch of keys into her pocket.

It was cold in the kitchen, for the fire had burnt low; so Melina, making as little noise as possible, fetched some fuel from a cupboard under the stairs and made up the fire afresh. Soon she was warming herself before a fine blaze.

"I may as well make myself comfortable now Gran's out of the way," she reflected; "I wonder what she'd say if she saw how much coal I've used!"

A smile flickered across her face, but it was not a pleasant smile; for it was full of bitterness, and made her look old beyond her years. The expression of her countenance changed a few minutes later, however, as she thought of the little gentleman and recalled how kindly he had spoken to her, and her eyes—clear, changeful, hazel eyes they were—grew wonderfully gentle and soft.

"Fancy his wanting to be my friend!" she mused. "I can't understand why he should! And he said 'God bless you'! I shall never forget it—never, as long as I live! Oh, I do hope I shall see him again!"

Melina was unaccustomed to kindness, and, hitherto, she had felt at war with all the world. She was a sadly neglected little girl, and, it must be admitted, a very naughty one, disobedient to those in authority over her, and impatient of control. Frequently she would stay away from school for days, and pass her time in wandering about the streets gazing into the shop windows, or in taking long tramps in the country; and on several occasions the attendance officer had brought complaints to her grandmother: the last time he had called he had warned Mrs. Berryman that she would be summoned to appear before the magistrates if she did not see that her grandchild went properly to school. That had been the previous week; and, subsequently, Mrs. Berryman, who had been drinking, had given Melina the unmerciful beating which, though it had left her sore and bruised in body, had not broken her spirit in the least.

Presently Melina heard a rap at the back door, and went to see who was there. It was William Jones.

"I say, Melina," he began, "here's tuppence for the tea—I asked father for it when he came home to dinner. I—"

"Keep your tuppence!" interposed Melina, waving aside his extended hand and scowling at him in a vindictive manner; "I don't want it. I bought some more tea."

"Oh, did you? I didn't think you had any money. But, I say, you may as well take the tuppence—that'll be fair."

Melina hesitated—not about taking it, but whether or not she should explain that it had not been her own money which had replaced the tea; she decided against doing so. Thereupon, without answering the boy, she shut the door in his face, and returned to her former position in front of the fire.

By and by there came another knock at the back door. This time the visitor proved to be William Jones' mother, a neat-looking woman with a fresh-complexioned face, and blue eyes like her son's.

"Good afternoon, Melina," she said, as she met the little girl's glance of inquiry; "I'm sorry to hear that your grandmother's ill; I've made her a custard, thinking she may fancy it."

She held out a little basket, covered with a snowy cloth, which Melina took with a few murmured words of thanks, feeling very surprised, for as a rule Mrs. Berryman's neighbours refrained from having anything to do with her.

"I heard your grandmother coughing dreadfully in the night," Mrs. Jones remarked; "it sounded to me as though she had a very bad cold. She's wise to stop in bed, I'm thinking. You get her to eat that custard, and, if she enjoys it, I'll make her another. And oh, by the way, you'll find a bit of cake in the basket—that's for you, for your tea."