WON OVER:

THE STORY OF A BOY'S LIFE.

BY

NELLIE HELLIS

AUTHOR OF "ROVING ROBIN," "MARTIN DRAYTON'S SIN," ETC., ETC.

LONDON:

T. WOOLMER, 2, CASTLE STREET, CITY ROAD, E.C.,

AND 66, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C. 1885.

To my Father,

IN GRATEFUL RECOGNITION OF HIS LOVING HELP AND SYMPATHY.

CONTENTS.

CHAP.

I.—BIGAROONS AND BITTERNESS

II.—HOW PHIL AND MILLIE CAME TO LIVE IN LONDON

III.—WATERLOO BRIDGE BY MOONLIGHT

IV.—MILLIE GOES OUT TO TEA

V.—MISS CRAWFORD'S PROPOSAL

VI.—PHIL BREAKS HIS WORD

VII.—IN THE HOSPITAL

VIII.—MILLIE'S REAL FAIRY

IX.—STRONGER THAN DEATH

WON OVER:

THE STORY OF A BOY'S LIFE.

CHAPTER I.

BIGAROONS AND BITTERNESS.

IT was a hot day in July, and twelve o'clock was striking from a neighbouring church as a little girl came from one of the narrow streets that open into Drury Lane, and walked rapidly in the direction of Oxford Street. Her face, generally very pale, was now flushed with pleasure and excitement, while her eyes sparkled with delight. She had gone some little distance before she perceived the person whom she had come to meet. It was her brother, and breaking into a run she was soon at his side.

"O! Phil," she gasped, completely out of breath, "what do you think? Miss Crawford has been to see me."

"You should not run in such hot weather, Millie," said her brother. "You'll be ill again, if you do. Here, sit down a minute on this door-step, and get cool. Who has been, did you say?"

"Miss Crawford. Why, Phil, you can't have forgotten her."

"No, I remember," he answered shortly; and his face grew sorrowful, almost stern, at the recollections the name recalled.

"She said she had been trying to find us everywhere," Millie went on eagerly, "but nobody at Camberwell seemed to know where we had gone. Then one day last week she happened to meet Ned Roberts, and he told her that he thought uncle had moved to Swift Street."

"Yes, more's the pity," muttered Phil. "Didn't she tell you the wretched hole would half kill you?"

"No, of course not. You know she's not the one to make the worst of anything, Phil. She's too good for that. But, indeed, it's not so bad, after all. Why, our street is quite fresh and pleasant compared to Back Court," said Millie, mentioning one of the most wretched of the many thickly-populated alleys near Drury Lane.

"You're like her there; you always make the best of everything. I wish I could, but I can't," said Phil despondently. "Never mind, Millie," he added cheerfully after a moment's pause, "I shall soon be able to earn enough to keep us both. I shall be fourteen, you know, next month. Won't we have a pretty cottage in the country some day, that's all?"

"But we couldn't leave uncle, Phil," said Millie, earnestly.

"Why not? He has done nothing to make us very grateful to him, and he's no such pleasant company either," answered Phil in a rough, harsh tone. "See how he treats me! I did not tell you before, but, Millie—" he lowered his voice as he said it—"he struck me the other night; yes, struck me a blow that sent me reeling half across the room."

"O! Phil, when?" Millie exclaimed anxiously, forgetting Miss Crawford and everything else in the alarm caused by her brother's words. "Where was I? How was it that I didn't know anything about it?"

"You were asleep, dear. You had a headache and had gone to bed, and I took care not to make a noise, for I didn't want to wake you. I only looked at uncle; and, coward that he is, he slunk off to his room without speaking. He had been drinking, of course," said Phil; "but if he should dare to do it again, or touch you, I'll—" He did not finish his sentence, but he drew himself up, and shook back the hair from his forehead with such an expression of hatred and revenge on his face that Millie shuddered.

"Phil, don't look so," she said. "You need not fear that he will ever strike me. He loves me too dearly for that. You know I can do almost anything with him."

"Except make him give up his bad companions and bad habits; and unless you can do that, I don't see of what use your influence is, Millie," returned Phil with a short, bitter laugh. "For my part," he added, "I think it's a mercy poor aunt died when she did. He'd have broken her heart before now."

Millie thought it wiser to say nothing, though she could not suppress the weary sigh that came from the very bottom of her heart, as rising from the door-step she began walking slowly back to the place they now called home. Phil kept pace with her, looking miserable and gloomy. Very soon, however, Millie's face broke into a smile again, and she cheerfully started a new subject of conversation.

"Dinner is all ready for you, Phil. Aren't you hungry?"

"No, it's too hot to be hungry. Besides, who could eat in this vile atmosphere?"

"But I've got a lovely lettuce for you, and vinegar. Vinegar is always so refreshing, I think, in hot weather. Then there's plenty of cheese, and a bit of beef we had over from yesterday. And—But guess what there is besides."

"Is uncle coming home to dinner?" inquired Phil.

Millie thought that he was ungraciously ignoring her request, and replied in rather a hurt voice—

"No, he said he should not be in till night."

Her brother's next words, however, told her that she had wronged him.

"Well, then, there will be you, and to have you all to myself for half an hour will be as good as twenty dinners, Millie."

There was one noble trait in Phil's character, at any rate, his intense love for his sister. It shone out now from his innermost soul, as looking fondly at her, he tucked her hand under his arm.

"No, but do guess what it is," Millie went on eagerly. "It's something so nice—something you will enjoy. Miss Crawford brought it."

"Then it's sure to be something good. Tell me, I'm a bad hand at guessing."

"A dish of cherries. Such beauties! There was a basket full of them, and at the top she had spread some flowers. I thought it was all flowers at first. Isn't she kind, Phil? And O! She said—But there," exclaimed Millie, suddenly interrupting herself, "we'll have dinner now, and I'll tell you what she said presently."

So saying, Millie entered the house in Swift Street in which the brother and sister and their uncle lodged. Their rooms were on the top floor, and the little girl climbed wearily up the long steep staircase. Phil walked behind, taking good care not to hurry her. On every landing there were children playing,—poor, dirty, uncared-for little things who, for the most part, were shoeless and ragged. Some were quarrelling, while some, happier than the rest, were ravenously devouring the slices of bread, thinly spread with jam, that constituted their midday meal. On the second landing, a girl, older than Millie, with a coarse, bold face, called out sneeringly:

"Well, you two stuck-ups! Just arrived from your mornin' walk? Ain't you proud of your uncle? He's such an ornament to the family, that you ought to be."

"You'd better be careful what you say before my sister, Nora Dickson," returned Phil haughtily. "I won't have her insulted by such a girl as you, I can tell you."

Nora answered him with a mocking laugh, but she wisely refrained from further comment, and went on cobbling—it could not be called sewing—the ragged little frock which she held in her hand.

As Millie had said, the dinner did look inviting. Yet it was only owing to the nice arrangement of the dishes, the cleanliness of the cloth, and the polish upon the knives and forks, that it had that appearance, for the food itself was small in quantity, and second-rate in quality. There was an air of neatness and refinement about the room too, which was evidently the result of Millie's care and taste; Millie, the child-woman, who in the twelve years of her short life had seen so many changes, and experienced so many of this world's sorrows and troubles.

"Well," said Phil, cutting up his lettuce and beginning to eat with a relish that told of a good healthy appetite. "Well, what did Miss Crawford say?"

"Why," replied Millie, the glad, happy look coming back again into her eyes, "she said I was to go to her house and have tea with her. She did, Phil. Aren't you glad?"

"Jolly glad, little woman. It will just do you good to have a change, and plenty of something nice to eat for once in the way. When are you going?"

"Not till next week, because Miss Crawford's brother is ill, and she has to nurse him. But he is getting better now, she says, and as soon as ever she is at leisure, she will fix a day for me to go."

"She lives in Kennington Road, doesn't she?" Phil asked.

"Yes, Baverstock House, Kennington Road. I remember it, because I saw aunt direct a letter to her once." Then, with a change in her voice, Millie continued, "Phil, I think that before aunt died she must have asked Miss Crawford to look after me a bit, for she told me this morning that whenever I was in trouble, and wanted a friend, I was always to let her know, and she would help me in any way she could. She was so grieved about uncle too. She said she wished she could find me a more comfortable home than this. But when I told her that I wouldn't leave you nor uncle, she smiled, and said that I was right, and that so long as uncle was willing to have me, it was best for me to stay."

"But it's not good for you to be here. I know that well enough," Phil returned bitterly. "I wish I could take you away; but we shall have to wait for that."

"I shouldn't leave uncle under any circumstances," said Millie earnestly and resolutely. "I promised aunt that, however bad he might be, I would always care for him and attend to him, just as she would have done if she had lived."

"You're a good girl," said Phil, "but flesh and blood can't stand too much. However," he added more cheerfully, "we won't talk about our troubles any more. Get out your cherries. I must be back at one; so I have no time to spare."

Even Phil's gloomy face brightened as Millie took from the cupboard a plate of beautiful "bigaroons." He ate a dozen or so with considerable gusto, then stopped short.

"Why, Millie, you're eating none," he said. "Mind, I shan't have a single cherry more than you, so please make haste. They won't keep this weather, you know."

"But—but uncle would like some," said Millie timidly.

"There it is again," exclaimed Phil angrily, breaking out into one of his sudden outbursts of passion. "It's always uncle, uncle, from morning to night. I'm sick of the sound of the word. I am nobody and nothing, I suppose."

"O Phil, dear Phil, don't," said Millie, laying her head upon his shoulder and bursting into tears. "I do love you. You know I do. I have nobody in the world but you. If I hadn't you, I should just like to lie down and die. Don't say such unkind things."

"There, there," said Phil tenderly, his anger all melting at sight of his sister's tears. "I didn't mean to vex you. Why, Millie," as her sobs increased, "don't be such a baby. You are a woman now, as you said the other day." And he kissed her, and lovingly stroked back the damp curls from her hot forehead.

"Somebody must love uncle, Phil. It's the only thing that will save him. Aunt felt that, I know. And besides, you can't deny that when he's sober, he'll do anything for 'the little lass.'" And Millie smiled bravely, "just to please Phil," as she said to herself.

"Well, I'm off," he said when he saw that her tears had ceased. "Don't expect me home till late to-night. There's a lot of extra work to be done, and I must stay overtime. Good-bye, dear."

He turned to go, but Millie held out a handful of cherries and looked so pleadingly at him, that against his will, he took them. Then, calling out a last good-bye from the door, Phil tramped downstairs, and Millie saw no more of him till dusk.

CHAPTER II.

HOW PHIL AND MILLIE CAME TO LIVE IN LONDON.

POOR Phil and Millie! Their history had been a sad one, as you shall hear.

Until within a year or so of the time when this story opens, they had lived in the pretty seaside village of Chormouth, in the south of Devonshire. Their father, Philip Guntry, was a sailor. He earned good wages as second mate on board a merchant vessel, while their mother employed some of her leisure time in lace-making, a work at which she was particularly skilful. So they were comfortably off, and Millie and Phil, in those days, knew nothing of want and privation.

Sometimes, when Millie sat alone in their small close lodgings in Swift Street, she would shut her eyes and conjure up before her the village street and the pretty little cottage that had been her home for so many happy years. Very wistfully she thought of the little room which, with its dainty bed and spotless hangings of white muslin, she had once called her own; of the lovely view from its window; of the creeping rose bush, whose clusters of white blossoms had awakened her on many a sunshiny morning by gently tapping on her window pane; of the comfortable, homely kitchen, and of the parlour where they sat on Sundays, or entertained visitors who, having dropped in for a chat, were prevailed upon to stay and take a cup of tea.

So time had passed happily and prosperously with the Guntrys until Millie was nearly ten years old. Then a terrible trouble shadowed the brightness of their home; and, alas! other griefs came rapidly upon the footsteps of the first.

Philip Guntry, who had been absent on a long voyage, was daily expected at Chormouth. Anxious eyes scanned the shipping intelligence for news of the "Cynthia," and his wife spent many weary nights in listening to the blustering wind, and the distant swell of the ocean. The gales of that autumn were unusually severe, and wrecks and disasters were of such frequent occurrence that Mrs. Guntry's heart might well sicken with fear as days and weeks passed by and brought no news of her husband's arrival in England.

At last, one morning, she read in a newspaper that a broken piece of timber, bearing the name of the "Cynthia," had been picked up at sea, from which fact it was concluded that the vessel in question had been wrecked during the fearful gales of the past weeks, and that all hands on board had perished.

It was indeed a trial to the poor wife. Her worst forebodings were realised, and in the first agony of her grief, her spirits sank beneath the blow. But she was a brave little woman, and knowing that it now devolved upon her to support herself and her children, she put all selfish indulgence of her sorrow aside, and with willing hands, though with a heavy heart, set herself resolutely to her lace-making, which, once a mere pastime for leisure moments, had now to become a necessary and serious occupation for the whole of the day. Even then she found it a difficult matter to make both ends meet. True, there was a little fund of money in the Savings Bank. It had been placed there against a rainy day, but though the rainy day had now come, she felt that there might be a stormier one in the future, and would not touch it.

By dint, however, of working early and late, and living very frugally, she was able to live on in the old home—it would have broken her heart to leave it—and send the children regularly to school, where Phil was doing wonders, and was already looked upon as a genius.

With constant occupation, and in the peace of mind that her cheerful resignation to God's will brought with it, there presently sprang up within her a belief, which, though weak at first, grew stronger as time went on. It was a belief that her husband still lived, and that he would eventually return to her. She told her little daughter of her new-born hope, for Millie was thoughtful and gentle beyond her years, and her mother and she were very closely bound together in sympathy and love.

"Millie," she would say to her, when in the long winter evenings Phil was away at his drawing class, and mother and daughter sat alone by the fireside, "Millie, I can't understand why I feel so sure that your father will come back to us some day. It seems impossible, I know, but I can't get rid of an inward conviction that he is not dead. Yet perhaps it is only because my hope of seeing him again is so great that it seems as if it must be realised."

But her hope was never realised on earth. Within a year of the wreck of the "Cynthia" smallpox broke out in the village. The dreadful disease spread rapidly, and Mrs. Guntry was one of the first to sicken. An empty cottage on the outskirts of the village had been hastily prepared as a hospital for the sufferers. To this she was taken, and here, in a week or two, she died.

Everybody pitied, and did what they could for the poor children who were now left alone in the world. The vicar wrote to an aunt in London, their mother's sister, who was almost the only relative they had, asking her if she could do anything for the orphans.

In a few days an answer came from Mrs. Hunt. It brought good news for Phil and Millie. She would gladly give her nephew and niece a home, she said, and she would herself come to Chormouth and take them back with her to London.

The children loved their aunt directly they saw her. Her manners were so kind and gentle, and her soft voice and sweet pale face reminded them so much of their dear mother, that their lonely sorrowful hearts were greatly comforted, and they felt at home with her at once. As she bent over Millie on the night of her arrival to give her a last kiss in bed, the child smiled her first smile since that dreadful day when her mother had been carried off to the cottage hospital.

Mrs. Hunt remained a few days at Chormouth, arranging the sale of the furniture in the Guntrys' cottage, and settling a few business affairs on behalf of the children. The money in the Savings Bank had been nearly all spent in defraying the expenses of Mrs. Guntry's illness and funeral: the few pounds that remained, Mrs. Hunt resolved should pay for the children's further education, for she was by no means well off, and it was almost more than she could do to give them a home. Then, when all was finished, she went back to London, accompanied by Phil and Millie.

They were as happy with their aunt Hunt as they would have been anywhere, perhaps, but they had not been long in the house before they understood the cause of their aunt's anxious face, and the weary vigils that she kept at night as she sat listening for her husband's tardy footsteps; for, alas! Richard Hunt had one great failing, that of indulging in habits of intemperance. It was a constant grief to his wife. He was an artisan—a painter—and they might have lived very pleasantly and comfortably had it not been for his unfortunate love of drink.

From the first hour of their meeting Phil and his uncle never got on well together. There was something strangely antagonistic between them. Phil was reserved, cold, almost sullen towards his uncle, who never took the trouble to overcome his nephew's dislike, or interest himself in Phil's pursuits. With Millie it was different; he took a great fancy to her. Perhaps she reminded him of his tiny fair-haired child, whose short life of three years had ended in so sudden and painful a manner.

It happened that "Baby," as they still called her, was left alone in the kitchen, and thinking, poor little one! what a bright pretty plaything the fire would make, she began pulling out the blazing sticks. One of these must have fallen upon her print pinafore, and instantly the child was in flames. Her screams alarmed her mother, who came flying to the spot. Seizing the child, she enveloped her in a thick shawl, and so extinguished the fire, but not before the tender limbs had been most fearfully burned. Three days after that fatal morning, "Baby" died, and so intense had been her agony that the mother at last prayed that death might come to put an end to her darling's sufferings. Poor mother! She felt that to her dying day she could never forgive herself for having left her child alone on the disastrous morning of the accident. No second bairn ever came to take "Baby's" empty place.