“I knew you would come. You never miss the day,” she said, both words and tone showing that she had fallen from a much higher position in the social scale.
“It costs me little to visit you once a week, dear Mrs Willis,” I replied, “and it gives me great pleasure; besides, I am bound by the laws of the Society which grants your annuity to call personally and pay it. I only wish it were a larger sum.”
“Large enough; more than I deserve,” said the old woman in a low tone, as she gazed somewhat vacantly at the dead wall opposite, and let her eyes slowly descend the spout.
The view was not calculated to distract or dissipate the mind. The bricks were so much alike that the eye naturally sought and reposed on or followed the salient feature. Having descended the spout as far as the window-sill permitted, the eyes of Mrs Willis slowly reascended as far as possible, and then turned with a meek expression to my face. “More than I deserve,” she repeated, “and almost as much as I require. It is very kind of the Society to give it, and of you to bring it. May God bless you both! Ah, doctor! I’m often puzzled by—eh! What’s that?”
The sudden question, anxiously asked, was accompanied by a feeble attempt to gather her poor garments close round her feet as Dumps sniffed at her skirts and agitated his ridiculous tail.
“It’s only my dog, granny,”—I had of late adopted this term of endearment; “a very quiet well-behaved creature, I assure you, that seems too amiable to bite. Why, he appears to have a tendency to claim acquaintance with everybody. I do believe he knows you!”
“No, no, he doesn’t. Put him out; pray put him out,” said the old woman, in alarm.
Grieved that I had unintentionally roused her fear, I opened the door and called Dumps. My doggie rose, with his three indicators erect and expectant.
“Go out, sir, and lie down!”
The indicators slowly drooped, and Dumps crawled past in abject humility. Shutting the door, I returned.
“I hope you don’t dislike little boys as well as little dogs, granny, because I have brought one to wait for me here. You won’t mind his sitting at the door until I go?”
“No, no!” said Mrs Willis quickly; “I like little boys—when—when they’re good,” she added, after a pause.
“Say I’m one o’ the good sort, sir,” suggested Slidder, in a hoarse whisper. “Of course, it ain’t true, but wot o’ that, if it relieves her mind?”
Taking no notice of this remark, I again sat down beside my old woman.
“What were you going to say about being puzzled, granny?”
“Puzzled, doctor! did I say I was puzzled?”
“Yes, but pray don’t call me doctor. I’m not quite fledged yet, you know. Call me Mellon, or John. Well, you were saying—”
“Oh, I remember. I was only going to say that I’ve been puzzled a good deal of late by that text in which David says, ‘I have never seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.’ Now, my father and mother were both good Christians, and, although I cannot claim to be a good one myself, I do claim to be a poor follower of Jesus. Yet here am I—”
She paused.
“Well, granny,” said I, “are you forsaken?”
“Nay, John, God forbid that I should say so; but am I not a beggar? Ah pride, pride, you are hard to kill!”
“Are you a beggar?” I asked in a tone of surprise. “When did you beg last, granny?”
“Is not a recipient of charity a beggar?”
“No,” I replied stoutly, “he is not. A solicitor of charity is a beggar, but a recipient thereof is not. In your case it was I who was the beggar. Do you not remember when I found you first, without a crust in the house, how I had to beg and entreat you to allow me to put your name on this charity, and how you persistently refused, until at last I did it without your consent; and how, eventually, you gave in only when I charged you with pride? You are not forsaken, granny, and you are not a beggar.”
“Brayvo, doctor! you have ’er there!” came in a soft whisper from the door.
For a moment I felt tempted to turn the boy out, as I had turned out the dog; but, seeing that my old woman had not overheard the remark, I took no notice of it.
“You have put the matter in a new light John,” said Mrs Willis slowly, as her eyes once more sought the spout. “You often put things in new lights, and there does seem some truth in what you say. It did hurt my pride at first, but I’m gettin’ used to it now. Besides,” continued the old lady, with a deep sigh, “that trouble and everything else is swallowed up in the great sorrow of my life.”
“Ah! you refer to your granddaughter, I suppose,” said I in a tone of profound sympathy. “You have never told me about her, dear granny. If it is not too painful a subject to speak of, I should like to hear about her. When did she die?”
“Die!” exclaimed Mrs Willis with a burst of energy that surprised me—“she did not die! She left me many, many months ago, it seems like years now. My Edie went out one afternoon to walk, like a beautiful sunbeam as she always was, and—and—she never came back!”
“Never came back!” I echoed, in surprise.
“No—never. I was not able to walk then, any more than now, else I would have ranged London all round, day and night, for my darling. As it was, a kind city missionary made inquiries at all the police-offices, and everywhere else he could think of, but no clew could be gained as to what had become of her. At last he got wearied out and gave it up. No wonder; he had never seen Edie, and could not love her as I did. Once he thought he had discovered her. The body of a poor girl had been found in the river, which he thought answered to her description. I thought so too when he told me what she was like, and at once concluded she had tumbled in by accident and been drowned—for, you see, my Edie was good and pure and true. She could not have committed suicide unless her mind had become deranged, and there was nothing that I knew of to bring about that. They got me with much trouble into a cab, and drove me to the place. Ah! the poor thing—she was fair and sweet to look upon, with her curling brown hair and a smile still on the parted lips, as if she had welcomed Death; but she was not my Edie. For months and months after that I waited and waited, feeling sure that she would come. Then I was forced to leave my lodging. The landlord wanted it himself. I begged that he would let me remain, but he would not. He was a hard-hearted, dissipated man. I took another lodging, but it was a long way off, and left my name and new address at the old one. My heart sank after that, and—and I’ve no hope now—no hope. My darling must have met with an accident in this terrible city. She must have been killed, and will never come back to me.”
The poor creature uttered a low wail, and put a handkerchief to her old eyes.
“But, bless the Lord!” she added in a more cheerful tone, “I will go to her—soon.”
For some minutes I knew not what to say in reply, by way of comforting my poor old friend. The case seemed indeed so hopeless. I could only press her hand. But my nature is naturally buoyant, and ready to hope against hope, even when distress assails myself.
“Do not say there is no hope, granny,” said I at last, making an effort to be cheerful. “You know that with God all things are possible. It may be that this missionary did not go the right way to work in his search, however good his intentions might have been. I confess I cannot imagine how it is possible that any girl should disappear in this way, unless she had deliberately gone off with some one.”
“No, John, my Edie would not have left me thus of her own free will,” said the old woman, with a look of assurance which showed that her mind was immovably fixed as to that point.
“Well, then,” I continued, “loving you as you say she did, and being incapable of leaving you deliberately