Friends I Have Made Part 3

"I darted out to meet him, with feverish haste, caught the letter from him, and saw that it was in the well-known hand. My mother was in the pa.s.sage as I rushed in.

"`From Arthur, mamma, from Arthur!' I panted joyously, and I hurried into the little parlour, kissing the paper with delight, as I told myself that here was balm for my sore aching heart--and then a strange fit of trembling came over me, and I felt cold and as if seized by a chill.

"I did not dare for a time to open my letter, but at last with my eyes dim, and dread feeling of sickness upon me, I made the effort and tore open the envelope. How my thin white fingers trembled as I took out the enclosure! But my strength came back with the effort I made, and I read the few lines it contained in the midst of what seemed to be a deadly calm, wherein feeling and sound were frozen up, and I was as it were alone.

"The words were very few, saying in measured terms that it would be better that the engagement should be at an end, for it had been commenced in error, and could never end in happiness for me. In short, he had during his absence tried his heart and found that he did not love me as it would be his duty, and therefore the present course would be the best for both.

"I remember that I gave a hysterical laugh as I finished the heartless lines, and then I mocked at myself. But that hard feeling pa.s.sed away, and I sank down by the window softened--broken--and as my head went down upon my hand, I asked for help to bear the bitter, bitter blow that had bruised and beaten me to the earth.

"I fell into a dreamy state then, from which I was aroused by my poor mother, who came and knelt beside me. I was quite calm, and placed the letter in her hands with a sad smile, rising when she had read it, and kissing her before sitting down and taking up my work.

"I was not ill, but for the next month seemed dull and stunned, trying to bear all patiently; the greatest pang being when I heard from Julia Denison that the error of Captain Hanleigh had been that he had mistaken me for the heiress, to whom he afterwards proposed, and was indignantly refused."

"That is my story, Mr Grange," I said, rising and standing flushed and trembling before the second suitor of my bitter life. "It was right that you should know; and now, good-bye!"

The strength that had sustained me through my narrative was fleeting fast, and my heart had resumed its painful throbbings, as he stood before me and took my hand.

"I knew that there must have been some terrible grief," he said in a low voice full of emotion; "but, Laura, can you tell me truly, for your own future happiness, and for mine, that this gentle heart can never love again?"

A thousand thoughts flashed through my mind of endless loving-kindness, of gentleness to the suffering, of watchful nights by sick couches, of the many acts of this man for whom the deadliest diseases had no terror even when others fled. I knew him to be the soul of truth and honour, and he, had told me of his love. Could I then say that this heart could never love again, when in spite of sadness, sorrow, and the past, it had leapt to him even as it had leapt once before? I struggled hard asking myself if this was not self-deceit, but there was none, and I knew that if I said no it would be a lie.

He saw it all and knew, for a calm sweet smile of ineffable joy overspread his face, and the next moment I was sobbing gently on his breast.

"My dream of happiness was more than fulfilled, Grace," continued Madame Grainger, "but it was too joyous to last. Two years glided away and then I was alone once more with a future before me that was one weary blank. Ah! Grace, how little the world knows of others' sorrows, and what histories are hidden often behind a smiling face."

CHAPTER THREE.

MY LITTLE HERO.

It was not long after that Madame Grainger gave up business on account of her ill-health, and the kindness she had rendered to me I was able to return, nursing her constantly, till one sad day when I found myself alone--a very dear friend had pa.s.sed away, almost her last coherent words being an a.s.surance that I was beyond want; and so I afterwards found when her solicitors told me that she had left me all of which she died possessed.

It was some time before I could realise the fact that I possessed an independence; and at times I hesitated as to whether I should not refuse to accept what was to me a fortune, but a little consideration showed me how I could be, as it were, the steward of that which I held in trust, and there were plenty of ways in which I might dispense help to those around.

One of my first friends who seemed to ask was little Bill, a boy I used to meet in my visits to the solicitor's in the City. He was a diminutive, sharp-faced boy, carrying a bit of stick covered with india-rubber rings, which, in a shrill, piping voice, he called at a penny a dozen.

I knew Bill, not personally, but well; and for quite two years we had often encountered, and sometimes done a little business together. For Bill had not always sold india-rubber rings, but was engaged in a good many commercial transactions in our big city, while trying very hard to solve that most difficult of problems: Given a mouth: how to fill it.

It was Bill who used to shriek after me, "Box o' lyats," and would not believe that I never smoked and had no use for the cascarilla scented vesuvians. It was Bill who used to make me nervous to see him in front of the Mansion House at three o'clock of an afternoon, paddling barefooted in and out of coach, carriage, cab, and 'bus, like a muddy imp; now under a wheel almost, now amongst the horses' legs, now nearly run over, and taking it as a matter of course; but ever fearless and busy, darting in and out to vend the newspapers beneath his arm.

Up on 'bus steps, beside Hansoms, splashed, earnest, and busy, it was Bill that was eagerly seeking to earn the universal penny--that foundation of fortunes. It was Bill that set up an opposition box, and shrieked, "Clean yer boots, sir. Hey, ear yer are, sir," till the compet.i.tion and ferocity of the brigade proved too much for him. It was Bill who used to run about with three oranges in his hand till they were sold for a penny. In short, it was Bill, who puzzled me to count up the sum of his commercial transactions, or the many phases in which he had presented himself to my notice.

Yes, we were old friends, Bill and I, and to do him justice, I never saw the boy idle. An old-fas.h.i.+oned boy was he--quite a man in his way.

Used to knocking about, and being knocked about in the streets, his experience of London life was something startling. Living so much in the mud and amongst the dregs of our busy city, he always reminded me of an eel, and well he acted up to his part--little, lissome, and quick, he would wind in and out of a crowd, no matter how dense, and somehow or another Bill grew to be one of the "common objects of the sh.o.r.e" of that busy sea of life--London.

A quiet, earnest, pale face, sharp, dark eyes, and an old, careworn look, that seemed to whisper of the pinchings of hunger, while--yes, there certainly was more dirt than looked good for him.

I had dealt with little Bill several times before we became intimate enough for questioning, but at last, after a purchase, I asked him where he lived.

"Down by Brick Lane, mum, and mother does mangling. Three brothers and two sisters, and they're all younger nor me. I'm the only one as goes out to work."

"And what does your father do?" I asked.

"Father, mum? Ah, he's dead, mum. Fell off a scaffle, and they took him to the 'osspital, where mother and me used to go to see him till one day, when I had to take mother back, for she said she was blind, and held her head down and kept her hands over her face till I got her home, when she did nothing but cry for three days. It was then as mother got the mangle, and Tommy and Sam helps turn, only they're such little chaps, and don't do much good. I always turns when I gets home o'

nights, and have had my tea, and that's after I've done selling the papers."

"I've got my living for three years now, and never makes less than sixpence a day, and sometimes I've cleared a s.h.i.+lling; and mother says it's so useful, for the t'others eat so much bread that a quartern loaf's gone directly. But mother says she reckons that what I bring home always pays the rent and keeps me--which helps, you know."

And this was all said with such a quiet ease, free from want or desire to show up the family troubles to a stranger: though being perhaps something more, almost one of a familiar face, Bill did not scruple to talk of the family affairs and his own prospects.

"I'm going to have a barrer some day, when I gets big enough to manage one. That's a fine trade, you know; selling all them beautiful fruits round about the 'Change--waiting and stopping when you gets a chance, for the pleece won't let you stay anywhere. There's Harry Sanders makes ever so much, only he's a big married man, wife and two little 'uns and a dawg. Sometimes it's pineapples his barrer's full off, then it's cherries, or plums, or peaches, or apples, or pears; at early times, strawberries or sparrowgra.s.s, and all done up nicely in baskets or bundles, so as the big City gents will buy them to take home down in the country. But mother says I must wait ever so long yet, 'cos I'm so little for my age."

"Might I come and see you, Bill?" I asked.

"You can c.u.m if you like mum, only our room ain't werry comfortable, and the mangle skreeks so, whilst the two littlest often cries a deal, and makes a noise because Sally don't mind 'em well. How old is she? Oh, Sally's six, only she ain't a useful gal, and always was fond of slipping out and playing in the court with the other gals and boys, as always comes up to play because there's no carts and 'busses coming by.

You'll come some day, then, mum? Don't you go when I ain't at home.

Good-bye, mum. Don't want another indy-rubber ring, do you?"

Another day and I was looking out near the Mansion House for my little hero, when my heart sank at the sight of a gathering crowd, generally a danger signal, in that busy way.

"What's the matter, my man?"

"Matter? Why it's a wonder it don't happen five hundred times a day.

That's what it is--a runnin', an' a dodgin', an' a bobbin' about in amongst the 'osses' feet, and a gettin' runned over, as a matter o'

course, at last."

Yes, at last, as I found on elbowing my way through the gaping crowd, feasting their eyes upon the sight of a little muddied bundle of clothes, above which appeared a little, old-looking, scared, quivering, and pain-wrung countenance, while two muddy hands tightly clutched a dirty parcel of evening papers to his breast.

"He ain't much hurt, bless you," said a policeman. "You're all right, ain't yer, old man? Now then, try and get on yer legs."

The little muddy object stared wildly round at the many faces, and his lips moved, but no sound came; while as the policeman tried to lift him up, a low, sobbing, heart-wrung cry came from the poor child's breast, and drew a compa.s.sionate murmur from the crowd.

"It's them Hansoms, you see," said a man beside me; "they cuts along full roosh; and one of 'em caught the poor little chap, threw him down, and the wheel went right over him."

"Well, where does it hurt, eh?" said the policeman, not unkindly.

The dim eyes were turned up to the speaker; the papers clutched tightly to the muddy breast; the poor child's lip quivered for a moment, and then Nature was kind to the little sufferer, and he fainted.

"Fetch a cab," I said, kneeling down beside the little fellow, and gently touching the leg which showed the mark of the cab wheel.

"Is it broke, mum?" said the policeman.

I nodded; the cab came up; and there, with the little fellow supported between us, the policeman and I were rumbling over the stones, and on our way to Guy's Hospital. But it is no such easy task to make your way amidst the dense throng of vehicles crowding the bridge, and some time elapsed--time enough for the poor boy to revive a bit, and look about him in a confused, half-stunned way, as if not able to realise his position. At last he spoke:

"I hadn't sold 'arf of 'em," he cried, looking at his dirty newspapers, "and no one won't buy 'em, now;" when the mental pain proved harder to bear than the bodily, and the boy began to cry.

"There, don't do that," said the policeman; "that won't do no good. But here we are."

"Does it hurt you much, Bill?" I said gently, and the boy looked wonderingly at me, as if asking how I knew his name.