a queer critter, that I called him Punch, an’ became a father to ’im. I got him bones an’ other bits o’ grub, an’ kep’ ’im in the water-butt for three veeks. Then he began to make a noise v’en I left him; so, bein’ sure the bobbies would rout ’im out at last, I took ’im an’ sold ’im to the first pleasant lady that seemed to fancy ’im.”
“Well, Slidder,” said I, as we turned down into the mean-looking alley where Mrs Willis, my little old woman, dwelt, “I am greatly interested in what you have told me about my little dog, and I am interested still more in what you have told me about yourself. Now, I want you to do me a favour. I wish you to go with me to visit an old woman, and, after that, to walk home with me—part of the way, at least.”
The boy, whose pinched, hunger-smitten face had an expression of almost supernatural intelligence on it, bestowed on me a quick, earnest glance.
“No dodges? Honour bright? You ain’t a school-board buffer?” he asked.
“No dodges. Honour bright,” I replied, with a smile.
“Vell, then, heave ahead, an’ I’ll foller.”
We passed quickly down to the lower end of the alley, which seemed to lose itself in a wretched court that appeared as if it intended to slip into the river—an intention which, if carried out, would have vastly improved its sanitary condition. Here, in a somewhat dark corner of the court, I entered an open door, ascended a flight of stairs, and gained a second landing. At the farthest extremity of the passage I stopped at a door and knocked. Several of the other doors of the passage opened, and various heads were thrust out, while inquisitive eyes surveyed me and my companion. A short survey seemed to suffice, for the doors were soon shut, one after another, with a bang, but the door at which I knocked did not open.
Lifting the latch, I entered, and observed that Mrs Willis was seated by the window, looking wistfully out. Being rather deaf, she had not heard my knock.
“Come in,” I whispered to little Slidder, “sit down on this stool near the door, and keep quiet until I speak to you.”
So saying, I advanced to the window. The view was not interesting. It consisted of the side of a house; about three feet distant, down which ran a water-spout, or drain-pipe, which slightly relieved the dead look of the bricks. From one pane of the window it was possible, by squeezing your cheek against it, to obtain a perspective view of chimney-pots. By a stretch of the neck upwards you could see more chimney pots. By a stretch of imagination you could see cats quarrelling around them,—or anything else you pleased!
Sitting down on a rickety chair beside the little old woman, I touched her gently on the shoulder. She had come to know my touch by that time, I think, for she looked round with a bright little smile.
Chapter Three
Treats of an Old Heroine
It was pleasant yet sad to observe the smile with which old Mrs Willis greeted me—pleasant, because it proved that she was rejoiced to see me; sad, because it was not quite in keeping with the careworn old face whose set wrinkles it deranged.
“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
