by Sophie May
CHAPTER XIX
THE BENT-SHOULDERED OLD GENTLEMAN
"Let's go somewhere and count my money," said Betty, when she hadwatched the last pupil of Westmead House disappear down the long avenue."You see I _easily_ make a shilling an hour, don't I?"
John admitted she had chosen a good paying profession; and that if"things" didn't improve with him very soon he should try singing in thefrequent spare moments of his errands running.
The day wore on, and although it must be recorded that Betty did notalways make a shilling an hour, her "takings" were very fair,considering many things, notably her lack of voice and great shyness sosoon as anything approaching an audience gathered around her.
"Only a little barefooted girl asleep--fast asleep uponhis lounge."]
By six o'clock a great weariness had crept over her. Unused to citypavements, her limbs ached wofully, her feet were blistered and swollen,her head ached from the noises of the busy city, and her heart ached forher little white bed at home. For the day was growing old and it wasalmost bed-time.
Presently the stars stole out and began to play at hide and seek, andBetty who had finished counting her money again, was still standingtiredly on one foot at the corner of Market and George Streets, waitingfor John--John who had promised to be with her at six; and now it wasafter seven and he had not come.
The tears were too near for her to attempt to wile away the minutes withanother song--tears of weariness and disappointment. The disappointmentwas caused by the non-arrival of the keen-eyed, bent-shouldered oldgentleman who was to raise her eventually to the pinnacle of fame--andby John's absence.
It was just as this great matter was straining her heart almost tobreaking point that a heavy hand fell upon her shoulders, and she lookedup into the face of a roughly clad, ill-kempt looking man--a face thatin some way seemed familiar to her.
"I b'lieve you're the very little girl as I've been on the look-out forall day," he said. "Le's look at you! Yes, s'elp my Jimmy Johnson, youare! If you'll just come along with me, we'll talk about your name an' afew other things."
He held out his hand and took hers.
"Your name," he said, "as it ain't John Brown, may be Elizabeth Bruce.Ain't I right now?"
Betty tremblingly admitted that he was, and listened as she walked thelength of a street by his side to his jocularly spoken lecture and toall the dire happenings--gaols, reformatories, ships, etc.--that befellshe or he who left the home nest before such glorious time as they weretwenty-one.
Finally Betty and her earnings were placed in a cab, and the man,holding her arm firmly, stepped in after her. He seemed to be afraid,all the time, that if he moved his hand from her she would be off andaway. They rattled down the Sydney streets in the lamplight, whichBetty had never seen before this night, to the harbour waters and acrossthem in a punt, and the little girl thought tiredly of her journey inthe greengrocer's cart not so very many hours ago.
The remembrance brought with it a flash of light. This man by her sidewas the greengrocer!--their morning friend. She decided that she wouldsoon ask him about John, ask him whether he had found John also.
But before she could satisfactorily arrange her question a greatheaviness settled down upon her, and her head nodded and her eyesblinked and blinked and fell too. And all thought of money-making andstreet-singing, and John Brown slipped away and left her in a merry landof dreams playing with Cyril and Nancy in the old home garden.
"Poor little mite," said the man, and he slipped his roughly clad armaround her and drew her towards him so that her head might rest on hiscoat. "Poor little mite! She'd find the world but a rough place, I'mthinking!"
And they sped onwards into the hill country where Betty's home was, andJohn's, and the little school-house and the white church and thewonderful corner shop. Only they stopped before they came to Betty'shome, stopped at the great iron gates of her grandfather's dwelling,drove through them and up the dark gum tree shaded path.
The man, carrying the sleeping child in his arms, walked straight intothe hall, to the huge astonishment of the sober man-servant who hadopened the door.
"I'll wait here for yer master," he said.
The hall was wide and square, and contained besides three deck-chairs, acane lounge covered with cushions.
Perhaps the man had some eye for dramatic effect, perhaps it was onlyaccident, but he placed Betty carefully upon the cushions, and put acrimson-covered one under her dark curly head. Then he withdrew to thedoor.
It was not likely that, having worked hard for his reward, he was aboutto forego it. But he told himself that "his room would be better thanhis company" while the rejoicings over her recovery were going on.
The captain came through the door slowly. One hour ago a policeman hadarrived in a cab with John--and had departed with a substantial rewardin his pocket. During the last hour the captain had heard John'sstory--thrashed him with his own hands, and sent him to bed.
Now he was "wanted in the hall by a man with a little girl."
But there was no man visible in the hall, only a little barefooted girlasleep--fast asleep upon his lounge. He could hear her breathing, seeher face, and he knew in a moment who she was.
He looked sharply at her, back to the door which was closed, forward tothe front door which was drawn to, and around the empty hall.
Then slowly and as if fearful of being caught he went nearer to thesofa, and looked down at this little creature--blood of his blood--whohad appeared before him again. Her lashes lay still on her rosysun-tanned cheeks, her curly hair was in confusion upon the red cushion,her bare feet were upon another. Such a pretty tired child she lookedalthough she was but a tattered and soiled representative of the smallpink-bonneted maiden he had seen only the other day.
He knew the story of her "career" now, and of her desire to be aself-made woman. John had told him about her in speaking of his ownambition. The captain's slow mind went back to the time when his own"career" had been forced upon him, when he had only too often "sleptout." And as remembrance after remembrance awoke, his heart warmedstrangely to this brown-haired girl who seemed to be always stumblinginto his pathway.
Dirty, ragged imp as she was, that strange inexplicable sense of kinshipstirred within him. Stirred as it had never stirred towards alien John,who was after all only the son of his first love's son, with no blood ofhis at all in him; stirred as it had stirred towards no one living sincehis daughter had left him more than seventeen years ago.
He put out one hand and touched her hair (she could not know, no onecould know, of course)--his only daughter's little child!
And Betty slept on. Had she but known it, a bent-shouldered oldgentleman, who might have exerted a wonderful influence over her wholelife, was at that moment looking at her with softened eyes. But greatpossibilities are frequently blighted by small importunities.
The greengrocer chose this moment to open the front door and look intothe hall, and the captain saw him, started, and lost his feeling ofkinship for the sleeper.
"Good evenin'," said the greengrocer blandly, "I found her about an hourago, an' came straight 'ome with her."
Captain Carew explained briefly that his boy had been returned to himabout an hour ago, and that the promised reward had been given on hisbehalf to the policeman.
The man looked crestfallen.
"My wife told me," he said, "when I come back from the markets. She saidsomebody had lost a boy, and you had lost a girl. And your reward wasthe biggest, so I went for the girl."
Captain Carew put his hand in his pocket, and shook his head. To payfor Betty seemed to him to be publicly claiming her. Yet he could nothelp being glad that she was found.
"And she ain't nothin' to you?" said the man, most evidentlydisappointed.
"Nothing!" said Captain Carew firmly; "but I hear that she ran away withmy boy--to make her fortune. She lives, I believe, in a smallweather-board cottage a few yards further on."
He felt much stronger after he had spoken that
sentence. Of course shewas nothing to him. He walked to his library, and then looked over hisshoulder, and saw the man just stooping over the little girl again. Andthen, for no reason at all, of course, he put his hand into his pocketagain, drew out a sovereign and gave it to the man.
"To make up for your mistake," he said.
Then he went away and shut the library door, while the two went away.
"Little baggage!" he said, "she's nothing to me. John's the onlygrandchild I ever want."
But he had an uncomfortable feeling that he had owned her.
An hour later, on his way through the hall to his bedroom; he found asoiled crumpled piece of paper on the cane lounge, and opening it,read--"Please give me a penny, sir!"
"The little vagabond!" he muttered. But he put the paper into hispocket.