[Anyhow Home] [Last Touches Story Index]

 

 

 

THOMAS

 

(TOLD BY MAY’S MOTHER.)

 

I.

 

 

            THE most remarkable thing about this little history is that it is quite true. If I knew how, I would make it into a real story going on from month to month in a magazine. But I could never invent the love-making, and without love a story is nothing. I should never know, for instance, what to make May and the Doctor say to each other. So I had better put down Thomas’s story just as it all happened, and leave fiction to cleverer folk.

            Some years ago, five-and-twenty and more, after my husband died, I lived in what was then a new street near Sloane Terrace. It consisted of two rows of houses—very ugly houses outside, though inside they were comfortable enough. I had three little girls; the eldest, May, was just five, a pretty little thing with golden hair and blue eyes. I often wish I had her portrait painted. The others were quite tiny—four, and two and a half. The last was born a week before the news came from India that her father had died of sunstroke.

            Opposite to us there was a house to be let. For a long time it was quite empty, bill in the window, dirt on the windows, dust on the steps, dreary and deserted. Suddenly one morning, though the bill was not taken down, the windows were cleaned, the steps swept, and a small cart-load of shabby furniture carried in. Evidently a care-taker had been put in charge, and I was glad of it, for it is never very safe to leave a house absolutely empty.

            I used to sit by the window a good deal and knit. I had so much to think about that I could not settle to anything else. Books were never much in my way, and as for going out I never cared for it much even as a girl. Sometimes I saw the care-taker opposite going in and out, he and his wife and their two children. He looked very respectable, but broken down and terribly thin; he was evidently far gone in consumption. The woman seemed worried and anxious, as well she might, poor soul; and in her arms there was always a skinny little baby, her third child. They were of the artisan class, and very poor, of course, or they would not have been taking care of an empty house. I used to wonder if they had enough to eat, for they all looked white and thin and half-starved.

            The next time I went to the landlord’s office. I asked about them, and was told that they were respectable Cornish people, but Cornwall was starvation now, and there was nothing for anyone to do. They had come to London a few years before, and the man, who was a mechanic, had kept his family well till he broke down in health. He could do nothing now, was an outdoor patient at Brompton Hospital, and had only the allowance for his club, and the few shillings his wife sometimes earned by going out to work.

            There was a large leg of mutton for the children’s dinner the next day. I cut off half-a-dozen good slices, put them between two hot dishes with some vegetable, and sent them to the Cornish folk. They turned, and the dishes were brought back by the little boy, with “Father’s much obliged, and it did him a world of good.” One day a box of flowers came from the country, so I made up a nosegay and sent it across to the poor wasted-looking care-taker. This brought the woman, with tears in her eyes, to thank me.

            “My husband he do like to smell a flower, ma’am,” she said. “It’s many a day now since he has seen them growing in the ground.” Then I asked her if I might go and see him sometimes, or perhaps he would like a paper and some books now and then? The woman’s face brightened. “He would be pleased, ma’am, indeed,” she said. “It’s long since anyone went to talk to him, and I often think it’s dull for him. I doubt if I have him much longer,” she added, simply; “and it’s likely you can feel for me, ma’am.”

            So I went over to see Mr. Lobb. He was sitting by the fire, warming his long thin hands.

            “I am glad to see you, ma’am,” he said, with the almost perfect manner one sometimes finds among working people who have not lived much in towns. “I would have come over to thank you for your kindness, but feared you might think it a liberty. I spend most of my time trying to keep warm by a bit of fire.”

            He was very simple and kindly. He knew that he was going to die, and faced it like a man. He spoke of it without fear or affection. “It worries me to think of the wife and children,” he said. “A man should not marry as I did, with nothing put by. I subscribed to a club, of course, and it’s kept us from starving, and it’ll buy me, but that’s all. I ought to have saved before I married, and so ought every man. One is always so sure one is going to live when one feels strong. Well, God is good, and He’ll take care of them,” he added with a sigh, and a month later in that simple faith he died.

            Then it became a question of what was to be done with the widow and children. The woman was delicate; there was the skinny baby, a little girl of six called Gracie, and Thomas,—they always called him by his full old-fashion name,—who was ten, or barely ten.

            “I would like to stay in London; there’s more going on, and I’d be more likely to get something,” the poor woman said, when a proposal was made to send her back to her native place. “They be very poor in Cornwall where I come from; it would be no good going back; father and mother are dead, and there was only one other of us, my brother Joe, and he went off to Melbourne long ago.”

            “Couldn’t you send to him?” I asked; “he might do something for you.”

            “I have sent, ma’am,” she answered; “but I don’t know if he’s got the letter. We never kept much count of his address, for he never had the same one long together. I don’t expect he’d be able to do much; he was never much of a hand at helping himself, let alone others.”

            So we got together a little money and bought her a mangle. She went to live in two rooms close by, and just kept soul and body together for herself and children by mangling and occasionally going out to work.

            Suddenly one day my housemaid went off without a moment’s notice to her mother who was ill, and poor Mrs. Lobb was unable to come and help us on account of her baby. “I can’t bear to refuse,” the poor thing said, “but the little baby is that bad with bronchitus, I doubt if I keep it through the winter.”

            Then it was that Thomas first came into our lives. I hardly noticed him before, except as a little dark-haired boy too small for his age. the morning after Jane went I was told he wanted to see me. I remember the interview as well as if it were yesterday. I was in the dining-room when he knocked. “Come in,” I said, and in came Thomas. He stepped just inside and pulled his front hair. Evidently he had been instructed that that was the correct way of making a bow.

            “Please, mum,” he said shyly, “mother says as how you have no housemaid, so I came to ask if you would like me to help a bit.”

            “You, Thomas!”

            “Please, mum, I does for mother, sweeps and scrubs and dusts and washes up the things. Mother said I was to tell you I could clean knives and boots beautiful.” He looked down as he said the last words, as though he felt ashamed at praising himself, and nothing but necessity would have driven him to do it.

            “Why, you have quite a list of accomplishments, Thomas,” I answered, and laughed, but he was evidently very anxious.

            “Or I could take care of the children—the young ladies, I mean”—he said, correcting himself; “then perhaps nurse could help.” He was quite a manager, and had evidently thought out the best of things. “I am used to children. I have always taken care of ours,” he added gravely, and the “ours” showed that he did not put himself on a level with his sister; “and I have pushed a perambulator often for Mrs. Hicks, the grocer’s wife, since her husband has been laid up, and her in the shop.” I thought how funny he would look pushing my two babies along with one hand, and with the other holding little May, as she toddled beside him, and wondered what my most kind by proper mother-in-law would say if she met them. My mother-in-law always kept me well in hand, and does still, though I am getting to be an old woman. There is one thing I simply dread her finding out,—but that will appear by-and-by.”

            “Well, no, Thomas, I don’t think we can make you head-nurse,” I said. “But you can come in the morning and clean the knives and boots. You are quite sure ‘you can do them beautiful?’”

            “Yes, quite sure, mum,” he answered, looking up with his great dark eyes.

            So Thomas came every day, and was the comfort of my life. He was very quiet and attentive. When he carried the coals he always looked round to see if there were letters to post or anything he could do; he always saw when my plants wanted watering or the leaves wanted washing. Even cook, who was difficult to please, said he “was a downright blessing.” The only vexing thing was that whenever he had a chance he would creep up to the nursery and play with the children. He adored May,  and used to carry her up-stairs when she came in from her walk. She was delighted to let him do it, putting her arms round his neck, and looking up at him with her clear blue eyes. He was so careful with the children that in the afternoon nurse sometimes left him on guard while she was down-stairs.

            “Thomas,” I said one day, “what is that sticking out of your pocket?” He turned very red and pulled his hair.

            “Please, mum, it’s a pipe.”

            “A pipe! Where did you get it?”

            “Bought it, mum.”

            “But you are not going to smoke, I hope?” He tried hard not to laugh, but the idea of smoking was too much for him.

            “Please, mum, I bought it to teach Miss May how to blow bubbles,” he said, with as grand an air as if he had bought it to teach her Arabic.

            Another week, and Jane returned. Thomas got a place at a paper-shop, and carried out papers every morning; but on Saturday afternoons he generally paid cook a visit, and went up to see the children. One day I discovered that he had a voice. Going past the nursery door, I heard May say—

            “Yes, do sing it again please, Thomas,” and then a weak little voice began—

 

            “A little seed is in the ground,

                A little tiny seed;

                 When it grows up what will it be,

                A flower or a weed?”

 

            I opened the door. “Why, Thomas,” I said, “I didn’t know you could sing.”

            “Please, mum, mother taught me,” he said; “she sings beautiful, and so do little Gracie.”

            Then that time came in which May fell ill. There was hardly a hope of her recovery. And through all those sad days none grieved more than Thomas. Every morning, as soon as cook came down, she heard a tap at the kitchen window, and there stood Thomas at the bottom of the area steps, pale and anxious. She used to open the windows, and before she could speak the eager voice would

say—

            “How is Miss May?—is she any worse?—has she slept?” And one terrible night when we thought she was dying, Thomas sat at the end of the kitchen by the side-table white and silent, waiting with burning eyes and a breathless misery that almost seemed to suffocate him. Late that night Jane went down and reported, “The doctor says she is a little better.” Thomas sprang to his feet for a moment, then sat down again, and resting his face on his arm on the table sobbed thankfully.

            When May was better, Thomas was taken up to see her. He stopped for a moment outside her door as if to gather strength, and felt his side-pocket anxiously: there was something there that bulged, but I pretended not to see it. he drew a long breath as he entered her room.

            “Are you better, Miss May?” he asked.

            “Yes, thank you, Thomas, dear,” she said.

            “You’ve been very bad,” and he shook his head mournfully.

            “Poor Thomas!” she sighed, just as if she knew all that he had suffered.

            “I don’t know what we should have done if you hadn’t got better, Miss May.”

            “Do you know any more songs?” she asked. He shook his head: he had had no heart for songs.

            “I kept your garden in order,” he said; “the primroses are coming up, and there’s three snow-drops out.”

            “I am so glad. What’s that in your pocket, sticking out?”

            “It’s the mice,” he answered, smiling for the first time. “I’ve had ’em this fortnight ready against you was better, Miss May,” and then with a sigh of satisfaction he brought them out.

            A little later in the spring brought us the last of Thomas. May was well. The gardener had just been to see about doing up the garden. I was sitting int he dining-room making up my books with the weekly expenses, wondering how it was that something extra always swelled them. There was a knock at the door.

            “Come in,” I said in came Thomas of course.

            “Please, mum, I’m come to say good-bye,” he said, pulling his front hair as usual.

            “Good-bye! why, where are you going?”

            “Going to Australia, mum.”

            I was quite astonished.

            “Has your uncle sent for you?”

            “No, mum; but there’s a gentleman who’s been coming on and off to our shop a good deal, and he’s captain of a ship. I always wanted to go about a bit, and  he’s offered to take me free for my work, and bring me back or drop me in Melbourne, which I like. I think it’s a good thing, mum,” he added, in his old-fashioned way. “I don’t see that I can come to much good at a paper-shop.”

            “No, Thomas, perhaps not.”

            “And I wants to get on and help mother,” he said, lifting his face and looking at me proudly. “Perhaps I might come across uncle out at Melbourne; and anyhow I’ll know more, and have seen more, when I have been there and back, than I do now. The gentleman that’s taking me, too, says the sea will make me strong and set me off growing. I shan’t be any good if I’m not strong.”

            “Perhaps you are right.”

            “It’s hard work leaving mother,” he said with a little gasp. “But she’s keen on my going, because she thinks I might meet uncle, but I don’t like leaving of her, and I don’t like leaving the two little ’uns.” The tears came into his eyes, but he struggled manfully to keep them back; and then he added, “And I don’t  like leaving Miss May. I couldn’t ha’ gone if she hadn’t been better.”

            “And when do you start?”

            “To-morrow, mum; it’s very sudden-like, but they say chances always is. I came to say good-bye. May I go up to the young ladies?” I took him up to the nursery myself. He looked at the children with the face of one who had suddenly grown older and knew much, and was going to know more. He explained all about his journey to them, and why he was going, just as if they had been old enough to understand, and then he gravely and sorrowfully shook hands with them all three and with nurse.

            “I don’t  want you to go,” May said. “I want you to stay here. When will you come back?”

            “ I don’t  know when, but I’ll come back. Your garden is all in order,” he added. “Maybe the gardener will look after it a bit now.” They followed him, the three children and nurse, to the head of the stairs, and stood looking through and over the banisters.

            “Good-bye, good-bye,” called May and the others, watching him descend.

            “Good-bye,” he said. Suddenly May’s little shoe, which was unbuttoned, fell through the railing on to the stairs beneath, touching him as it fell.

            “It’s good luck,” nurse called out. “ It’s real good luck, Thomas; she’s dropped her shoe after you.” He picked it up and looked at it, a little old shoe, with a hole nearly through at the toe.

            “Please, mum, may I keep it?” he asked, with a smile, and when I nodded, he looked up at her with a satisfied face. “I’ll take it. Miss May, I’ll take it. Miss May, I’m going to keep it. It’ll go all the way with me in the ship.” He stopped in the hall, and turned round. “Please, mum,” he said, and pulled his hair once more, “I want to say thank you for all your kindness to us. You’s allays been a good friend to us,” he added approvingly.

            “And you have been a good boy, Thomas,” I answered gratefully, “and I know that you’ll be one still.”

            “I’ll  try, for mother’s sake, and yours, and Miss May’s,” he said, and strode sturdily towards the street door.

            “You must shake hands with me too, Thomas,” I said, and gave him a sovereign. He took the gold in silence, turning it over in surprise, as if to be sure that it was real. He looked such a baby while he did so that I wondered if the captain of the ship had taken a fancy to his pale face and sad eyes, or what hard work he thought those small hands could do. Poor little Thomas, going alone to the other side of the world, leaving all he cared for here; my heart went out to him. Did not his mother bear him with the same pains that I had borne my children? Had she not once looked at him with the strange wonder that I had looked at my first little one. And now her heart would ache whenever a wind swept by, and she thought of the little lad at sea, trying to get strong in order to take care of her by-and-by. I thought of how he had sat and sobbed the night he heard that May was better, of how I had seen his father lying dead with the surprised smile on his face, as though he had seen the heavenly city—what would he say now, I wondered, if he could see his little son starting alone out in the world?

            “Good-bye, dear little lad,” I said. “May you grow strong, and be a brave and good man,” and I stooped and kissed him Thomas said not a word; but I knew that he was crying, as he strode towards the door.

 

            Mrs. Lobb got on pretty well after her boy went. But sorrow overtook her again: the poor skinny little baby died. Life could never have been a joy to it. Surely it was a blessing in disguise when death took it?

 

 

 

II.

 

            EIGHTEEN years had gone by. The Lobbs had passed altogether out of my life. Thomas had never come back. I heard that he had found his uncle in Melbourne, and had gone with him to Graham’s Town, in South Africa. From there the uncle had sent for Mrs. Lobb and Gracie, and that was the last I knew of them, or ever expected to know.

            I had given up the house in which we had lived so long in England, and settled at Lutry, near Lausanne, where living and education were cheaper than in England. There the years slipped away peacefully enough till the three girls were grown-up—till May was a woman of three-and-twenty. She was a pretty girl, just as she had been a pretty child, and at three-and-twenty looked eighteen,—tall slim girl, with golden hair and blue eyes, and a merry happy laugh it did one good to hear. I used to wonder sometimes if she would ever marry. But we did not  know a soul in Lutry, and indeed, from a marrying point of view, there was not a soul to know. We were going back to England, now that even Nina, the youngest girl, was grown up, to settle down in a pretty house at Hampstead. There I thought the girls would see a little more of the world, and their lives would shape themselves into the course they were meant to run.

            Then my sister Elizabeth, who is unmarried, and alone and delicate, went to winter at Rome, and invited May to go with her. I could not refuse to let her go; but we felt parting, for we had never been separated. Still it could not be helped. So May went off with her aunt, who came all the way to Lutry to fetch her, and I with two other girls returned to England.

            We had plenty to do at Hampstead, getting the house in order and settling down; and we spent a happy winter, even though May was not with us. We used to delight in her letters from Rome, and long for the spring that would see her with us.

            My sister was an excellent correspondent, and she used to write to me every week, telling us of all their gaieties and of the admiration May won—even of all her little flirtations. I think Elizabeth was proud of her. Gradually into both their letters there crept frequent mention of a young English doctor, of whom they appeared to see a great deal. He was handsome, and very popular. He had been to tea, he had seen them home from a party, he had got up a picnic, and so on. At last I began, mother-like, to wonder if he was falling in love with May or she with him, to feel anxious as to what sort of man he was, and whether he was capable of playing fast and loose, with my child’s innocent heart that had never known a lover.

            As time went on. May’s letters contained more and more about him. “Dr. Millet asked so much about you, dear mother. I told him everything I could about you. He said he felt as if her loved you.” Dr. Millet says he shall be in England soon; but we hope he won’t go before we do,—we should miss him so.” And at last, in Elizabeth’s letters, there was something definite. “I am certain Dr. Millet is in love with May, and I am almost certain the dear child has lost her heart to him. It makes me very anxious, you not being here. At the same time, I don’t know why things should not be allowed to take their natural course, for he is very charming, and is getting an excellent practice round him.” So I waited anxiously, feeling that there was nothing to be done but to wait. The next letter worried me a little. “His manner is very distant,” Elizabeth said. “In spite of his evident liking for her, he seems to be trying to hold off. Sometimes I can’t make him out. Perhaps he does not want to marry, or thinks he had no chance.” And after that came a climax,—I think it was in the very next letter. “Dr. Millet has put some one in charge of his practice and has gone away. He did not come to see us before he went, and he made no mention of going last time he was here. I do not know where he has gone, nor how long he will be away. Our dear May tries to look as if she did not care; but I fear she is secretly grieving.”

            The letter fell from my hands. It worried me terribly. To think of May loving a man who had perhaps deserted her,—it was not to be borne. I knew what a sorrow of that sort does to a young life—the desolation, nay, perhaps the lifelong misery, it brings. And yet, if the man was a scoundrel, I could not believe that so pure a thing as May’s love could cling to him.

            The next morning brought a letter from May herself that showed only too plainly how things were. “Aunt Elizabeth is very, very kind to me,” she said. “I would not leave her for the world; but I am so tired of Rome and all the people in it. I want to see you again, dear mother. I don’t think I am very well, and I am not happy, darling. I long to go to you and to feel your dear arms round me again.”

            Alice and Nina were out. I was alone with that poor little letter, feeling all the pain that had suddenly come into my child’s life—it needed no words to tell me. I sat stupefied, trying to decide what it would be best to do. Elizabeth was too delicate to come back to England before the March winds were over. Perhaps I could take one of the other girls to her and bring May back. I felt as if she wanted her mother’s heart to comfort her and give her strength.

            I got up and put a log on the fire, for we had not yet reconciled ourselves to the English fashion of burning coal, then walked about the room, looking vacantly at the polished floor and all the pretty new things about the room. It was a lovely morning: the sun was shining down on the trim lawn and neat garden, the snowdrops were coming up in the corner-bed. I thought of May, and of how pretty she would look in the summer-time pottering about among the flowers, if she were only bright and well. She had so often longed for an English garden. Then looking down the road, I noticed a tall man a long way off. He was coming towards the house. As he came nearer I could see he looked like a gentleman. He was tall and dark; he appeared to about thirty years old, perhaps younger, and handsome. He stopped before the gate and for a moment hesitated; then he opened it and entered. I watched him coming along the gravel walk by the lawn; I saw him disappear under the porch, and heard the bell ring. In some odd way he seemed  to be familiar to me. The servant entered with a card. Before I took it, I knew perfectly that it was Dr. Millet’s, and that a crisis was at hand,—that in an hour’s time May’s future would be no mystery. The next moment he entered. I could not remember where I had seen him before, but he was not strange to me. He had a good face, clever and thoughtful; he looked liked a simple-hearted honest face, too, as if he had suffered much, or understood suffering.

            “Mrs. Standing?” and he came forward with a curiously eager smile, as if in some way he knew me.

            “Yes,” I answered, looking at him again. Even his voice was half familiar, yet I could not remember where I had heard it before.

            “You do not know me,” he went on. “I have just arrived from Rome. I know your daughter and sister there, and I thought you would forgive me for coming—I could not help it.” The last words were said to himself, and seemed to have escaped him.

            “I have heard of you,” I said. “Won’t you sit down? I am glad to see you.” For he stood looking at me in an eager way, which I accounted for easily, but still embarrassed me. “Did they ask you, or was it your own kindness that prompted you to come and tell me about them?” I asked, trying to put him at ease, for now that I had seen him I was satisfied. Something in the tone of his voice, in the expression of his face, told me that he was not the man to win a girl’s heart and throw it away; and there was about him that which made me feel that the woman he loved would have little cause to fear anything that was in him. A great deal to find out perhaps all in a few moments, and from looking at a man’s face; but there are some people whom just to see is enough, and about whom our instincts are unfailing.

            “They did not ask me to come,” he answered, in a low voice. “They did not even know that I was coming, though it was for this interview that I left Rome and hurried to England. I came trusting to your kindness to make my visit less difficult that it might be.” He seemed overtaken by a great awkwardness, but I did not know what to say, and was silent. He went on suddenly, as if with a gasp, “I wanted to see you very much, I have so much to say, though I am a stranger, or you think me one; and—and I am afraid to begin. Your answer means so much to me.” Then he loved the child!  But there was something behind his words—some obstacle, I was certain of that—some past to confess, something that made him doubtful of the future.

            “Why are you afraid?” I asked; but  for a moment or two he made no answer. I waited, looking at him, wondering again where before I had looked into those grave, almost sad eyes.

            “Do you remember Thomas?” he asked abruptly—“Thomas Lobb?”

            I nearly jumped off my chair. But no, it could not be!

            “Yes—but—”

            “I am Thomas,” he said, simply. “I used to clean you knives and boots, and you bought my mother a mangle. I never forgot your kindness. I have often longed to see you and thank you.”

            “But where have you been all these years?” I asked, still gasping with astonishment.

            “To many places. I was in England for a long time, at an hospital; but you were abroad, and though I tried I could not find your address. Besides I was afraid. I had better say it at once,” he went on desperately; “but I did not want to see your daughter again. I have been in love with her all my life. She was a goddess to me,—a queen. I never even dreamed of hoping. I met her again all in a moment one night at Rome. I was thinking of her and looked up, and she was there. She did not know me, she does not now; but I knew her—I did directly—though she was only five when I saw her last.”

            He hurried over the words quickly, as if he wished me to know the gist of what he had come to say as quickly as possible.

            “Where is your mother?” I asked, thinking of the poor soul with the Cornish accent, carrying the skinny little baby in her arms, and of his father, as I saw him first, a dying man, warming his long thin hands by the fire in the empty house.

            “My mother does not keep a mangle now,” he said, with a short laugh. I think I should have known him before if he had laughed. “She is rich, and lives near my sister, who is married to a diamond-merchant in South Africa. It sounds terribly prosperous, does it not?”

            “But tell me about yourself,” I said. “How is it that you went away Thomas Lobb and come back Dr. Millet of Rome? It is too puzzling altogether.”

            “I found my rich uncle,” he answered. “I remember telling you that my mother thought I might, and I did. One always finds a rich uncle in a story; but I found mine at Melbourne. He had married and lost both wife and child, and was just going off to the diamond-fields in South Africa. He took me in hand first, and was very good to me in his rough way. His ambition was to make me a gentleman; but that was Nature’s business; perhaps she has failed,” he said, with a smile. “However, he put  me to school while he went off to the diamond-fields, in a few years came back with his fortune to fetch me. He was one of those men who are bound to make fortunes and to lose them from sheer carelessness, though he died too soon to lose his last one. He brought me to England and looked after me while I was at the hospital.”

            “But how did you get to Rome?” I asked, for he had stopped as if he could not go on without encouragement.

            “He took me there, or perhaps I took him, for we went together, partly because he wanted to see Europe, and partly because he said he wanted to see if I really could talk any language but my own, after all the schooling for which he had paid. At Rome there was a chance for another doctor, and there ultimately I settled down. Uncle Joe went back to Graham’s Town and died.” He stopped for a moment. “I wish I had been with him,” he said in a low voice; “but I was not.”

            “Was he good to your mother?”

            “He was good to everyone, in a rough way sometimes that one reproached one’s self later on for not better understanding. He was good to my mother and to Gracie, whom he also had educated. He became very great on education in his latter years, and used to say that money was thrown away on you unless you knew how to spend it.”

            “How did you come to be called Millet? I asked, putting off as long as possible the great business of his coming. I was so staggered, so taken aback, at his proving to be Thomas. Moreover there was only one thing for me to do, and not for ever be ashamed of myself, and I knew it. Yet I could not bring myself to do it heartily.

            “He left me some money, and wished me to take his name, which was very like the rich uncle in the story,” he answered, with the fleeting smile that was part of the fascination of his face. “I have not spent any of it yet. My practice has been sufficient. I kept it in case—” He stopped, but still I went on looking a him, as though I had been fascinated, thinking of the days when he had carried up coals, and taught May to blow bubbles. I could not help it, it was snobby of me if you like, but in my heart there was some pride. I knew that he had come to ask me if he might try to win May for his wife. May, my pretty one, my queen, whom I should have thought too good for a king—he, the boy who had blackened out shoes, whose mother had kept a mangle! He seemed to read my thoughts like a letter.

            “Yes,” he said; “I am the boy who used to clean the knives and boots, and afterwards carried out newspapers every morning.

            “It doesn’t matter in these days what anyone has been,” I said, hesitatingly, ashamed that he should have divined my thoughts so well.

            “If she ever cares for me—it is too much to think of, too great a happiness—but if she does,” he went on in a low voice, “perhaps she will be proud of it, as I am. It was honest work,” he said, in a stubborn voice, “and pleasant too,” he added gaily. “If I had made my own position, I should be a proud man, for being a doctor is of course a better thing than carrying out papers; but as it is, all the credit goes to the rich uncle, and is none of mine.” I was silent, trying to remember who the well-known man was who had been a shoe-black, and who it was had sold oranges, and yet became a great man. But it is generally difficult to remember things at the right moment.

            “You were always a good boy,” I said, thinking of the thin face of long ago, and forgetting the man before me.

            “I am glad of that,” he answered. “Do you remember my poor mother?” he went on, seeming as if he were determined I should realize all the past. “She kept a mangle and went out charing. She does not like me to remember it now, and Gracie quarrels with me if I mention it.” And he laughed the short quick laugh of a man who has a sense of humour but does not  always betray it. “Do you remember the day I wished you all good-bye? how, when I was going off to sea, a poor little boy without a penny save the present you had given me, you kissed me, just as if I had been your own son? It has been my wild dream that some day I should be really your son,—won’t you let it come true?” he asked eagerly, and leaning forward he tried to see my face better. But I could not wring an answer from myself.

            “Does she know?” I asked.

            “Does she know anything about this?—that I am Thomas? No, nothing. That I love her? I think Yes. I would not speak to her until I had seen you, and told you, and perhaps—”

            “That was like you, Thomas,” I said. The old name came naturally to my lips. “You were always good.”

            “Was I?” he exclaimed. “I don’t think so—but I will be, if she will only have me, if you and she will only put up with me. I love her with all my heart. See what I have in my pocket. I brought it to show you.” He pulled out a little shoe with a hole in the toe. “Do you remember how she dropped it on my head?” he asked. I nodded, but could not speak, for I was killing the last little silly bit of pride left in my heart. The man before me was a gentleman, ten times more truly one than many born to be rich and idle. How could I be so foolish as to hesitate to give my child to a good and honourable man whom I knew she loved? I have always hated myself for my conduct that day. I think perhaps if it had been any other person’s shoes he had blacked, I should not have minded. If he had wanted to marry the daughter of my dearest friend, I should have assisted joyfully. It was only because it was May, whom I should have thought too good for the king of all the earth.

            Then I looked at the shoe that was still in his hand, and thought of how she had clung to the banisters, call out Good-bye; of his upturned face—the little anxious face—and the grave voice, saying, “I’ll come back, Miss May.” Now he had come. He was sitting there opposite to me, asking me to give him leave to ask her to be his wife.

            “Is it all right?” he asked, in a voice that showed he could not bear my silence any longer. “If you say No, I will go away, and never see her again. I could not bear to win her without your consent—only speak. You are not hesitating because we were so poor, because there was a time when we were starving, because—”

            “No, no!” I interrupted, hating myself, and feeling my heart go out to him. I could not say more—there was something choking me. The tears were coming into my eyes.

            “Then speak just one word. Is it all right?” I gave a little nod, for words had failed me. He got up, and walked about the room, a great joy written on his face, and flashing from his eyes. “You trust me, you will really trust me?” he said, stopping before me.

            “Yes, dear,” I answered, “I will trust you.” It seemed as if he could not hear the words calmly. He strode across the room, then came back and stood before me again.

            “I shall never be good enough for her—never,” he said,—“never at my best; and perhaps she won’t look at me. I am terribly afraid of that. Do you think there is any chance for me?”

            “I don’t know,” I answered, for I was not going to betray my child’s secret.

            “Something deep down in my heart tells me that there is,” he said, simply. “Try to frighten myself as I will, I feel that she is the meaning of life to me. Let me go!” he exclaimed, suddenly—“I want to be alone, and walk the streets until the train starts. I cannot stay in a room any longer. I shall be in Rome the day after to-morrow, and will telegraph.” He took my hands in both of his, and looked at tenderly. “I remember the day you came to see us first,” he said; “my father was sitting over the fire: and how glad we used to be when the roast-mutton came. You always sent enough for us all,” he laughed. “God bless you, dear mother!” he added: and lifting my hands, kissed them both. “Wish me good luck, when I ask my darling if she loves me.”

            “I do—I will, with all my heart!” I answered.

            The telegraph came two days later:—

 

 

            “From your son Thomas and your daughter May.

            —Our best love to you all. We are very happy.”

 

 

            And they are very happy still, and will be all their lives. He lives in England now, and his name is well known. May and I are very proud of him. The other girls are both married too. One married the son of a Bishop; but I fear it is not a very happy marriage. Nina, the youngest is a soldier’s wife, as I was, and quakes whenever France is arrogant, or Germany buys a new big gun, and thinks there will be war to-morrow morning. He is a good fellow, but he is not like Thomas. My mother-in-law is still alive; and she is the one person in the family who does not know our romance. She is a stern old lady, proud of her descent from the Crauford-Greys; and she keeps me in order still, though I have married daughters of my own. The amusing part of it is, that she is very proud of Thomas, and says it is odd that the colonies should have produced so perfect a gentleman. It was but the other day that she sent him most of her late husband’s books; for she said he was the only man in the family who would really appreciate them.

 

 

TOP