when john berryman, melina's father, shortly after his wife's death, had emigrated to canada and left his infant daughter with his mother, he had arranged to pay a certain sum monthly for the child's support. up to that time mrs. berryman, though not a teetotaller, had not drank to excess, and, though inclined to be penurious, the love of money had not so warped her character as to make her unscrupulous as to how she obtained it. she had never been an affectionate mother, but her son had believed she would, at any rate, do her duty towards her little granddaughter; and, as he had always regularly kept up the monthly instalments he had promised to send her, he had never dreamed of the possibility that melina might be neglected in any way.
unhappily, however, in her old age mrs. berryman had succumbed to two powerful evils—the love of money and the love of drink. she had done so by degrees; but as she had kept her son's whereabouts a secret from everybody, no one had been able to enlighten him as to her mode of life, and he had pictured her, retired from business, living comfortably with his little daughter on the income which he had all along been supplying, and had gradually increased as he had become better off. thus the years had slipped by until it had occurred to him how much he would like to pay a visit to england to see his mother and melina; he might take them back with him to canada, he had thought. so he had come home without writing to tell mrs. berryman to expect him, having meant to give her a pleasant surprise, and the evening of easter monday had found him in his native town.
how different, alas, had his meeting with his mother been to that which he had anticipated! when he had stood by her side, as she lay dying in the hospital, and listened to her confession of wrongdoing, he had felt absolutely stunned; and it was not until after her funeral, when he began to inquire into matters, that he discovered that the greater part of the money he had sent her she had saved and put in the post office savings bank, whilst one of the firemen had found a tin containing more than thirty pounds in the chimney of her bedroom in jubilee terrace.
"i really think my mother must have been crazy," john berryman remarked to mr. blackmore one afternoon, as he stood talking to him in the garden at south view; "she must have been a regular miser; and see how she served my poor little girl! she never told her anything about me—not even where i was or that she ever heard from me; and the joneses say that she served the child most unkindly at times—when she had been drinking, i suppose."
"yes, when she had been drinking," agreed mr. blackmore; "she was not herself then. drink almost invariably kills its victims' best qualities, and brings out their worst. it was so in your mother's case, no doubt."
john berryman heaved a deep sigh. he had had a long interview with mr. blackmore in the latter's study at south view, during which he had told him of his plans for the future; and presently he was going to see melina, who was still staying with the browns.
"i shall never be able to repay you for your kindness, sir," he said; "but believe me, i shall never forget all you have done for me and mine. melina's told me what a good friend you've been to her—the first friend she ever had, poor child, so she says; and i shall always remember how you comforted my mother when she lay dying, how you prayed for her when she said she was not fit to pray for herself, and commended her to the love and mercy of god. i could not have helped her as you did; you seemed so sure—"
"ay, so i was," mr. blackmore said, as the other broke off as though hardly able to explain his meaning, "sure of the saviour—sure that he would keep his promise, 'him that cometh to me i will in nowise cast out.' i believe, berryman, that in those last brief hours of her life, your mother turned to him, and that he was with her as she passed through the valley of the shadow of death." the two men had by now strolled to the garden gate. as john berryman opened it he said in a voice which trembled with emotion:
"i believe it, too."
a few minutes later he had taken leave of mr. blackmore and was walking towards gladstone street. arrived at the browns' house, he was met at the door by melina, who put her arms around his neck and, drawing his face down to hers, kissed him. already there was an affection between father and daughter which was rapidly growing stronger.
"i'm keeping house alone," she explained; "i would not go out with agnes and her mother because i thought you might come this afternoon, father. you know i did not see you yesterday all day."
"all day?" he repeated the words with a smile. "were you disappointed, then?" he inquired, as he followed her into the parlour.
"yes," she assented, "indeed i was."
john berryman sat down, and his little daughter took a chair near him, her eyes fixed on his face—a face with strongly marked features, and an expression of straightforwardness about it which made it very attractive. for a few minutes there was silence, then melina said:
"i went to jubilee terrace yesterday, and had a look at no. 2. what a good thing it was the fire was put out before it reached the roof! but oh, father, i'm sorry all the furniture was burnt, for it would have been yours now gran is dead, wouldn't it?"
"yes; but it was of little value."
"the only thing i mind having lost was my bible," said the little girl, "and i do mind very much about that. it was mother's bible, you know, and i might have saved it if i had thought of it, but i was too frightened to think at all. and oh, father, i forgot to tell you that gran had a lot of money in her bedroom chimney—"
"ah, you knew of that, did you? it is quite safe; it was found by one of the firemen."
"oh! it will be yours now, won't it, father? i never told gran i knew that she had it; i saw her counting it one day—she saved it, i suppose."
john berryman made no immediate response. he felt a reluctance, which was very natural, in talking of his mother; and when at length he spoke his voice was very grave and sad.
"your grandmother saved a lot of money which she ought to have spent," he said, "part of which is rightly mine, for i sent it to her; but the rest i shall give away—to the hospital and the poor of the town. i have told mr. blackmore my intention; he considers i shall be doing right."
"oh, father!" melina exclaimed. she was silent for a minute, reflecting on what he had said, then she added, "i think i understand what you feel."
"i feel that the money was taken from the poor, and i must make what amends i can."
"i did not know until quite lately, father, what gran's business was; then william jones told me."
"never let us speak of it again, melina!"
"no, we never will," she agreed. "i saw both mr. and mrs. jones when i was at jubilee terrace yesterday," she proceeded to inform him, "and mr. jones told me what i had not heard before—that it was gran who set the house on fire."
"yes," replied her father, "that was so. she explained that she got up in the night to get something from the kitchen, and let the hand-lamp she was carrying fall. the oil caught fire, and she could not extinguish it; she was going to arouse you when she became giddy and fell—at the foot of the stairs, where mr. jones and those who had helped him to break in the backdoor found her."
melina guessed the "something" her grandmother had gone to fetch from the kitchen had been drink, but she did not say so; and her father abruptly changed the conversation by remarking:
"i have been thinking that i cannot let you stay here much longer. it has been most kind of the browns to keep you so long; but there is room for you in the house where i am lodging, and—"
"oh, i should love to be with you, father!" melina broke in.
he smiled and looked pleased. "i had intended to stay a month or so in england," he said, "but now—well, not having found things as i expected has made me alter my plans."
"you will go back to canada soon, you mean?" melina's voice sounded anxious and subdued.
"yes. i've done very well there—i have all along. i laboured on a new railway first of all, then i got a post on a farm, and afterwards a friend entered into partnership with me and we took some land for ourselves. my partner's looking after everything during my absence, so he's pretty busy—he'll be glad to get me back."
"yes. i—i expect so," agreed melina.
her father looked at her questioningly, for the expression of her face was troubled. "i daresay you will be sorry to leave your friends in hawstock," he said, "but—"
"father, father!" interrupted the little girl excitedly, "do you mean that i am to go with you? oh, do you really mean that?"
"why, most certainly i do. you did not think i should leave you behind me, did you? i want my little daughter—"
"oh!" interrupted melina, her face aglow with happiness, "you can't want me half so much as i want you!"
the tears were running down her cheeks, but they were tears of glad relief; and her heart, which had been often so sad and lonely, was full of joy.
"come, melina, my dear, it is time for us to say 'good-bye.'"
it was the evening before the day on which the berrymans were to leave hawstock, a beautiful may evening which was drawing to a close, for the sun had nearly set, and a soft, grey mist was settling over the town; and the speaker was john berryman, who, with his little daughter, was paying a farewell call on mr. blackmore.
the scene was the study at south view. mr. blackmore sat near his writing-table, close to the open window, through which a gentle breeze was wafting the scent of wallflowers, whilst his visitors were seated farther back in the room. melina had improved in appearance during the last few weeks; she looked less painfully thin, and faint roses had appeared in her cheeks. but the roses faded now as her father reminded her that it was time for them to say "good-bye" to mr. blackmore. she had said several "good-byes" that day, which had made her very sad, to mr. and mrs. jones and william, and to each member of the brown family, but it seemed to her that to say "good-bye" to mr. blackmore was the greatest trial of all.
"yes," she assented, "i suppose it is." there was a tremulous note of sorrow in her voice.
"one minute," said mr. blackmore; "i have something to give you, melina, before we part."
he opened a drawer in his writing-table as he spoke, and took out a small, morocco-bound bible, which he handed to her.
"oh, sir, how kind of you!" was all she could say for a minute, but her face told more than her words that she was deeply touched and pleased. she opened the bible and saw, written on the fly-leaf: "melina berryman, from her friend, raymond blackmore."
"thank you; oh, thank you!" she cried; then she looked at mr. blackmore hesitatingly, and asked: "please, sir, would you write something else?"
"something else?"
"yes, please. my mother wrote a text under her name in her bible, her favourite text—"
"and you want me to write your favourite text?" he questioned.
"no, sir, i would like you, please, to write yours." he took the bible from her, did as she desired, and returned the book to her. she read what he had written: "'the gift of god is eternal life through jesus christ our lord,'" then met his glance with one full of understanding.
"thank you," she said softly; "thank you very, very much."
a few minutes later the little girl was walking between her father and mr. blackmore through the flower-scented garden towards the garden gate, where, subsequently, good-byes were exchanged.
melina's eyes were dim as she shook hands with mr. blackmore and heard his kind voice say:
"good-bye, melina. god bless you and keep you, my dear."
"good-bye, sir," she answered, smiling at him bravely through her tears; "and god bless you," she added. "oh, i know he will!"
then her father took her hand and led her away; but at the corner of the road she glanced back, and saw that the little gentleman was leaning over the garden gate looking after them. the sunset glow was falling full on his face, so that she could see it plainly; and thus, in after years, she always pictured it, illuminated with golden light.
the end
