Alone in London Part 3

"SUSAN RALEIGH."

CHAPTER VI.

THE GRa.s.sHOPPER A BURDEN.

It was some time before the full meaning of Susan's letter penetrated to her father's brain; but when it did, he was not at first altogether pained by it. True, it was both a grief and disappointment to think that his daughter, instead of returning to him, was already on her way across the sea to a very distant land. But as this came slowly to his mind, there came also the thought that there would now be no one to divide with him the treasure committed to his charge. The little child would belong to him alone. They might go on still, living as they had done these last three days, and being all in all to one another. If he could have chosen, his will would certainly have been for Susan to return to them; but, since he could not have his choice, he felt that there were some things which would be all the happier for him because of her absence.

He put Dolly to bed, and then went out to shut up the shop for the night.

As he carried in his feeble arms a single shutter at a time, he heard himself hailed by a boy's voice, which was lowered to a low and mysterious whisper, and which belonged to Tony, who took the shutter out of his hands.

"S'pose the mother turned up all right?" he said, pointing with his thumb through the half open door.

"No," answered Oliver. "I've had another letter from her, and she's gone out to India with her husband, and left the little love to live alone with me."

"But whatever'll the Master say to that?" inquired Tony.

"What master?" asked old Oliver.

"Him--Lord Jesus Christ. What'll he say to her leaving you and the little 'un again?" said Tony, with an eager face.

"Oh! he says a woman ought to leave her father, and keep to her husband,"

he answered, somewhat sadly. "It's all right, that is."

"I s'pose he'll help you to take care of the little girl," said Tony.

"Ay will he; him and me," replied old Oliver; "there's no fear of that.

You never read the Testament, of course, my boy?"

"Can't read, I told you," he answered. "But what's that?"

"A book all about him, the Lord Jesus," said Oliver, "what he's done, and what he's willing to do for people. If you'll come of an evening, I'll read it aloud to you and my little love. She'll listen as quiet and good as any angel."

"I'll come to-morrow," answered Tony, readily; and he lingered about the doorway until he heard the old man inside fasten the bolts and locks, and saw the light go out in the pane of gla.s.s over the door. Then he scampered noiselessly with his naked feet along the alley in the direction of Covent Garden, where he purposed to spend the night, if left undisturbed.

Old Oliver went back into his room, where the tea-table was still set out for his Susan's welcome; but he had no heart to clear the things away. A chill came over his spirit as his eye fell upon the preparations he had made to give her such a cordial greeting, that she would know at once he had forgiven her fully. He lit his pipe, and sat pondering sorrowfully over all the changes that had happened to him since those old, far-away days when he was a boy, in the pleasant, fresh, healthy homestead at the foot of the Wrekin. He felt all of a sudden how very old he was; a poor, infirm, h.o.a.ry old man. His sight was growing dim even, and his hearing duller every day; he was sure of it. His limbs ached oftener, and he was earlier wearied in the evening; yet he could not sleep soundly at nights, as he had been used to do. But, worst of all, his memory was not half as good as it had been. Sometimes, of late, he had caught himself reading a newspaper quite a fortnight old, and he had not found it out till he happened to see the date at the top. He could not recollect the names of people as he did once; for many of his customers to whom he supplied the monthly magazines were obliged to tell him their names and the book they wanted every time, before he could remember them. And now there was this young child cast upon him to be thought of, and cared and worked for. It was very thoughtless and reckless of Susan! Suppose he should forget or neglect any of her tender wants! Suppose his dull ear should grow too deaf to catch the pretty words she said when she asked for something! Suppose he should not see when the tears were rolling down her cheeks, and n.o.body would comfort her! It might very easily be so. He was not the hale man he was when Susan was just such another little darling, and he could toss her up to the ceiling in his strong hands. It was as much as he could do to lift Dolly on to his feeble knee, and nurse her quietly, not even giving her a ride to market upon it; and how stiff he felt if she sat there long!

Old Oliver laid aside his pipe, and rested his worn face upon his hands, while the heavy tears came slowly and painfully to his eyes, and trickled down his withered cheeks. His joy had fled, and his unmingled gladness had faded quite away. He was a very poor, very old man; and the little child was very, very young. What would become of them both, alone in London?

He did not know whether it was a voice speaking within himself in his own heart, or words whispered very softly into his ear; but he heard a low, quiet, still, small voice, which said, "Even to your old age I am he, and even to h.o.a.r hairs I will carry you: I have made, and I will bear; even I will carry, and will deliver you." And old Oliver answered, with a sob, "Yes, Lord, yes!"

CHAPTER VII.

THE PRINCE OF LIFE.

In the new life which had now fairly begun for Oliver, it was partly as he had foreseen; he was apt to forget many things, and he had a fretting consciousness of this forgetfulness. When he was in the house playing with Dolly, or reading to her, the shop altogether slipped away from his memory, and he was only recalled to it by the loud knocking or shouting of some customer in it. On the other hand, when he was sitting behind the counter looking for news from India in the papers, news in which he was already profoundly concerned, though it was impossible that Susan could yet have reached it, he grew so absorbed, that he did not know how the time was pa.s.sing by, and both he and his little grand-daughter were hungry before he had thought of getting ready any meal. He tried all kinds of devices for strengthening his failing memory; but in vain. He even forgot that he did forget; and when Dolly was laughing and frolicking about him he grew a child again, and felt himself the happiest man in London.

The person who took upon himself the heaviest weight of anxiety and responsibility about Dolly was Tony, who began to make it his daily custom to pa.s.s by the house at the hour when old Oliver ought to be going for his morning papers; and if he found no symptom of life about the place, he did not leave off kicking and b.u.t.ting at the shop-door until the owner appeared. It was very much the same thing at night, when the time for shutting up came; though it generally happened now that the boy was paying his friends an evening visit, and was therefore at hand to put up the shutters for Oliver. Tony could not keep away from the place.

Though he felt a boy's contemptuous pity for the poor old man's declining faculties as regarded business, he had a very high veneration for his learning. Nothing pleased him better than to sit upon the old box near the door, his elbows on his knees, and his chin upon his hands, while Oliver read aloud, with Dolly upon his knee, her curly hair and small pretty features making a strange contrast to his white head and withered, hollow face. Tony, who had never had anything to love except a stray cur or two, which he had always lost after a few days' friendship, felt as if he could have suffered himself to be put to death for either of these two; while Beppo came in for a large share of his unclaimed affections.

The chief subject of their reading was the life of the Master, who was so intimately dear to the heart of old Oliver. Tony was very eager to learn all he could of this great friend who did so much for the old man, and who might perhaps be persuaded some day or other to take a little notice of him, if he should fail to get a crossing for himself. Oliver, in his long, unbroken solitude of six years, had fallen into a notion, amounting to a firm belief, that his Lord was not dead and far off, as most of the world believed, but was a very present, living friend, always ready to listen to the meanest of his words. He had a vague suspicion that his faith had got into a different course from that of most other people; and he bore meekly the rebukes of his sister Charlotte for the unwholesomeness of his visions. But none the less, when he was alone, he talked and prayed to, and spoke to Tony of this Master, as one who was always very near at hand.

"I s'pose he takes a bit o' notice o' the little un," said Tony, "when he comes in now and then of an evening."

"Ay, does he!" answered Oliver, earnestly. "My boy, he loves every child as if it was his very own, and it is his own in one sense. Didn't I read you last night how he said, 'Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not.' Why, he'd love all the young children in the world, if they weren't hindered from coming to him."

"I should very much like to see him some day," pursued Tony, reflectively, "and the rest of them,--Peter, and John, and them. I s'pose they are getting pretty old by now, aren't they?"

"They are dead," said Oliver.

"All of 'em?" asked Tony.

"All of them," he repeated.

"Dear, dear!" cried Tony, his eyes glistening. "Whatever did the Master do when they all died? I'm very sorry for him now. He's had a many troubles, hasn't he?"

"Yes, yes," replied old Oliver, with a faltering voice. "He was called a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief. n.o.body ever bore so many troubles as him."

"How long is it ago since they all died?" asked Tony.

"I can't rightly say," he answered. "I heard once, but it is gone out of my head. I only know it was the same when I was a boy. It must have been a long, long time ago."

"The same when you was a boy!" repeated Tony, in a tone of disappointment. "It must ha' been a long while ago. I thought all along as the Master was alive now."

"So he is, so he is!" exclaimed old Oliver, eagerly. "I'll read to you all about it. They put him to death on the cross, and buried him in a rocky grave; but he is the Prince of Life, and he came to life again three days after, and now he can die no more. His own words to John were, 'I am he that liveth, and was dead; and behold, I am alive forevermore.' What else can it mean but that he is living now, and will never die again?"

Tony made no answer. He sat with his sharp, unboyish face gazing intently into the fire; for by this time autumn had set in, and the old man was chilly of an evening. A very uncertain, dim idea was dawning upon him that this master and friend of old Oliver's was a being very different from an ordinary man, however great and rich he might be. He had grown to love the thought of him, and to listen attentively to the book which told the manner of life he led; but it was a chill to find out that he could not look into his face, and hear his voice, as he could Oliver's. His heart was heavy, and very sad.

"I s'pose I can't see him, then," he murmured to himself, at last.

"Not exactly like other folks," said Oliver. "I think sometimes that perhaps there's a little darkness of the grave where he was buried about him still. But he sees us, and hears us. He himself says, 'Behold, I am with you always.' I don't know whatever I should do, even with my little love here, if I wasn't sure Jesus was with me as well."

"I'll tell you what I'll do," said Tony, after another pause. "I'm going to ask him to give me somethink, and then if he does, I shall know he hears me--I should very much like to have a broom and a crossing, and get my living a bit more easy, if you please."

He had turned his face away from Oliver, and looked across into the darkest corner of the room, where he could see nothing but shadow. The old man felt puzzled, and somewhat troubled, but he only sighed softly to himself; and opening the Testament, he read aloud in it till he was calmed again, and Tony was listening in rapt attention.

"My boy," he said, as the hour came for Tony to go, "where are you sleeping now?"

"Anywhere as I can get out o' the wind," he answered. "It's cold now, nights--wery cold, master. But I must get along a bit farder on. Lodgings is wery dear."

"I've been thinking," said Oliver, "that you'd find it better to have some sort of a shake-down under my counter. I've heard say that newspapers st.i.tched together make a coverlid pretty near as warm as a blanket; and we could do no harm by trying them, Tony. Look here, and see how you'd like it."