CHAPTER XIV.

Do you remember Billy's last prayer?

At ten o'clock that night Rathbeal and Robert Grantham were at Charing Cross Station, as he had engaged they should be. He had no difficulty in wooing Grantham to the neighborhood, in which they had taken many a stroll on leisure nights. He had given his friend an unfaithful version of his interview with the lawyers, saying there was a difficulty in obtaining the information he required, and that he was to call upon them again to-morrow.

"There is a small sum of money attaching to the business," he said, "but we must wait for the precise particulars. It is likely you will have to put in an appearance."

"I will do whatever you advise," said Grantham, "but assist in keeping me out of it till the last moment."

Rathbeal promised, and they strolled to and fro, westward to Trafalgar Square, eastward not farther than Buckingham Street, conversing, as was their wont, on the typical signs of life that thronged this limited space. Robert Grantham was always deeply impressed by these signs which, in their contrasts of joy and misery, and of wealth and poverty, furnish pregnant pictures of the extremes of human existence. Grantham was saying something to this effect when he paused before a white-faced, raggedly-dressed child--no other than Little Prue--who had some boxes of matches in her hands, and was saying to a woman who had also paused to observe her:

"Kind lady! Father's dead, and mother's laying ill of a fever, and baby's dying 'cause we ain't 'ad nothink to eat since yesterday!"

The woman gave Little Prue a penny, and the next moment a man stepped to her side and snatched the penny from her hand, the child making no objection.

"A suggestive scene," said Rathbeal. "The brute is the girl's father, I suppose, and she stands there in the gutter by his directions, probably repeating the speech he has drilled into her. Does not such a picture tempt you not to give? Is it not almost a justification for the existence of institutions which contend that beggary is a preventable disease?"

"Not in my eyes," replied Robert Grantham. "I have no sympathy with anti-natural societies, organized for the suppression of benevolent impulse. The endeavor to deaden charitable feeling, and to inculcate into kindly-hearted people that pity must be guided by a kind of mathematical teaching, is a deplorable mistake. Carry such a teaching out to its natural end, and the sweetest influences of our nature would be lost. Seeing what I have seen, I would not give to that poor child, but I would take her away from the brute: and the first thing I would do would be to set her down before a hot, wholesome meal. Poor little waif! See, Rathbeal, the brute is on the watch on the opposite side. Now, if Providence would take him in hand, and deal out to him what he deserves, we might give the child a foretaste of heaven."

Rathbeal, looking to the opposite side of the road, saw John Dixon approaching them, and in order that he should have a clear view of Grantham he took his friend's arm, and proceeded onward a few yards to a spot which was brilliantly lighted up. John Dixon passed them slowly, and exchanged a look of recognition with Rathbeal, which Grantham did not observe.

"It is time to get home," said Rathbeal, who, now that John Dixon was gone, saw no reason to linger.

"A moment, Rathbeal," said Grantham. "I can't get that child out of my head. Is there no way of doing her an act of kindness without the intervention of the brute?"

Little Prue had just finished another appeal in a weak, languid voice, addressed to no one in particular. She appeared to be dazed as the words dropped slowly from her bloodless lips. She could scarcely keep her eyes open; her frail body began to sway.

"She is fainting," said Rathbeal hurriedly; "the child is overpowered by want and fatigue."

The brute on the opposite side saw this also, and he started forward, not impelled by pity, but with the intention of keeping Little Prue's strength in her by means of threats. A judgment fell upon him. It was as if Providence had heard what Robert Grantham said, and had taken him in hand; for as he was crossing the road in haste he got tangled in a conflict of cabs and omnibuses, and was knocked to the ground. Rathbeal darted forward to see what had happened to him, while Grantham, taking Little Prue's hand, said some gentle words to her, which she was too exhausted to understand. A great crowd had assembled on the spot where the brute had fallen, and Rathbeal, returning, whispered to Grantham that he had been run over.

"What are they doing with him?" asked Grantham.

"They are carrying him to Charing Cross Hospital."

"He will be all right there. If we want to inquire after him we can do so to-morrow. Let us look after the child."

She needed looking after; but for Grantham's sustaining arm she would have sunk into the gutter.

"I know the hospital to take her to," said Grantham, "and the medicine she needs."

With Little Prue in his arms, he plunged into a narrow street, accompanied by Rathbeal, and entered a common restaurant, where he ordered a pot of tea, bread and butter, and a chop. The swift motion through the air had done something to revive Little Prue, the tea and food did the rest; and presently she was eating and drinking as only one who was famished could. The men looked on in wondering pity, and did not interrupt her engrossing labors. It was not until nature was satisfied that she thought of her father; a look of terror flashed into her eyes.

"What's the matter, child?" asked Robert Grantham.

"Father'll be the death of me!" she replied.

"Don't be frightened; he will not hurt you."

"Are you sure, sir? You don't know father!"

"I am quite sure; we have seen him."

This satisfied Little Prue, and the look of terror changed to one of gratitude.

"Thank yer kindly, sir," she said. "I think I should 'ave died if I 'adn't 'ad somethink to eat. It's a long time since I had sech a tuck-out. I couldn't eat another mouthful if I tried."

"And now, child, tell us where you live, and whether you have a mother."

"Oh, yes, sir, I've got a mother; and I live in Roxy's Rents."

"I've heard of the place," said Rathbeal; "it's in Lambeth. We will see the little one home."

"Thank yer, sir. I don't think I could find my way without father. Oh!" she cried, looking about distressfully, "where's my matches?"

They had dropped from her hands when she was falling, and the friends had not stopped to pick them up.

"Never mind your matches."

"But father'll wollup me if I don't sell 'em before I go 'ome! I can't go 'ome till I've got a shilling!"

"You shall have the shilling. Here it is. We will take care of it till we get to Roxy's Rents, and you shall give it to your mother. What is your name, child?"

"Prue, sir; Little Prue."

Robert Grantham laid his hand on Rathbeal's arm.

"Little Prue!" he said. "That is poor Billy's sweetheart, that he spoke of with his dying breath."

He addressed the child:

"Did you know a poor boy called Billy?"

"Oh, yes, sir; we used to play together. He sed he'd marry me when he grew up, if he could get a suit of clothes. What's become of Billy, sir? I ain't seen 'im for a long time."

"He is happier than he was, my child," said Grantham; "all his troubles are over."

"I'm glad to 'ear that, sir. I wish mine and mother's was."

"They will be, one day. Now, child, we must be moving."

Little Prue rose and put her hand in Grantham's and they left the restaurant. They rode to Lambeth by 'bus and tram, and then, being in streets familiar to her, Little Prue conducted them to Roxy's Rents. Her mother's room was in darkness.

"Are yer coming in, sir?"

"Yes; we will see your mother before we leave you."

"Mother, mother!" cried Prue, opening the door.

Mrs. Flower started up and, running to the door, caught her child in her arms.

"O Prue, Prue! where have you been? I was afraid you were lost!"

"I should 'ave been, mother, if it 'adn't been for the gentlemen."

"The gentlemen?"

She could not see them.

"Do not be alarmed," said Robert Grantham. "Your little one was not well, and we brought her home. She is all right now."

"You're very good, sir; I'm ever so much obliged to you."

"Oh, mother, I've 'ad sech a supper! Did yer get the money for the washing?"

She was accustomed to take her part in these domestic matters, which were, in a sense, vital.

"Don't worry, child, before the gentlemen."

"But did yer, mother?" persisted Little Prue, thinking of the chances of food for to-morrow.

"No. There, child, let me alone."

"Have you a candle in the place?" asked Grantham, suspecting the state of affairs.

"No, sir. I am really ashamed----"

"We owe your little one a shilling for some matches," said Grantham, pitying her confusion, and slipping the money into her hand. "Is it too late to buy some candles?"

He would have taken his departure under these awkward circumstances, but he considered it his duty to tell Mrs. Flower of the accident that had happened to her husband.

"One of the lodgers will sell me one, sir, if you don't mind waiting."

"We will wait."

"Martha!" called Mrs. Flower; but Martha was asleep, and did not speak. "It's my sister, sir; I thought she might be awake. I won't be gone a minute."

She ran to another room, and obtaining the candle, returned with it alight. Her visitors sighed at the misery it displayed. Martha's arms were spread upon the table, and her head rested upon them. Prue pulled her mother's dress.

"Who is she, mother?"

"Your aunt Martha."

Prue went to the sleeping woman, and tried to get a glimpse of her face.

"I have bad news to tell you about your husband," said Grantham, speaking low, so that the child should not hear. "He has met with an accident, and has been taken to Charing Cross Hospital."

He broke the news to her in a gentle voice, and she received it without emotion. Her husband had crushed all love for him from her breast long since, and she had felt for years that it would be a happy release if he were dead.

"Is he much hurt, sir?" she asked, with tearless eyes.

"I do not know. He was knocked down by a cab, and was carried to the hospital at once. He will be better cared for there than here."

"Yes, sir; I have no money to pay for doctors. Did Prue see the accident?"

"She knows nothing of it."

"Drip--drip--drip! Oh, God! will it never stop?"

It was Martha who was speaking. The men were awed by the despairing voice.

"It's my sister, sir; I told you, I think. She came upon me quite sudden to-night. I haven't seen her for years. She's in trouble. Martha, Martha!"

She shook the woman, who started wildly to her feet and looked this way and that with swift glances, more like a hunted animal than a human creature.

Rathbeal uttered an exclamation. It was the woman he had seen that afternoon standing at Mr. Fox-Cordery's door.

"Fate!" he said, and advanced toward her.

A violent spasm of fear seized Martha, and shook her in every limb. Crazed perhaps by her dreams, or terrified by the suspicion of a hidden evil in the appearance of Rathbeal, whom she instantly recognized, and who must have tracked her down for some new oppression, she retreated as he advanced, and watching her opportunity, rushed past him from the room, and flew into the dark shelter of the streets. They gazed after her in astonishment, and then followed her into the alley, and thence into the wider thoroughfare, but they saw no trace of her.

"Her troubles have driven her mad," said Mrs. Flower, "and no wonder. How she's lived through them is a mystery. She's in such a state that I'm afraid she'll do herself a mischief."

"I intended her no harm," said Rathbeal. "I saw her once before to-day, and if my suspicions are well founded, it may be in my power to render her a service, even to obtain some kind of justice for her, if her troubles are caused by a man."

"A man, you call him!" said Mrs. Flower, with bitter emphasis.

"Do you know him?"

"I heard his name for the first time to-night."

"Is it Fox-Cordery?"

In the dark he felt Robert Grantham give a start, and he pressed his arm as a warning to be silent.

"That's the villain that's brought her to this; that took her away from her home and disgraced her, and then left her to starve. If there's justice in heaven, he ought to be made suffer for it."

"There's justice in heaven," said Rathbeal, "and it shall overtake him. Your sister needs a man to champion her cause; I offer myself as that man. Without a powerful defender, the reptile who has brought this misery upon her will spurn and laugh at her. It is too late to talk together to-night; your child is waiting for you, and your sister may return at any moment. After a night's rest, she will listen to me--will believe in me. May I call upon you to-morrow morning early?"

"Yes, sir, as early as you like. I get up at six. You speak fair, and you've been kind to Prue. God bless you for your goodness! I shall have to go to the hospital in the morning, but I'll wait at home till ten for you."

"Very well. Meanwhile, this may be of service to you."

He gave her two shillings, and wishing her goodnight, the friends took their departure.

"What does all this mean, Rathbeal?" asked Robert Grantham. "I am wrapt in mystery."

"You trust me, Robert?"

"I would trust you with my life."

"Then believe that I have my reasons for keeping silence to-night. Before long the mystery shall be explained to you. I am working for your happiness, Robert."

"For my happiness?" echoed Grantham, with a groan.

"You are not a skeptic? You believe in eternal mercy and justice?"

"I do, God help me!"

"Hold fast to that belief. The clouds are breaking, and I see a light shining on your life. Do you remember poor Billy's last prayer?' O Lord God, give Mr. Gran all he wants, and a bit over!' The Lord of the Universe heard that prayer. Ask me no questions, but before you go to bed to-night pray with a thankful heart; for the age of miracles is not yet over, Robert, my friend."