“I’ll give ye the penny,” said Chiswick, “and another for this ’un if ye’ll run with it. But ye mustn’t give it to no Mr. Preston. Maybe ’e never give it to ’er. And ye’d best bide yer chance, and slip it into ’er ’and when nobody ain’t by.”
The child stared open-mouthed.
“But Bess ain’t at ’ome,” said she. “She ’ave goned away.”
His heart dropped.
“Gone away!” muttered he, stupidly.
“Iss, well-nigh upon a month ago,” said the little one.
He passed his hand across his forehead. He had told her to wait—for that he had nearly got a home ready for her now, and that he was surely coming to fetch her—coming very soon. She could never have got his letter. But if she had gone she could only have gone to him. How was it he had missed her? A horror came over him! Had he ever told her where he lived in London? A month ago! Where had she been during that long month?
“Maybe she ’ave come ’ome agin now,” said he feebly. “You run up and see, there’s a good little girl. And if she ain’t there, you ask Mr. Benson if they ’aven’t got no news of ’er. But don’t say I sent ye, mind. Only come and tell me arterwards and you shall ’ave a whole sixpence. I’ll wait for you in the wood—see, yonder by the gate.”
The child nodded and ran away pleased, and Charley climbed the grassy slope and cut across the common to the wood.
It was not till he was there that it struck him he was standing by the very gate where he had stood one windy night, seven months ago—with her. It had been a rough night then; yet, though sad indeed at parting, they were full of courage and hope: the sky was blue now and the world was full of promise, but in his breast he knew that hope was dying.