"I wish I had," he answered brokenly; "oh, I wish I had!"
[CHAPTER XII]
GOOD-BYES
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—"