All Sorts/'Melia, No Good

people may think this rather a sad story. But Amelia Alexandria Nobbs, whom it most concerns, would have been puzzled by such an opinion. To her it was just everyday life, not in the least touching or thrilling or anything else, but with a glorious ending which certainly did bring it almost on a level with a picture-palace romance—the only sort of romance she had ever known. At any rate, she was never sad about it—not at any time.

Ambrose Nobbs was Amelia Alexandria's father, and in addition, as Mrs. Nobbs often declared, a trying specimen of a very trying sex. For one thing, the most ordinary events drove him to extremes, which met, as extremes often do, in the nearest public-house. Thus, when Henry Nobbs—Amelia's elder brother—was born, Mr. Nobbs drank himself into an Olympian state of exuberance and pride, and was only brought to earth a week later when the callous refusal of an unfeeling barman acquainted him with the fact that the lately increased and glorious family of Nobbs had temporarily "gone bust". Contrariwise, when five years later Amelia Alexandria made her unwelcome appearance, Mr. Nobbs became melancholic. In vain the most royal and high-sounding names were chosen for the luckless and unlovely stranger. Mr. Nobbs persisted in feeling aggrieved.

"A gal!" he ejaculated bitterly. "A bloomin' gal! No good they ain't—no good at all. One woman in the 'ouse is one too many, that's wot I say."

After which unchivalrous declaration Mr. Nobbs had another pint and wept copiously over his sorrows.

The process of drowning his sorrow was a lengthy one; in fact, it was a very tough sorrow with any amount of life, so that with the best will in the world Mr. Nobbs never got the better of it, though he stuck to the task with a heroic constancy. About the same time Mrs. Nobbs herself began to be "took bad". Whether she caught her husband's pessimistic attitude towards life, or whether the task of making two seriously estranged ends meet was too much for her, cannot be said. At any rate, by the time Amelia Alexandria was fourteen Mrs Nobbs had completely lost her taste for charing, and the increasing frequency of her "attacks" made visits to the "Welsh Harp" a daily necessity. There she discoursed at length and with eloquence to a sympathetic audience who agreed that "Mrs. Nobbs 'ad 'ad an 'ard life," and enthusiastically accepted her invitation to "'ave another".

"And the 'ardest blow of all 'as been 'Melia," Mrs. Nobbs would conclude tearfully. "My belief is she ain't quite sixteen ounces to the pound as they say, and that ugly! Though I says it as shouldn't, she didn't get 'er looks from me, Gawd be thanked. She ain't no good for anything is 'Melia."

'Melia grew up with the phrase ringing in her ears.

She woke long before the winter sun had begun to show itself wanly through the grey fog which never really lifted from the roofs of Mountjoy Alley. It had become an instinct—this regular waking—but for once she lay still, wondering why on this particular morning it should be different from all the others. Then she remembered. Cautiously, like an anxious mouse, she crept out from underneath the sacking which filled the double role of sheet and blanket, and reached out for her stockings. They were very remarkable stockings, and when Amelia's toes emerged from the large unconventional apertures they wriggled indignantly, rubbing each other, in a frenzied effort to keep warm.

Amelia paid no attention to their woes, but set them to feel their way over the bare boards. From long experience they knew of the perilous possibility of encountering nails, or bits of glass, or Mr. Nobbs's discarded boots, so they went gingerly and noiselessly. 'Melia knew just where everything was to be found and what to avoid. There was Mr. Nobbs himself in one corner and Mrs. Nobbs in the other with the twins between them in a large converted soap-box. Perhaps some people may think the garret improperly overcrowded, but in Mountjoy Alley, five to a room was considered a decent average.

A subdued chink of cracked china and a timid splash, mingled with the family's deep breathing, announced that 'Melia washed. Then all was quiet again, until at the other end of the room a match spluttered feebly. With blue, stiff fingers 'Melia ordered the scanty sticks and the precious lumps of coal, and presently a small, smoky fire sent a pale comfort into the shivering darkness. It was the great moment in 'Melia's day. There was so much greyness all about her, with never a bright colour or a bright light anywhere. If there had ever been any colour in Mountjoy Alley it had grown dim long since. The sky was grey, and the houses were grey, and the puddles in the street and the people who slipped like ghosts in and out of the murky doorways. Even the sunshine, when it did come, had a dingy tinge.

But the fire kindling before daybreak in the poky little grate was a wonderful thing. It was a friendly spirit that sprang from nowhere and glowed and twinkled and warmed 'Melia's frozen little hands lovingly. It showed her fairy castles in its red heart, and its smoke wreathed itself into goblins who leapt out at her and disported themselves among the shadows.

Later on, when the daylight slunk through the dirty windows, it was just like all the other Mountjoy fires—very sickly, smoky and disgruntled.

The crackling of the wood aroused the twins, who whimpered, and their whimpering aroused Mrs. Nobbs, who groaned terribly. From the opposite corner came the muffled sound of Mr. Nobbs's early morning curse.

"That you 'Melia?"

"Yus, Dad."

"Tea ready?"

"Water ain't biled yet."

"Well, 'urry up, can't yer? D'yer want a poor working man to go out into the cold without even a cup o' tea? A nice thing! Where'd you be, I'd like to know, if I was took? if that tea ain't ready when I am, my gal, somebody 'll be sorry about it"

Mrs. Nobbs heaved herself up against the wall with another groan.

"If I ain't gone and got 'em again!" she exclaimed gloomily. "Somethink awful. Just 'ere—in me side. Oh, yer may well laugh, Hambrose Nobbs! Wot cher know about a wimmin's sufferin's? And 'oo's fault is it I 'ave to be 'ere in all this misery—me wot used to 'ave a 'ouse of me own and a parlour with plush furniture—'oo's fault is it?"

Her voice had risen to a wail, and Mr. Nobbs flung his boot in her direction. But his aim was not what it had been, and the boot struck the soap-box, causing the contents to howl in unison.

"'Old yer tongue, will you?"

"I won't 'old my tongue. Gawd knows it's about all that's left me. 'Melia, when you've done messin' with that tea you can stop them kids yellin'. Ain't yer got no 'eart for yer poor mother's nerves?"

The tea was made by this time. It was a very simple process. All you did was to put a couple of spoonfuls of "special blend" into the kettle and let it stew. When the water was nearly black it was called tea, and you drank it with the assurance that you were getting your money's worth.

'Melia fetched the twins one by one and set them sniffing and sobbing in their grubby little shirts before the fire. She carried them, tottering under their weight, for though it was only five years since they had been added to Mrs. Nobbs's other grievances, they had thriven strangely. But 'Melia, somehow, had not thriven. It was as though their boisterous vitality had sapped the life in her. She was fourteen, and she looked like a stunted, fragile child of ten.

Mr. Nobbs, half-dressed by now, his braces hanging, slip-slopped over to the fire and poured himself out a mug of tea with a shaking hand. He, too, was part of the greyness—grey-haired, grey stubble on leaden, sunken cheeks. Compared with him, Mrs. Nobbs, still propped up and groaning dismally, with the firelight on her baggy, weak-featured face, seemed the embodiment of life.

"Wot about me, eh? Ain't I goin' to get nothin'? Not that I expect it. Oh, no, not me. I know wot 'appens to them 'oo toils themselves to skin and bone for others. Left to starve in their beds—that's it—starve in their"

"Oh, take 'er 'er tea, can't yer? Look 'ere, if you two brats don't stop that row I'll bash yer 'eads together, I will."

'Melia came back to the fire and crouched down beside the twins, who, regaled with a mug of tea and a slab of stale bread, continued to sniff, but at increasingly long intervals. Mr. Nobbs glanced at her resentfully. She was not even a pretty child. The little narrow face that peered out from amidst short, wispy black hair was old—inexpressibly old. It was almost repellent in its unyouthfulness. It gave people who saw her for the first time the same sense of shock and vague physical discomfort as the face of a grown man or woman with a dwarfed body. It gave Mr. Nobbs, whose nervous system was at its worst in the early morning, an attack of what he called the "jim-jams".

"I don't see wot you've got to look blue about," he burst out fiercely. "You ain't got to turn out in the cold to earn bread for a lot of greedy brats. You can sit 'ere and roast yourself. Wot 'ave you got to grumble at? I'd like to know."

'Melia blinked at the fire.

"Nothink."

"Well, then, don't do it. Look cheerful!" A sudden recollection came to him. "Fourteen to-day, ain't yer?"

'Melia nodded, and Mr. Nobbs growled disgustedly.

"Fourteen years of bad luck, that's wot it's been. Well, you don't ave to go to school no more, that's one good thing."

"Teacher said"

"Well, wot did yer teacher say?"

"p'raps I might go on a bit."

"Go on? Wot for? Wot's the use of larnin' you anythink? You ain't no good. Fourth standard, ain't it?"

"Yus."

"Fourth standard!" Think of that! Why, when 'Enry left he was in the seventh—top of it too—eh, mother?"

It was not often that Mr. Nobbs addressed Mrs. Nobbs as "mother". But at the name "'Enry" a change had come over them all. Even the twins sat still with an awed look on their small, smeary faces. It was as though a magician had lifted for a moment the cloud of squalor and misery and hopelessness from the garret. The fire seemed to burn more clearly. It danced its reflection pryingly on the five faces that were turned to it in sudden thoughtfulness. The sullen, peevish resentment in Mr. Nobbs's eyes had brightened to a look of triumph. Mrs. Nobbs smiled a slow, fat smile.

"Yus, 'e was a clever lad, was 'Enry!"

"'E'll get somewhere before 'e's done, you can tike my word for it. I saw 'im the other day, walking with a gal—a reg'lar lady. And 'e 'ad a bowler 'at and an overcoat like them swells 'ave, with skirts to it, an' a button 'ole—a carnation."

"Why, Ambrose, you never told me! Did you speak to 'im?"

Mr. Nobbs's eyelids dropped. He rubbed the knees of his shabby trousers with the palms of his hands.

"No, I didn't. Wot cher tike me for? 'I'm a gent and me a workin' man. A nice thing! But I watched 'im—I followed 'im for a bit. It made me come over queer to think of that fine young chap bein' my son"

In the following silence 'Melia's voice sounded thin and and quavering.

"Teacher said, p'raps if I stayed on"

Mr. Nobbs sprang up with a roar.

"Never you mind wot your teacher said! I won't 'ave none of it. You'll come 'ome and 'elp your mother and your poor old father. We've kept you idle long enough. You've got to earn your keep now, d'yer 'ear?"

'Melia heard. She began to dress the twins, and their unquenchable exuberance kept her from further unwelcome manifestations. Presently Mr. Nobbs went out. Nobody inquired as to his return. No one knew what he did with his day, and since he provided nothing towards the upkeep of the establishment, nobody cared. It was presumed that he earned enough to pay for his drinks, and that was all that could be expected of him.

'Melia washed the mugs and brought what order was possible into the squalid chaos. By that time the window had begun to show a pale outline, and in the cold, grey reality of daylight the fire grew dim and colourless. Mrs. Nobbs twisted her red, ungainly fingers impatiently in the dirty coverlet.

"Near time for you to be off, ain't it, 'Melia?"

"Yus, Ma."

"'Melia!"

"Yus?"

"Look 'ere, you ask Mrs. Pugmire to let you 'ave a bit in advance, there's a good girl. On the way 'ome you can get a drop or two at the "'Arp". Them pains is coming on frightful. You wouldn't 'ave your poor old mother suffer, would you, 'Melia?"

"P'raps Mrs. Pugmire won't."

A dull flush crept under the coarse skin. Mrs. Nobbs leant out over the bed and caught her daughter by the arm with a strength that had made her famous in earlier days.

"You'll do as I tell you, you ugly little tike, and no back chat either! D'yer 'ear?"

'Melia heard. She showed no sign of resentment or pain. It was all part of life. She took a dilapidated black straw hat from a nail in the wall and set it on her small head with a wistful care. Once it had been a very beautiful hat with flowers round the crown, and even now three dilapidated daisies still clung dejectedly to their moorings. They gave 'Melia a queer warm thrill when she looked at them. It was like looking at the fire—she did not know why. Nor did she know in the least that it was a thrill of happiness.

"You 'urry up, now!" said Mrs. Nobbs drowsily.

The door closed, and the wooden stairs creaked under the flying feet.

Mrs. Nobbs heaved over with her face to the wall and slept the sleep of the just.

Mrs. Pugmire was on the doorstep polishing a massive brass plate on which was inscribed: "Jenkins and Smythe, Solicitors. Commissioners for Oaths," a description which thereafter lent Mr. Nobbs's language an awful official solemnity in 'Melia's ears. Mrs. Pugmire had also been making up fires, and her round, good-natured face was black.

"Bit late, ain't yer, 'Melia?"

"Yus. Mother was took bad again." She was panting, and her thin little legs trembled under her. "Spasims," she added impressively.

Mrs. Pugmire made a face at the "solicitors".

"Well, get along in. First room on the right. I've put a duster on the table for you. You make things clean and tidy before the gents come. They'll be that angry if they find us about. They likes to think the hangels dusted for 'em in the night. You'll 'ave to 'urry."

'Melia hurried. She hid her hat under a table, and, having found the duster, set to work with the fierce, desperate energy of an apprentice hand. The yellow dinginess of the place did not depress her, for that, too, was only normal, but the solemn book-cases, the great desks and amazingly high stools were vaguely terrifying. They watched her in severe, judicial silence. They disapproved of her. When she tried to dust their loftiness they seemed to draw themselves up to their full height, disdaining her. She scurried to and fro among them bravely, but she was so small that she had to scramble up on to the high stools to reach the desks at all, and the ascent and descent were alike perilous.

And hunting at her heels was the thought of the "gents" and their possible and awful anger.

She was perched on the highest stool of all—a treacherous thing with a slithery, polished seat which had already unhorsed her once—when the door opposite opened and a young man entered. 'Melia could just see him over the top of a barrier of inkpots. An unbiassed observer would not have been particularly impressed by the apparition. He had fair, lank hair, a pink face inclined to pimples, and a red tie—a very ordinary young man, in fact. But if St. George in full armour with the dragon ignominiously in tow had burst upon her 'Melia could not have been more overwhelmed. She clutched at the largest inkpot, which tipped over with obliging promptness and sent a blue stream down the desk on to the floor. As to the young man, he shut the door behind him in the most approved manner of melodrama. His jaw had dropped.

"Amelia! what the dickens are you up to here?"

'Melia gulped.

"Charin'—'elpin' Mrs. Pugmire."

"What for?"

"Tuppence"

"Oh, I don't mean that! Why aren't you at school?"

"Don't go to school no more."

"Didn't you know I was here?"

"No. Didn't know nothink—not where you was, 'Enry."

The young man recovered his composure. Very deliberately he divested himself of his overcoat and hat and hung them up behind the door. 'Melia, who still clung to her perch, watched him in awe-struck silence. It was true. There was the fashionable coat—"skirts" and all—and the buttonhole and the bowler. When he discovered the still flowing stream of ink she was less stricken with horror at her own deed as joy at the perfection of his disgust.

"Clumsy little blighter, aren't you?"

"Yus." She mopped up the ink with Mrs. Pugmire's duster, thereby for ever forfeiting her right to tuppence. "Ma says I ain't no good at nothink," she added humbly.

Henry Nobbs did not offer any polite contradiction. He took his place at the now immaculate desk and began to turn back his cuffs. He seemed to have forgotten 'Melia's presence. She stood apart, the soaking duster squeezed between her hands, her eyes wide, a little breath of colour in each sunken cheek. This was Henry—their Henry—their one pride and glory, the solitary and splendid star in their black firmament, far removed from them and yet theirs to gaze upon—Henry, who had been top of the seventh standard, who had won prizes, and made friends with fine gentlemen, and finally had become a gentleman with a nobby overcoat and a bowler and a flower in his buttonhole. It gave 'Melia a queer sense of comfort and well-being just to look at him, as though she herself had suddenly become well-fed, well-clothed, prosperous and clean. Her small, famished heart grew big and hot with wonder and love and worship.

Henry looked at her at last. It was such a familiar look that it did not hurt her—impatient, uneasy, resentful. She knew that people wanted to hit her when they looked like that.

"What a dirty little ragamuffin you are. Half-starved too. Why don't you wash your face?"

"I do, 'Enry. But it ain't no good. It just comes again."

"What comes again? You can't even speak English. It's disgusting. The way the lot of you have gone down hill makes me sick. What do you do with yourself all day?"

'Melia faltered, and the question baffled her. What did she do that was worth repeating to such a man?

"I dunno, 'Enry; not much. There's the twins, and Ma—Ma gets took bad mostly every day, and—and a bit of charin' now that I don't 'ave to go to school no more, and—and"

A rare light of inspiration flooded the wizened, unchildlike face. "And then there's the pantomine, 'Enry!"

"What's that? What pantomime?"

"I dances—every evening—twice on Wednesdays and Saturdays. I'm sixth fairy. I've got a dress with green wings, and—and" She stopped again. There was something in Henry's expression that choked her and wilted her frail joy. "Of course, they ain't real wings," she explained anxiously.

Henry muttered to himself. The word "half-wit" did not reach her, and if it had she would have hardly understood.

"In heaven's name how old are you?" he asked.

"Fourteen, 'Enry—fourteen to-day."

"Good Lord! You might—you might be anything."

'Melia nodded. It was the sort of thing people said, and she knew that it was true. She knew that she was not like other children. She was different—all wrong.

"I wish you'd get something decent to do—something respectable," Henry observed sullenly. "Pantomime dancing's beastly."

"I ain't good for much," she explained. "Mother says so."

He brooded over this, his hands deep in his pockets, his face grown suddenly very red.

"Well, you can't come round here, Amelia. It won't do. I'm clerk to Jenkyns and Smythe, and I'm getting on well. I shall have a rise soon. But it'll dish me if anybody knew—well, that I had—that you were my sister, and that's the truth."

"No one don't need to know, 'Enry."

"You'd tell them."

"I wouldn't, honour bright."

"You'd call me Henry."

"No, I wouldn't—I wouldn't, really, 'Enry."

He relented a little, obviously relieved.

"Well, then, mind you don't. Get on with whatever you think you're doing here and clear out."

He pulled out a pile of papers and began to sort them with an air of profound preoccupation. But 'Melia lingered. She could not dust because everything she touched was left with a tell-tale smear, but also she could not go. She watched the young man as a dog watches a beloved master, and presently he looked up at her. His expression had changed. He was smiling awkwardly, shyly, like an embarrassed boy.

"Come here, Amelia Alexandria-what's-your-name." She came like a flash, and he pulled a lock of the straggling hair. "You're not a bad kid. Here, look at that. What do you think of her, eh?" He gave her the little piece of pasteboard with a repressed triumph which compared oddly with his previous hauteur. It made him seem younger and quite lovable. "Bit of all right, eh?"

'Melia's eyes and mouth grew round with wonder.

"She's a lidy, ain't she, 'Enry? And ain't she lovely—oh, 'Enry—beautifuller even than Cinderella."

He blushed, feigning good-natured indifference.

"Well, I don't know about that. But she's my girl. We're going to get spliced when I've saved a bit. Don't you tell"

Masculine voices sounded outside in the passage, and he thrust the photo in his pocket.

"There, you cut now. Remember what you promised—you might spoil everything." He was going to push her away, but his eyes met hers, and their wistful admiration and dumb appeal reached to some unknown, unexplored region of his heart. He kissed her gingerly on the cheek. "You're a queer little freak. There—and p'raps I'll bring Alice to see you dance—yes, I will really. And throw bouquets at you. And here's sixpence. Buy yourself something to eat, you look as though you wanted"

He broke off. The door had opened before a large and portly gentleman, and Henry busied himself among his papers. No one saw 'Melia slip out. She was so small and quiet. She forgot Mrs. Pugmire and the tuppence and the spoiled duster. She ran down the street, her little legs shaking under her, and the sixpence clenched tight in a hot and grimy hand.

That night Amelia Alexandria Nobbs danced as she had never danced before. Dancing was her one accomplishment, and even that was not so much an accomplishment as a queer disability to control the caperings of her thin little legs, which seemed to have a personality of their own, and to fly away with her whenever the band struck up. In her fairy dress and make-up her wizened unyouthfulness became an elfish piquancy, and she was put in the first row at the far end where people never failed to notice her. Good-natured matrons with their excited offspring pointed her out delightedly.

"Isn't she clever? Such a queer, sweet, little mite. She can't be more than nine. I didn't know they were allowed to dance so young, but I expect they get a lot. And dancing's so healthy."

As a rule, 'Melia regarded the big theatre with a kind of fascinated terror. Though her small, tired brain could not reason about it, she was more conscious of the dust and dirt, the dark, narrow passages, the cursings and petty rages of the feverish inhabitants than of the lights and pretty clothes and gay music. The glitter did not dazzle her. It was not like the fire at daybreak, or like Henry. It was not real, or warm, or true. But to-night everything seemed different. Somewhere in that vast black gulf Henry might be seated—Henry and the kind-faced, beautiful being who was to be his wife. He was watching her. Perhaps he would be pleased. Perhaps even he might nudge his companion.

"You see that green fairy—the sixth in the first row—that's my sister."

She became so sure of it that when the conductor handed up a bouquet to a giggling and opulent-looking Cinderella she knew that there was some mistake, and smiled wistfully out into the darkness. And thereafter she danced more passionately than ever. Her legs surpassed themselves. They almost frightened her. She thought that they might go on for ever and ever. And her head felt so queer and light, as though it did not belong anywhere, but was floating about in the air, all by itself.

And whilst she danced, Mrs. Nobbs leant against the bar of the nearest public-house and told her tale.

"And there was me, suffering somethink awful, and wot does the varmint do? Buys itself bull's-eyes and comes 'ome with a lot of bloomin' lies. But I told 'er orf, I did. She won't forget the clout I gave 'er in a 'urry. Ain't as though I weren't a good mother. Look at me, waitin' 'ere to fetch 'er when she's done gallivanting at the theyater. Ain't many as'd do it. Little good-fer-nothing!" She pushed her glass across the bar, and her husky voice grew suddenly clear and dominant. "But you should see my son 'Enry."

Winter gave place to summer.

After the duster episode, 'Melia worked no more at Jenkins and Smythe's. So she never knew why these two otherwise estimable gentlemen should be so addicted to swearing, and Henry became a dream. She dreamed of him in the laundry where she worked by day and in the third-rate music hall where at night she played a child's part in the tenth turn. She seemed, if anything, to have grown smaller. Her cheeks were colourless hollows; the little face tapered to a pointed, famished chin. But in her "make-up" she was still "elfish," and her terrifying little legs ran away with her more recklessly than ever.

Then, one hot August, something happened. At first 'Melia did not know what it was. It was like a great noise which meant nothing. She tried to understand, but her brain was full of the stifling steam of the laundry, the counting of shirts, and the tum-tum-tum of the orchestra. It did not seem to cope with anything else.

But she noticed things. For instance, Mrs. Nobbs's "attacks" suddenly took a turn for the better. She disappeared early in the morning and came home grimly sober. Mr. Nobbs brought home money and talked strangely of strange things. They moved into a better street, and the twins slept in a bed.

Then, one night, from the corner where she slept, 'Melia heard Mr. Nobbs's voice raised in bitter grief and anger.

"We've been driven back again. It ain't their fault, the fine lads, but there ain't enough of 'em. We shall want every man we've got. Gawd! why won't they 'ave me?"

"And 'Enry—'ave you 'eard?"

"Don't you worry, mother." He gave a short exultant laugh. "He's gone with the best, you can bet your life on that. They'll make a bloomin' orficer of 'im before you can say Jack Robinson. They'll want men like 'im. He'll do 'is bit—our 'Enry." He broke off, and 'Melia knew that he was looking at her, and she knew the look. "Gawd! if only them twins were grown or we had another son instead o' that," he muttered.

They talked far into the night, and 'Melia lay with closed eyes, still as a mouse, and listened. And now she began to understand.

A great and terrible thing had come to the world. It was a thing of fire, and brazen sound, and splendid, terrible colour. But she had no part—no share in it. It had no need of her, It needed everyone—even the twins—and, of course, Henry, but not Amelia Alexandria. It wouldn't have her at any cost.

Somehow or other it knew already that she was no good.

Suddenly her unruly legs broke into a run. A minute before they had been so tired and wobbly that it seemed doubtful whether they would ever cover the distance between the laundry and home. And now they ran. A minute later they were marching—right-left, right-left, and 'Melia's head was up and her chest out. The man beside her smiled good-naturedly. The drums went rat-a-tat-tat, "Keep in step there, 'Melia!" and the pipes shrieked, "Hurrah, hurrah! we're coming! Clear the way there!" It was a wonderful, amazing change. It was as though the grey October twilight had caught fire. Everything—everybody looked different. The streets shone and the veriest loafer stepped out with a devil-may-care air. Even 'Melia had a dangerous look about her. The heavy cloud which had rested on her small head, growing heavier and blacker every day, and making it so difficult for her to understand, lifted. She seemed to have broken through into clear sunlight

At the cross-roads they parted company. The regiment went swinging on into the dusk, and 'Melia turned slowly into her own street. Gradually the sound of the pipes faded in the distance, and her heart beat lower, and her legs grew tired and wobbly and discouraged, as they did when the orchestra released them from its pitiless spell. By the time she had toiled to the top of the narrow wooden stairs of their home everything was dark and still and grey. And yet it was not quite as it had been. She felt shaken and bewildered, as though she had seen a light whose after-glow showed faintly on the gathering clouds.

She opened the door of the one room, which, in spite of better days, they still occupied. It was all dark and quiet. Mr. and Mrs. Nobbs were both on what they called "night-shift," and the twins had been given into the care of a kindly neighbour. But even on the threshold 'Melia felt that there was something hidden in the darkness—something that had moved as she entered and now crouched motionless, watching her. She herself stood stock still, frozen with terror, until the sudden creak of a chair drove a little whistling breath between her clenched teeth. A man's figure shot up between her and the pale lightness of the window.

"Amelia, is that you? Don't cry out now, for heaven's sake. It's all right. It's me—Henry."

She did not answer. She heard him fumbling with matches, and presently by a flickering candle-light she saw him. He wore the same fine coat, and yet somehow it was fine no longer. And he was different. Or, perhaps, the poverty of the room threw its shadow over him, making him look thin and hunted and dishevelled. He stood there, trying to smile at her, and then it was as though a wire that held his face had snapped, letting his features fall into grotesque, pitiful lines. He turned away, tumbling into the chair by the empty grate, and the room was full of the terrible sound of a man crying.

In that moment Amelia Alexandria grew up. The shock of the incredible thing lifted her right out of the twilight in which she lived. She ran to him, pulling his hands from his face, calling to him, rubbing her sunken, grubby cheek against his wet one in inarticulate anguish and pity.

"Oh, 'Enry, don't you tike on like that! Don't you cry—please don't cry, 'Enry. You ain't got no call to cry. It'll be orl right. I'll make it orl right for you, I will, honour bright."

He clung to her—that was the most incredible thing of all—he clung to her as though to the one sure, strong thing in a tottering universe. His head rested on her inadequate little shoulder, his trembling shook her as a storm shakes a frail young sapling. And she held him with an immense, sublimely confident power to save and comfort that came to her in his need. "Don't cry, 'Enry. Don't cry!"

He looked up at last, and in the sickly light his face showed wet and twisted and wry, like a broken-hearted child's.

"I—I'm not crying. I've had an awful time; I didn't know what to do. I—I've been prowling about; I didn't know where to go. I thought of chucking myself in the river. Where are they? Where's mother, and—and"

"They're both out—workin'. They won't be back till mornin'."

His hands dropped limply from their desperate hold.

"I—I can wait a bit, then. I couldn't face them—they wouldn't understand. They've got ideas—about me. I only came because there was no one else—like a hunted rat" He broke off, his teeth chattering. "Lord, how cold it is!"

She said nothing, but she began to lay the fire, and presently set the kettle over the smoky flame. She was outwardly just as usual—quiet and solemn—but inside her heart was beating with a sick fear. She could not think clearly, but she knew that something evil had laid its knife at the roots of the one thing that had grown straight and fine in their sunless, arid garden, their one little bit of glory and vision which they had clung to so stubbornly. From where she crouched on the fender she watched him, and under that dumb, anxious gaze he grew restless, and his laden, red-rimmed eyes met hers at last with a piteous resentment.

"What are you staring at? D'you think I'm a circus?"

"Oh, no, 'Enry."

"Don't do it. I can't stick it. I might be a god—a blessed tin god—and—and I'm all in—done for—broke—gone to blazes." He began to laugh hysterically, and he laughed till he buried his face in his shaking hands. She crept up to him and touched him tentatively like a timid, loving animal.

"Wot's up, 'Enry?"

"Money. You wouldn't understand."

"Yus, I would. I'd try to. I knows lots about money."

He looked at her dully. And suddenly he began—it was like the bursting of a pent-up torrent. He did not know whether she understood or not. The burden of it all had become too great. He was young, and as the faltering sentences fell from his lips they seemed to carry with them all his conceits and absurdities and leave the boy quivering and raw and broken.

"At first it was only a little—just a shilling or two—and when I won I paid it back—honest—and then a chap gave me a tip—a dead cert—and I borrowed—and lost. Then I had to get it back—I had to—but the brute went lame, and—and they've begun to suspect. I wanted to pay back out of my screw, but I haven't had time. They're going over my books to-morrow—they're hard men. If I can't square things it means quod, and there's Alice—no end proud. I know what she's thinking all the time. Why don't I join up and do my bit? And I would—I'd make good—but I can't now. I shan't have the chance."

She stood very straight.

"You'll 'ave to go, 'Enry. We ain't got enuf men. They—they've got to 'ave fellows like you, Dad says. They want you bad."

He laughed bitterly.

"They'll want me all right."

"Is—is it an awful lot of money?"

"Five quid. It might as well be five thousand."

She was looking away from him, and the firelight in her eyes lent them an odd, elfish brightness.

"I've got five pounds, 'Enry."

"You? Go on!" He jeered savagely. "Don't tell lies."

"I 'ave. I saved it." She spoke very slowly and carefully. "Mother don't know. I kept it dark. I earn a lot at the 'all—'cause I can dance. I ain't got it 'ere. I keeps it with a friend. Five pounds it is."

He sprang up with a stifled oath.

"If that's true—if you'd only lend it me—you don't know what it means. I can't believe it, you queer little freak."

She had picked up the shabby hat from the floor where it had fallen.

"I gotter go now, 'Enry. There's the 'all at seven. I'll bring it when I comes back. You stay 'ere. No one'll know. It'll be orl right now."

He nodded, but he did not really hear what she had said—he was not thinking of her. His eyes shone, and he held himself with his old jauntiness. From the doorway she looked back at him. There was a world of unshaken love and wonder in that look, but he did not see it. He was thinking of all that life still held for him, and she turned and went on down the dark stairs.

The recruiting band was on its way home. Amelia Alexandria met it at the bottom of the street and marched with it to the rat-a-tat-tat of drums, and her head was up and her narrow chest thrown out. A newly-won soldier glanced down at her, and in the lamplight her small face looked so set and earnest that he laughed.

"Going to join up, eh?"

She shook her head.

"Oh, no; wouldn't 'ave me. I ain't no good," Her shrill, little voice grew strong with a sudden joyous pride. "But I've got a big brother. 'E's going for a soldier to-morrow—'Enry is."

"Fine chap, your big brother!"

"Yus," she said simply. "'E's fine."

"I reckon you'd do your bit if you could, eh?"

The brave blare of the trumpets drowned her answer. Tears coming from she didn't know where burned in Amelia Alexandria's eyes, her grubby fists were clenched tight, and her heart grew big and hot.

For almost it seemed as though the great Thing had caught her up into itself, as though even she belonged a little

The producer of the skit, "The Seven Chits," did not appear to hear, and when she said it all over again, a little louder and with a desperate quaver in her voice, he stared through a cloud of cigar smoke and laughed crossly.

"Five pounds advance? Rubbish! What next? No; certainly not! Ridiculous! The brat's mad! Chances are the show'll close down next week. Off with you!"

She held her ground. But there was nothing heroic or pathetic about her just then, nothing to touch the heart. Her sharp little nose was red, her cheeks were white under the grime, and she had a stupid, sullen look.

"I gotter 'ave it," she persisted dully. "I gotter"

The producer arose majestically from his chair. Only on the stage or between the covers of a novel are want and disease really appealing. The average well-fed human being shrinks from their genuine manifestations as from something repulsive, and the producer was distinctly well-fed. He took Amelia Alexandria by the shoulder and propelled her out of the room and slammed the door viciously.

"Cheeky brat!"

The corridor was empty and in half darkness. The usual confusion and hubbub had momentarily died down, for it was the star turn, and every one who could, even to the blasé call-boy, had slipped away to the wings. In the solemn hush Amelia Alexandria heard a big, booming, woman's voice and the martial rumble of the orchestra.

"Come on, lads! We want the lot of you."

It was Flossie Montmorency singing her great recruiting song.

Amelia shuffled slowly along the passage. She was crying quietly, monotonously. She was no good. Just for that one moment the chance had been in her hands. The Great Thing had looked at her and beckoned, "Come on, 'Melia! Now then, do your bit!" But now it was all gone. She was outside it all—the cheering and the singing and the giving were not for her. And there was Henry—their Henry whom England needed so badly—waiting.

A door stood open, letting out a yellow flood of light into the sombre passage. 'Melia Alexandria stood still. At first she was only fascinated, dazzled into forgetfulness, and then it was as though a shuttered window in her mind had been burst open.

"Come on, lads! We want the lot"

Apparently, Miss Montmorency suffered from the weakness of genius and a careless dresser. Her fur coat was on the floor, her dress had been flung anyhow over a chair; there were shoes, stockings, hats everywhere. And on the table, glittering under the white electric glare were silver brushes, bangles, rings—a gold bag.

Just for one instant Amelia waited. Then she went forward. She took no precautions. She did not look about her or listen. She was in the power of something bigger than herself—bigger than fear.

There were seven pound notes crumpled up in the gold bag. She counted out five with red-knuckled, shaking fingers. Right and wrong were only vague phantoms to Amelia Alexandria. She only knew of punishment and reward. She had to choose between them—no, simpler than that—between herself and Henry—between nothing and everything.

She turned suddenly. A figure had loomed up in the open doorway—a portly, dumbfounded figure. In the distance Miss Montmorency's hefty contralto vaulted the high "E" amidst tumultuous applause. Just for an instant the two stared at each other. And then a strange thing happened. 'Melia, the timid, the cowed, the broken, gathered herself together like some wild thing of the forests. She made no sound. She flung herself at the enemy—a tiger-cat springing in the face of an unwieldy, puzzled elephant—and the elephant stepped back, and the way was open.

Amelia Alexandria fled. For the last time the amazing incalculable legs answered to the call—carrying her to victory...

Henry Nobbs waited for her at the head of the stairs. He took the paper money from her clenched hand and counted it in the dark. She was leaning against the wall and he could not see her. He did not know that she could hardly stand. She hushed the agonised, panting lungs with the last effort of her will.

But a minute later he picked her up. He kissed her on both clammy cheeks.

"You've done it, 'Melia. You saved me. You're the best little sister a fellow ever had. And I'll pay you back. I'll fight like ten men just to make you proud of me again. I'll bring you back something fine." He laughed out joyously. "Perhaps a German helmet."

And then he kissed her again and set her down, and a moment later was gone.

Amelia Alexandria listened to his retreating steps. She heard his cheery, farewell shout. Then the cloud which had lifted for so long from her tired, bewildered brain, rolled back again, shutting out the thought of him. The amazing legs gave way suddenly and completely. It grew very dark—darker than night.

They found her there when they came to look for her, lying in a little unconscious heap half-way up the stairs.

After that life resolved itself into a series of pictures for Amelia Alexandria. It was like sitting in a picture-palace. A film would be thrown on the screen showing strange places and strange people, and then everything would fade into darkness, and after a while another scene, would come along. Amelia supposed it all meant something, but she wasn't sure.

One scene showed up clearer than the rest. It represented a big, glass-domed room, lined with benches, on which a swarm of solemn, black-coated gentry bobbed up and down with a tremendous enthusiasm. And extra large policemen, looking somehow as though they were in church and quite human kept order. 'Melia had never seen a policeman without his helmet, and the phenomenon filled her with awe and helped to keep her awake. For there was a musty-fusty, sleepy smell about the place, and the light, dim and foggy, seemed to have been in prison all its life and to have lost heart.

Opposite 'Melia, on a bench higher than the rest and barricaded by a sinister-looking desk, sat an old, old man. He was quite alone. He looked at 'Melia and 'Melia looked at him. She had a dim idea that there was some sort of relationship between them. They had set her on a tall stool so that she could see him better over the bars. And she, too, was all alone.

There was only one familiar face among the many. In a queer, box-shaped structure like a pulpit stood Miss Florence Montmorency, and, with tossing plumes and jangling jewels, gave her opinion to the world. In vain the old man tried to stem the torrent, it caught his protest like a straw and flung it aside.

"It's a shame, your Worship, a downright, blinking shame! If I'd known it was that poor, little, half-starved brat I wouldn't have said a word. What's five quid to me, anyhow? I said I didn't want to prosecute. I told that silly mug of a bobby I wouldn't, and what's more I won't."

She paused for breath, and the old man leant forward.

"Did you take the five pounds?" he asked in his tired, far-away voice.

"Say you didn't!" urged Miss Montmorency. "I'll back you! Don't let yourself be bullied, kiddo!"

"Yus," said 'Melia drowsily. "I took it."

"For food?"

"Yus."

"And quite right too! A jolly good thing. I'd have done it myself"

Somehow or other Miss Montmorency was whisked out of the picture, and in her place Mrs. Nobbs loomed up, red-faced with wrath and righteous indignation and other things.

"'Tain't as though I 'adn't been a good mother. Slaved my life away for the ungrateful brat, I 'ave, and orl she does is to bring shame on me grey hairs. Never was no good—not to anybody." Mrs. Nobbs began to sniff. "If it wasn't for me son 'Enry wot's gone to serve 'is King and Country"

She faded. A murmur of voices. Here and there a word rose up out of the dimness and confusion like a fish flashing to the surface of a pond. "Starved, malnutrition, not responsible, wasting, not long"

The old man and the child looked at each other as though there were some secret bond between them.

"You must try to be a good girl, Amelia."

Someone lifted her gently from her perch. But now there was no orchestra, no jolly marching band to call them to their duty, and the legs wobbled and gave way. One of the extra big policemen loomed over her. She saw his round, red face—it seemed to blot out everything else—and she was filled with wonder.

It had never occurred to her that policemen cried.

The black-coated, solemn-looking folk whispered together. The old man bent over his papers. A shrill voice rose up from somewhere in the background.

"'Ardened little monkey! Gawd knows where she got it from—not me, any'ow. Poor, but honest, that's wot we are. And there's 'Enry, chucked 'is job to do 'is bit. Gawd be thanked 'e need never know; it'd break 'is 'eart, poor chap—a sister like that. Wot's that? Well, ain't I goin' quiet?"

The voice faded into the distance.

The nurse paused with her hand on the half-opened door and looked back over her shoulder. She had flushed up suddenly and her lips were not quite steady.

"She will be so happy," she said. "She is always talking of you. We read her the bits out of the papers, and—and she was so proud." As she spoke her eyes sank to the level of the patch of purple ribbon on his left breast. She was thinking how strange it was that 'Melia Alexandria should have such a brother, and of the many wonderful things that war brings in its train. So she did not see the young man's face.

"I would have come before. I didn't know, they never told me. They wanted to keep it from me."

The nurse understood that quite well. A hero and a common little street girl who stole! But her heart was tender.

"You mustn't be hard on her. She has had a bad time, and I don't think she quite understood, and—and I'm afraid it won't be for long now."

The young man laughed. It was a very ugly little laugh, the kind that comes from someone who is badly hurt.

"No; I shan't be hard."

It was a big room and 'Melia slept in a far corner by the window, and a screen guarded her from her companions. The other children would grow quiet when they looked at the screen. It seemed to frighten them.

But behind it there was only Amelia Alexandria, and she was so small. She seemed to have grown smaller and to be part of the whiteness of the little white bed. Her dark head was like a faded flower whose stem has been broken.

She was asleep, but when he knelt down beside her she opened her eyes and smiled at him as though he had been with her all the time.

"'Allo, 'Enry!"

He tried to speak. All the things that he had meant to say slipped away from him. Something there was about Amelia Alexandria which made him feel helpless and young and foolish. She had grown up—she had grown wise—she was looking at him and at life from a serene height. And suddenly he was the child who needed comforting. He hid his face in his hands, and she put a thin arm about him, holding him close.

"Don't you take on, 'Enry. I'm orl right. You wasn't to know nothink—no one was to know."

"They're going to know now. I'm going to get you out of here. You're coming home with me. I'm married. I've told Alice. I'm going to tell everyone."

"Wot cher goin' to tell them?"

"What you did. What I am."

She smiled vaguely, wistfully.

"I likes being 'ere, 'Enry. They're that good to me. I gets things to eat, and I lie 'ere all day, like a princess, and sometimes Miss Flossie comes and brings me choc'lates." Her thin voice grew clear and joyous. "And she tells me about you, 'Enry; 'ow you took the trench and all them Germans. I likes that best. But I don't say nothink—I promised you I wouldn't—you a real live horficer and me—It'd spoil everything if they knew."

"Don't, 'Melia, for God's sake!"

"My, ain't cher fine, 'Enry! A real man! I like that better than the coat with skirts; and then, the bit o' ribbon." She passed her ghostly hands over him as though to make sure of his reality. "The King gave you that, didn't 'e?"

"Yes, yes; perhaps he wouldn't have if he had known. He's going to know now. 'Melia, why did you do it? It wasn't right—I wasn't worth it. Why did you do it, 'Melia?"

She tried to answer. The little flame of life that had sprung up for a last time was burning very low. Her head rested wearily against his shoulder.

"Don't you tell, 'Enry."

"I must. I've got to get you out of here."

"I don't want to. I likes it. Things to eat and no twins. 'Enry, if you tells them it's all been no good, then I ain't done nothink. I was that 'appy. You gotter promise."

"I can't. I'm blackguard enough."

"You ain't, you—you're an 'ero.. The King said so. My, ain't it getting dark, though?"

"Is it? Yes, perhaps"

"Tell me about them trenches, 'Enry. Was there a band playin'?"

"No, no band."

"There was a band—that night. I likes bands—'elps you to do things. A soldier, 'e said; 'You'd do your bit, too, if you could, wouldn't cher, 'Melia?' 'E seemed sort of to know I was going to 'ave a chance."

"A chance! What chance?"

"'Melia ain't no good for nothink; Dad said."

He was beginning to understand. It was as though he had caught a glimpse of a small, tired soul that had struggled its way up out of a sordid gloom into the light. He held her close, desperately close.

"It's going to be alright now, 'Melia."

"You won't tell, 'Enry?"

"No, not if you don't want it."

"Then—p'raps—I'll 'ave done somethin'—after all"

"Yes, something fine; the bravest thing"

Her smile was a little scornful.

"Tell me about them trenches, 'Enry."

He drew a deep unsteady breath. But he spoke with a ringing clearness. She was slipping from him, but before she went she was to know what she had won.

"They were enfilading our men—shooting them down from the side, like this—and two other chaps and I went for them. There was only one gun—a machine gun—but they bowled over the other two before we got near, and then—then I just bombed them out."

"How fine! Wot cher cryin' for, 'Enry."

"I'm not crying. Then the King gave me this medal. And he said: 'You take this along to your sister Amelia Alexandria, and give it to her with my love. For she's made a man of you, and she's done her bit with the bravest of them all.'"

"G'arn!"

"So it's yours, 'Melia, you won it; it's your very own. Can you read? It's got 'For Valour' written on it"

"Wot's—wot's valour?"

"What you're made of."

Her hand closed tight over the simple bronze cross. Her face was radiant, but her eyes had a blank unseeing look.

"Ain't it dark? Must be gettin' on for night. I think I could sleep a bit now, 'Enry. I'm that appy."

He stayed with her, her head on his shoulder, but she did not wake again. She slept on all through the night, and when they came to her in the first flush of the morning she was still sleeping. Her small face had a look of such ineffable content that the children were allowed to peep at her. And after that they were not afraid or sorry any more.

They knew there was no need.