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CHAPTER I
ON a gloomy December day, towards evening, Charles Rayborne was sitting alone in his lodgings in a little street off the Gray's Inn-road-a part of London that is both dirty and uninviting. He had just come in from a round of visits, during which he had walked many miles, called at many strange places, and, above all, seen many sights amongst the poor people he sought out; sights that made his heart ache and caused him more than one bitter sigh. Outside it was getting foggy, but in his modest, almost humble abode, he had a small fire and a bright lamp that helped somewhat to make the dingy apartment more comfortable, if they could not make it cheerful.
Charles Rayborne was one of those who give up their lives to missionary work amongst the poor of London; and his present surroundings were a strange contrast to those he had been used to before he came to town to take up his duties. Well educated as he had been, brought up in the county by parents who at one time had been in a good position-though at their death he found himself practically penniless-the life he now led was a hard one, and had told upon his health. He missed the country air, the long walks that made one feel invigorated instead of "fagged"; and, if the truth were known, it is probable that he ate scarcely sufficient to keep up the healthy vitality he owed to his previous life. For he gave many a shilling here and there to help those he visited; and his income was but a slender one at the best.
This afternoon he sat waiting for his simple meal of tea and toast, pondering over a letter spread out before him on the table. His clear-cut face, though careworn, was always pleasant in expression; a trifle more thoughtful than is usually seen in men of his age-he was but twenty-seven-his dark hair falling over his forehead, as he leaned his head on his hand and studied the missive that evidently, both interested and puzzled him.
"This is a strange communication," he said to himself, "and stranger still that it should happen just now, when-. However, I suppose this is the lady. Lucky I came in when I did."
A knock at the door announced a visitor, and a young lady was ushered in, accompanied by a much older woman-evidently a servant. The younger women was well-dressed in furs, but her attire was quiet and in good taste. She appeared to be about nineteen or twenty, was fair, and her face had a peculiarly refined, sweet look that won the confidence of those who saw her, as inevitably as her undoubted beauty commanded admiration. Her voice was soft and pleasing, her large grey eyes were honest and fearless, yet very kindly, and on occasion tender, in expression. She was one of whom one might safely say at a glance, "She is a good, true, and sincere woman."
Rayborne gazed at her for a moment or two in unaffected admiration; she seemed such a contrast to most of those with whom he was thrown into daily contact. Then, suddenly remembering himself, he said:
"I suppose I have the pleasure of speaking to Miss Verney?"
"Yes," she replied. "Can you do what I ask?"
She had seated herself, and motioned to her companion to do the same; Raymond sat down also, and took up again the letter he had been studying.
"Let me understand," he began, "The letter of introduction you enclosed is from my old college friend, Henry Dalton, now, as I know, a curate in your town-or village, as I suppose it really is. He says you are seeking some means of joining directly in our rescue work. Well, that is easy enough, of course; unfortunately, there is too much opportunity. But you wish to select some particular subject or person, and she must be a young girl, and a girl without parents or anyone to care for her, you say. I-"
"It's this way, Mr. Rayborne," his visitor interrupted. "My name is not really Verney. I am only the adopted daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Verney, though they have been truly as kind and fond of me as any parents could possibly be of their own child. They had no children, and adopted me when I was a baby. I do not know who my parents were, or what is my real name," she continued, with a transient flush; "but I am not ashamed that anyone should know the truth. And what I think to myself is this. Suppose, Mr. Verney-my dear father, as I call him-had not taken me and brought me up as he has, what might not my position be to- day? I might be struggling in a state of poverty and distress to lead an honest life under fearful difficulties, might even be in a state of privation or suffering-oh, perhaps worse-for the want of a little-perhaps a very little-money from a friendly hand. I have not much at my disposal; but every year at this time Mr. Verney gives me a certain sum to do what I like with. I have never been in London before, but, coming up now to stay with some friends, I thought to myself-can I not, might I not try to do one little bit of good to some poor girl who may now be struggling, as I might have been struggling, but for the kindness of my adopted parents? I have only a few pounds to spend now, but shall have more in a few months' time. Now, can you advise me how I can make them go as far as possible in doing what I have set my mind upon?"
Charles Rayborne gazed at her in no little surprise. Such ideas and talk were altogether new to him, coming from the lips of a young, well-dressed girl; for he knew that, as a rule, young ladies find it only too easy to dispose of spare cash in a dozen frivolous ways without concerning themselves with the possible necessities of their poorer sisters struggling in the great sea of London poverty. But his visitor was so earnest, her face lighted up with such vivacity and intensity, that he could not but perceive that this was a settled resolve with her, and no mere passing whim. To the admiration he had felt at first sight was added now a feeling of deep respect, and he sighed when the thought came to him-"Would that there were more in the world like this one amongst those who have the means, then would our task in life be easier!"
And, while listening to her, and watching the play of feeling on her face, as she gradually became more and more animated, the idea came to him that he had met her somewhere before, or, at least, had seen a very similar expression upon some face that he could not recall.
When she paused at her last question, he smiled, and said:
"It is curious that I happen to know of such a case, and only one. The name of the girl is Maggie and she has no relative but a brother younger than herself. She is, I believe, nearly twenty, and the brother-William-is, I fancy, some two years younger. The mother and father were at one time respectable tradespeople; but the father took to drink, lost his home, then got into prison, and shortly after he came out he died. The mother and the daughter struggled along with the boy somehow till lately, when William got into trouble, and it seemed to break the poor woman's heart, for she sank and died two or three weeks ago; and Maggie, in a fit of filial devotion, sold her sewing machine to pay for the funeral. It was all she had to sell; but it was a foolish thing to do, because she is now actually starving, being unable to undertake work other than sewing, and that she cannot do now for want of the machine. The mother had been fairly well educated, and she brought these two children up wonderfully well, considering her means. I believe Maggie is very deserving of help; as to her brother-well, I scarcely know what to say. I came across them about two years ago in the course of my work on the Prison Gate Mission, and since then have seen them frequently; and during the last four days I have been thinking and grieving much about the poor girl, and wondering what I could do to help her."
Miss Verney started to her feet.
"Let us go to her-at once!" she exclaimed.
"What!-to-night?" Rayborne asked, amazed.
"Yes, sir. Why not?"
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