MISTAKEN KINDNESS.
CHRISTMAS was drawing near. Only a fortnight off. Winter had begun
early, the ground was hard with frost, and a bitter north-east wind
was making itself felt through every crevice. Old folk and little
children shrank before it and cowered by the hearths, where, alas!
in many a home both fire and food were scarce.
Strong men faced the cutting blast, and wandered many a mile in search
of work, only to come back disappointed, footsore, weary in body and
faint in heart. Wives met them at the threshold, and needed not
to ask, "How have you fared?" They saw and read in their husbands'
faces a tale of strength spent in vain and hope disappointed. And,
poor things! many amongst them strove to smile a welcome, in spite of
heavy hearts and sad forebodings. Such went hungry themselves in order
to spread something like a meal for the tired wayfarer, whose only
longing was for work, which he could not get, and the chance to win
with his strong, willing hands, bread for wife and children.
"It will be a hard winter in-doors and out. God help us," were words
uttered by many a tongue, and the thought was in many a heart that did
not give it utterance, for fear of distressing still more those who
were already sad enough at the prospect before them.
And yet, whilst there was so much that was sorrowful in many a poor
home, it might have made angels rejoice to see the little acts
of kindness that the inmates showed one to another. Little, if looked
at apart from their surroundings. Great, when one saw what they cost
to the self-devoting souls who out of their penury ministered to those
who were in bitterer straits than themselves. The best morsel would be
taken from the lips for a neighbour's sick child; a share of a scanty
meal given, where the cupboard in some other poor home was quite
empty, and kindly words and deeds were never lacking.
Only God knew what some apparently small gifts cost to those who
bestowed them, but how sweet to think that Our Father does know all
things, even the very thoughts of our hearts!
There were many sufferers at Halesford, the little country town where
Mr. Duff dispensed his loaves and his opinions to all comers alike.
There were not so many customers passing in and out as in more
prosperous times, and some of those who entered the shop came
empty-handed to ask for credit until better times.
Mr. Duff rarely refused this. Halesford working men were none of your
runagates, here to-day and gone to-morrow, but mostly steady-going
folk, who spent their lives within a narrow circle and knew little
of the world beyond. Duff was a man of some capital, and not unkindly
in the main. He was rather proud of being able to give credit, and
would say, "I can afford to wait for my money, so long as I know
who I am trusting."
Many of the customers had to wait for their loaves too, whilst Duff
held forth on his favourite subjects. One of these was the absence
of Mr. Burton.
The owner of Halesford Hall had been from home for some weeks. "Called
to furrin parts, they say, by urgent business. Very convenient at a
time like this, when he could not well be amongst all this distress
without putting his hand in his pocket," said Mr. Duff, bitterly.
"It's a shame, a burning shame, that the biggest landowner in the
neighbourhood should keep out of the way, at the time of all others
when he should be doing his duty to his neighbours. I can only give
a little, but I can trust you folks that want a bit o' credit, and I
hope those in the meat and grocery lines will do the same."
Mr. James Burton was at home. His house was a small one in comparison
with the Hall, but, if report said truly, it abounded in creature
comforts.
"Mine is a little nutshell of a place," Mr. James would say in his
airy fashion, "but big enough to hold an old bachelor and his few
traps. 'Man wants but little here below,' you know, Mr. Duff. The 'dry
morsel,' the 'dinner of herbs' and quietness are better than the
'stalled ox' under certain circumstances."
Mr. James Burton looked meaningly, and nodded as if he would express
volumes by the movement of his head, and Mr. Duff felt gratified
at what sounded to him like a confidential remark.
He could not quite see the drift of Mr. James's words, though he was,
as the baker subsequently put it, "quoting Scripture like a parson."
Everybody who knew Mr. James was sure that "a dry morsel and a dinner
of herbs" would be the last meal he would be likely to relish; for,
if ever a man loved everything of the best, both for home and person,
he was the one.
"And why not? I should like to know," said Mr. Duff. "Money is made
round so as it may run. Isn't it better to keep it going than to lay
it by where it does good to nobody? I know what Mr. James meant.
The 'dinner of herbs' is just his comfortable little place where
everything is as bright as a button, and the 'stalled ox' is like,
in a way, to Halesford Hall with the master away, the money increasing
and the servants on board wages and saving out of 'em. 'Like master
like man.' They spend precious little."
Beside airing his opinions in converse with the baker and others,
Mr. James Burton continued to distribute small coin broad-cast.
"Poor fellow!" he would say, as he dropped sixpence into the hand of a
labourer out of work, "I wish I could give you any help worth having.
But I am a small man with small means, and can only deal in trifles.
If I were placed as some people are, I could do differently."
And then Mr. James would look towards the Hall, thus giving people
to understand how differently he would act were he its master, and at
the same moment bestow a penny on some little curly head that crossed
his path, bidding her run to Mr. Duff's for a bun.
No wonder the baker sang the praises of Mr. James, and was surprised
that Mrs. Brown did not agree with him in so doing.
The little woman was better off than many of her neighbours. She and
her husband had been industrious, striving folks, and had started
their married life with "something at their backs." They owned the
cottage in which they lived and some six acres of land. These had been
bequeathed to Mrs. Brown by the uncle who took her an orphan girl
to keep house for him, after the death of her parents. Her husband
went out to work when employment was to be had, and Mrs. Brown had her
cows, which found her enough to do in addition to her household
affairs.
So, when most of the neighbours were suffering, the Browns were not
only far above want, but ready with warm hearts and open hands to help
those who were less fortunate than themselves.
Mrs. Brown felt a little impatient when, standing once more
at Mr. Duff's counter, she had to listen to his praises of generous
Mr. James.
"I don't see as you do, Mr. Duff," she answered, with more decision
than usual. "It seems to me that Mr. James's way of giving costs him
very little. You may make a big show in sixpences and pence out of
five shillings, when you take care to give every halfpenny in the
streets and the market places and with all eyes upon you. Mr. James
does not stint himself. He has fine out o' season fruit and vegetables
sent all the way from London, and anybody knows what such-like things
cost. He looks very pleasant and he talks in that humble way, as if he
were boasting of being poor. But he talks like a poor man and spends
on himself like a rich one."
"'Better spend than hoard,' is my motto, Mrs. Brown, and I stick
to it. Maybe Mr. James might show more judgment in his spendings and
his givings, but your generous people are generally just a trifle
thoughtless. It's their nature so to be."
At this moment another customer entered the shop. She was pale and
trembling and seemed to be terribly shocked at something.
Mr. Duff was struck with her appearance, and gave her a chair to sit
down on.
"I am afraid you are ill," he said. "You look as if you had seen
a ghost."
"I've seen worse," replied the woman, when she had recovered herself
a little. "You knew old Ann Willis?"
The baker and Mrs. Brown assented, and the former added, "Who did not
know her that knew Halesford? What is amiss with her?"
"She's dead," replied the woman, solemnly.
"Dead! Why she was here only yesterday afternoon, and standing by this
very counter, Mr. James Burton gave her a shilling. He said, 'You want
something to make you comfortable, Ann, this bitter weather; so here's
an extra sixpence for you this time.'"
"Ay, and no doubt that shilling has been the death of her. She left
the 'Black Swan' sadly the worse for drink at about eight o'clock,
to go home to that miserable hut of hers, where there was not a soul
to expect her, or to look for her, if she did not come. You know the
short cut by the field corner where you have to cross a little bridge.
Ann mostly went home that way, to save a few steps: and last night,
having more than she could carry, she must have missed her footing
and fallen from the bridge."
"Well! She could not drown, for the beck has been frozen hard for the
last ten days," said Mr. Duff.
"No, but her head struck on the ice, and the blow knocked all the bit
of sense out of her that drink had left. If she ever came to herself,
she would have little chance of getting out of the bed of the stream
without help, for the banks are very straight up near the bridge, but
those that found her thought she had never moved after her head struck
the ice."
The speaker's face was full of horror, and tears were streaming down
little Mrs. Brown's cheeks as she heard the sad tale.
"How dreadful!" she exclaimed. "To think of falling down helpless and
senseless, with nobody near to save or to hear if she had been able
to cry for assistance. To die there, all alone. And so unfit to die.
Poor old Ann! I have grieved for her many a time when she was living,
but I am most sorry for her now."
Mr. Duff's looks expressed the shock the news had given him. And only
just before he had been praising Mr. James Burton for his generosity
to this unfortunate old woman.
"She never could resist the drink whilst she had a penny in her
pocket," said the woman who had brought the news. "It's an awful curse
to some folks; and those that don't feel it a temptation cannot tell
what a blessing they have to thank God for. Shame on those that put it
into poor old Ann's power to stupefy herself with what could do her
no good. If, instead of giving her money, they had done as you have
done many a time, Mrs. Brown, called her in to have a comfortable
meal, or sent her nice bits by the children, or a bundle of sticks
to light her fire with, that would have been showing her real
kindness. It seems to me that in putting money into her hand they gave
her the means of killing herself by inches. I should lay the old
woman's death at the door of whoever did it yesterday."
"Come, come, Mrs. Preston, that is going a little too far," said the
baker. "Nobody could foresee that old Ann would fall from the bridge.
Besides, no doubt Mr. James Burton meant to be kind when he made
his little presents to Ann. I think she died from the cold and the
fall, not from anything she had taken."
"But the fall and the cold were caused by the drink, and she could not
have had the drink but for Mr. James, and such as he who would say,
'Poor old creature! she wants something to warm and comfort her.'
Comfort! I pray that I and mine may always be kept from seeking
comfort in such a way. The sight of that poor dead face and the
lifeless body frozen all on a heap, as one may say, will be a warning
to me while I live."
"You saw her, then, and that was what turned you white and faint?"
said Mrs. Brown.
"Ay, and I should like to forget that picture," replied Mrs. Preston.
"Well, you have nothing to reproach yourself with," added the woman,
turning to Mrs. Brown. "You were her real friend, as you have been
to many besides, and may God reward you."
Good Mrs. Brown blushed at words of praise, which came straight from
her neighbour's heart. She had no desire that attention should be
called to her quiet good-doing, and shrank from its being made public.
But it was perhaps by examining her own motives and manner of helping
others according to her means, that Mrs. Brown had learned to estimate
the givings of Mr. Burton and Mr. James at something like their right
value.