the stairs without being heard by Aunt Lucy of Paul, and had thus
caught the last sentence. “Any better than Mrs. Mudge!” she repeated,
thoroughly provoked. “So you've been talking about me, you trollop, have
you? I'll come up with you, you may depend upon that. That's to pay for
my giving you tea Sunday night, is it? Perhaps you'll get some more.
It's pretty well in paupers conspiring together because they aint
treated like princes and princesses. Perhaps you'd like to got boarded
with Queen Victoria.”
The old lady sat very quiet during this tirade. She had been the subject
of similar invective before, and knew that it would do no good to oppose
Mrs. Mudge in her present excited state.
“I don't wonder you haven't anything to say,” said the infuriated dame.
“I should think you'd want to hide your face in shame, you trollop.”
Paul was not quite so patient as his attendant. Her kindness had
produced such an impression on him, that Mrs. Mudge, by her taunts,
stirred up his indignation.
“She's no more of a trollop than you are,” said he, with spirit.
Mrs. Mudge whirled round at this unexpected attack, and shook her fist
menacingly at Paul--
“So, you've put in your oar, you little jackanapes,” said she, “If
you're well enough to be impudent you're well enough to go to work.
You aint a goin' to lie here idle much longer, I can tell you. If
you deceive Dr. Townsend, and make him believe you're sick, you can't
deceive me. No doubt you feel mighty comfortable, lyin' here with
nothing to do, while I'm a slavin' myself to death down stairs, waitin'
upon you; (this was a slight exaggeration, as Aunt Lucy took the entire
charge of Paul, including the preparation of his food;) but you'd better
make the most of it, for you won't lie here much longer. You'll miss not
bein' able to talk about me, won't you?”
Mrs. Mudge paused a moment as if expecting an answer to her highly
sarcastic question, but Paul felt that no advantage would be gained by
saying more.. He was not naturally a quick-tempered buy, and had only
been led to this little ebullition by the wanton attack by Mrs. Mudge.
This lady, after standing a moment as if defying the twain to a further
contest, went out, slamming the door violently after her.
“You did wrong to provoke her, Paul,” said Aunt Lucy, gravely.
“How could I help it?” asked Paul, earnestly. “If she had only abused
ME, I should not have cared so much, but when she spoke about you, who
have been so kind to me, I could not be silent.”
“I thank you, Paul, for your kind feeling,” said the old lady, gently,
“but we must learn to bear and forbear. The best of us have our faults
and failings.”
“What are yours, Aunt Lucy?”
“O, a great many.”
“Such as what?”
“I am afraid I am sometimes discontented with the station which God has
assigned me.”
“I don't think you can be very much to blame for that. I should never
learn to be contented here if I lived to the age of Methuselah.”
Paul lay quite still for an hour or more. During that time he formed a
determination which will be announced in the next chapter.
VI.
PAUL'S DETERMINATION
At the close of the last chapter it was stated that Paul had come to a
determination.
This was,--TO RUN AWAY.
That he had good reason for this we have already seen.
He was now improving rapidly, and only waited till he was well enough to
put his design into execution.
“Aunt Lucy,” said he one day, “I've got something to tell you.”
The old lady looked up inquiringly.
“It's something I've been thinking of a long time,--at least most of the
time since I've been sick. It isn't pleasant for me to stay here, and
I've pretty much made up my mind that I sha'n't.”
“Where will you go?” asked the old lady, dropping her work in surprise.
“I don't know of any particular place, but I should be better off most
anywhere than here.”
“But you are so young, Paul.”
“God will take care of me, Aunt Lucy,--mother used to tell me that.
Besides, here I have no hope of learning anything or improving my
condition. Then again, if I stay here, I can never do what father wished
me to do.”
“What is that, Paul?”
Paul told the story of his father's indebtedness to Squire Conant, and
the cruel letter which the Squire had written.
“I mean to pay that debt,” he concluded firmly. “I won't let anybody say
that my father kept them out of their money. There is no chance here;
somewhere else I may find work and money.”
“It is a great undertaking for a boy like you, Paul,” said Aunt Lucy,
thoughtfully. “To whom is the money due?”
“Squire Conant of Cedarville.”
Aunt Lucy seemed surprised and agitated by the mention of this name.
“Paul,” said she, “Squire Conant is my brother.”
“Your brother!” repeated he in great surprise. “Then why does he allow
you to live here? He is rich enough to take care of you.”
“It is a long story,” said the old lady, sadly. “All that you will be
interested to know is that I married against the wishes of my family. My
husband died and I was left destitute. My brother has never noticed me
since.”
“It is a great shame,” said Paul.
“We won't judge him, Paul. Have you fixed upon any time to go?”
“I shall wait a few days till I get stronger. Can you tell me how far it
is to New York?”
“O, a great distance; a hundred miles at least. You can't think of going
so far as that?”
“I think it would be the best plan,” said Paul. “In a great city like
New York there must be a great many things to do which I can't do here.
I don't feel strong enough to work on a farm. Besides, I don't like it.
O, it must be a fine thing to live in a great city. Then too,” pursued
Paul, his face lighting up with the hopeful confidence of youth, “I
may become rich. If I do, Aunt Lucy, I will build a fine house, and you
shall come and live with me.”
Aunt Lucy had seen more of life than Paul, and was less sanguine. The
thought came to her that her life was already declining while his was
but just begun, and in the course of nature, even if his bright dreams
should be realized, she could hardly hope to live long enough to see it.
But of this she said nothing. She would not for the world have dimmed
the brightness of his anticipations by the expression of a single doubt.
“I wish you all success, Paul, and I thank you for wishing me to share
in your good fortune. God helps those who help themselves, and he will
help you if you only deserve it. I shall miss you very much when you are
gone. It will seem more lonely than ever.”
“If it were not for you, Aunt Lucy, I should not mind going at all, but
I shall be sorry to leave you behind.”
“God will care for both of us, my dear boy. I shall hope to hear from
you now and then, and if I learn that you are prosperous and happy, I
shall be better contented with my own lot. But have you thought of all
the labor and weariness that you will have to encounter? It is best to
consider well all this, before entering upon such an undertaking.”
“I have thought of all that, and if there were any prospect of my being
happy here, I might stay for the present. But you know how Mrs. Mudge
has treated me, and how she feels towards me now.”
“I acknowledge, Paul, that it has proved a hard apprenticeship, and
perhaps it might be made yet harder if you should stay longer. You must
let me know when you are going, I shall want to bid you good-by.”
“No fear that I shall forget that, Aunt Lucy. Next to my mother you have
been most kind to me, and I love you for it.”
Lightly pressing her lips to Paul's forehead Aunt Lucy left the room to
conceal the emotion called forth by his approaching departure. Of all
the inmates of the establishment she had felt most closely drawn to the
orphan boy, whose loneliness and bereavement had appealed to her woman's
heart. This feeling had been strengthened by the care she had been
called to bestow upon him in his illness, for it is natural to love
those whom we have benefited. But Aunt Lucy was the most unselfish of
living creatures, and the idea of dissuading Paul from a course which he
felt was right never occurred to her. She determined that she would
do what she could to further his plans, now that he had decided to go.
Accordingly she commenced knitting him a pair of stockings, knowing that
this would prove a useful present. This came near being the means of
discovering Paul's plan to Mrs. Mudge The latter, who notwithstanding
her numerous duties, managed to see everything that was going on, had
her attention directed to Aunt Lucy's work.
“Have you finished the stockings that I set you to knitting for Mr.
Mudge?” she asked.
“No,” said Aunt Lucy, in some confusion.
“Then whose are those, I should like to know? Somebody of more
importance than my husband, I suppose.”
“They are for Paul,” returned the old lady, in some uneasiness.
“Paul!” repeated Mrs. Mudge, in her haste putting a double quantity
of salaeratus into the bread she was mixing; “Paul's are they? And who
asked you to knit him a pair, I should like to be informed?”
“No one.”
“Then what are you doing it for?”
“I thought he might want them.”
“Mighty considerate, I declare. And I shouldn't be at all surprised
if you were knitting them with the yarn I gave you for Mr. Mudge's
stockings.”
“You are mistaken,” said Aunt Lucy, shortly.
“Oh, you're putting on your airs, are you? I'll tell you what, Madam,
you'd better put those stockings away in double-quick time, and finish
my husband's, or I'll throw them into the fire, and Paul Prescott may
wait till he goes barefoot before he gets them.”
There was no alternative. Aunt Lucy was obliged to obey, at least while
her persecutor was in the room. When alone for any length of time she
took out Paul's stockings from under her apron, and worked on them till
the approaching steps of Mrs. Mudge warned her to desist.
*****
Three days passed. The shadows of twilight were already upon the earth.
The paupers were collected in the common room appropriated to their use.
Aunt Lucy had suspended her work in consequence of the darkness, for
in this economical household a lamp was considered a useless piece of
extravagance. Paul crept quietly to her side, and whispered in tones
audible to her alone, “I AM GOING TO-MORROW.”
“To-morrow! so soon?”
“Yes,” said Paul, “I am as ready now as I shall ever be. I wanted to
tell you, because I thought maybe you might like to know that this is
the last evening we shall spend together at present.”
“Do you go in the morning?”
“Yes, Aunt Lucy, early in the morning. Mr. Mudge usually calls me at
five; I must be gone an hour before that time. I suppose I must bid you
good-by to-night.”
“Not to-night, Paul; I shall be up in the morning to see you go.”
“But if Mrs. Mudge finds it out she will abuse you.”
“I am used to that, Paul,” said Aunt Lucy, with a sorrowful smile. “I
have borne it many times, and I can again. But I can't lie quiet and let
you go without one word of parting. You are quite determined to go?”
“Quite, Aunt Lucy. I never could stay here. There is no pleasure in the
present, and no hope for the future. I want to see something of life,”
and Paul's boyish figure dilated with enthusiasm.
“God grant that you do not see too much!” said Aunt Lucy, half to
herself.
“Is the world then, so very sad a place?” asked Paul.
“Both joy and sorrow are mingled in the cup of human life,” said Aunt
Lucy, solemnly:
“Which shall preponderate it is partly in our power to determine. He
who follows the path of duty steadfastly, cannot be wholly miserable,
whatever misfortunes may come upon him. He will be sustained by the
conviction that his own errors have not brought them upon him.”
“I will try to do right,” said Paul, placing his hand in that of his
companion, “and if ever I am tempted to do wrong, I will think of you
and of my mother, and that thought shall restrain me.”
“It's time to go bed, folks,” proclaimed Mrs Mudge, appearing at the
door. “I can't have you sitting up all night, as I've no doubt you'd
like to do.”
It was only eight o'clock, but no one thought of interposing an
objection. The word of Mrs. Mudge was law in her household, as even her
husband was sometimes made aware.
All quietly rose from their seats and repaired to bed. It was an
affecting sight to watch the tottering gait of those on whose heads the
snows of many winters had drifted heavily, as they meekly obeyed the
behest of one whose coarse nature forbade her sympathizing with them in
their clouded age, and many infirmities.
“Come,” said she, impatient of their slow movements, “move a little
quicker, if it's perfectly convenient. Anybody'd think you'd been hard
at work all day, as I have. You're about the laziest set I ever had
anything to do with. I've got to be up early in the morning, and can't
stay here dawdling.”
“She's got a sweet temper,” said Paul, in a whisper, to Aunt Lucy.
“Hush!” said the old lady. “She may hear you.”
“What's that you're whispering about?” said Mrs. Mudge, suspiciously.
“Something you're ashamed to have heard, most likely.”
Paul thought it best to remain silent.
“To-morrow morning at four!” he whispered to Aunt Lucy, as he pressed
her hand in the darkness.
VII.
PAUL BEGINS HIS JOURNEY.
Paul ascended the stairs to his hard pallet for the last time. For the
last time! There is sadness in the thought, even when the future which
lies before us glows with brighter colors than the past has ever worn.
But to Paul, whose future was veiled in uncertainty, and who was about
to part with the only friend who felt an interest in his welfare, this
thought brought increased sorrow.
He stood before the dirt-begrimed window through which alone the
struggling sunbeams found an inlet into the gloomy little attic,
and looked wistfully out upon the barren fields that surrounded the
poorhouse. Where would he be on the morrow at that time? He did not
know. He knew little or nothing of the great world without, yet his
resolution did not for an instant falter. If it had, the thought of Mrs.
Mudge would have been enough to remove all his hesitation.
He threw himself on his hard bed, and a few minutes brought him that
dreamless sleep which comes so easily to the young.
Meanwhile Aunt Lucy, whose thoughts were also occupied with Paul's
approaching departure, had taken from the pocket of her OTHER dress--for
she had but two--something wrapped in a piece of brown paper. One by one
she removed the many folds in which it was enveloped, and came at length
to the contents.
It was a coin.
“Paul will need some money, poor boy,” said she, softly to herself, “I
will give him this. It will never do me any good, and it may be of some
service to him.”
So saying she looked carefully at the coin in the moonlight.
But what made her start, and utter a half exclamation?
Instead of the gold eagle, the accumulation of many years, which she had
been saving for some extraordinary occasion like the presents she held
in her hand--a copper cent.
“I have been robbed,” she exclaimed indignantly in the suddenness of her
surprise.
“What's the matter now?” inquired Mrs Mudge, appearing at the door, “Why
are you not in bed, Aunt Lucy Lee? How dare you disobey my orders?”
“I have been robbed,” exclaimed the old lady in unwonted excitement.
“Of what, pray?” asked Mrs. Mudge, with a sneer.
“I had a gold eagle wrapped up in that paper,” returned Aunt Lucy,
pointing to the fragments on the floor, “and now, to-night, when I come
to open it, I find but this cent.”
“A likely story,” retorted Mrs. Mudge, “very likely, indeed, that a
common pauper should have a gold eagle. If you found a cent in the
paper, most likely that's what you put there. You're growing old and
forgetful, so don't get foolish and flighty. You'd better go to bed.”
“But I did have the gold, and it's been stolen,” persisted Aunt Lucy,
whose disappointment was the greater because she intended the money for
Paul.
“Again!” exclaimed Mrs. Mudge. “Will you never have done with this
folly? Even if you did have the gold, which I don't for an instant
believe, you couldn't keep it. A pauper has no right to hold property.”
“Then why did the one who stole the little I had leave me this?” said
the old lady, scornfully, holding up the cent which had been substituted
for the gold.
“How should I know?” exclaimed Mrs. Mudge, wrathfully. “You talk as if
you thought I had taken your trumpery money.”
“So you did!” chimed in an unexpected voice, which made Mrs. Mudge start
nervously.
It was the young woman already mentioned, who was bereft of reason,
but who at times, as often happens in such cases, seemed gifted with
preternatural acuteness.
“So you did. I saw you, I did; I saw you creep up when you thought
nobody was looking, and search her pocket. You opened that paper and
took out the bright yellow piece, and put in another. You didn't think I
was looking at you, ha! ha! How I laughed as I stood behind the door and
saw you tremble for fear some one would catch you thieving. You didn't
think of me, dear, did you?”
And the wild creature burst into an unmeaning laugh.
Mrs. Mudge stood for a moment mute, overwhelmed by this sudden
revelation. But for the darkness, Aunt Lucy could have seen the sudden
flush which overspread her face with the crimson hue of detected guilt.
But this was only for a moment. It was quickly succeeded by a feeling
of intense anger towards the unhappy creature who had been the means of
exposing her.
“I'll teach you to slander your betters, you crazy fool,” she exclaimed,
in a voice almost inarticulate with passion, as she seized her rudely by
the arm, and dragged her violently from the room.
She returned immediately.
“I suppose,” said she, abruptly, confronting Aunt Lucy, “that you are
fool enough to believe her ravings?”
“I bring no accusation,” said the old lady, calmly, “If your conscience
acquits you, it is not for me to accuse you.”
“But what do you think?” persisted Mrs. Mudge, whose consciousness of
guilt did not leave her quite at ease.
“I cannot read the heart,” said Aunt Lucy, composedly. “I can only say,
that, pauper as I am, I would not exchange places with the one who has
done this deed.”
“Do you mean me?” demanded Mrs. Mudge.
“You can tell best.”
“I tell you what, Aunt Lucy Lee,” said Mrs. Mudge, her eyes blazing
with anger, “If you dare insinuate to any living soul that I stole your
paltry money, which I don't believe you ever had, I will be bitterly
revenged upon you.”
She flaunted out of the room, and Aunt Lucy, the first bitterness of her
disappointment over, retired to bed, and slept more tranquilly than the
unscrupulous woman who had robbed her.
At a quarter before four Paul started from his humble couch, and hastily
dressed himself, took up a little bundle containing all his scanty stock
of clothing, and noiselessly descended the two flights of stairs which
separated him from the lower story. Here he paused a moment for Aunt
Lucy to appear. Her sharp ears had distinguished his stealthy steps as
he passed her door, and she came down to bid him good-by. She had in her
hands a pair of stockings which she slipped into his bundle.
“I wish I had something else to give you, Paul,” she said, “but you know
that I am not very rich.”
“Dear Aunt Lucy,” said Paul, kissing her, “you are my only friend on
earth. You have been very kind to me, and I never will forget you,
NEVER! By-and-by, when I am rich, I will build a fine house, and you
will come and live with me, won't you?”
Paul's bright anticipations, improbable as they were, had the effect of
turning his companion's thoughts into a more cheerful channel.
She bent down and kissed him, whispering softly, “Yes, I will, Paul.”
“Then it's a bargain,” said he, joyously, “Mind you don't forget it. I
shall come for you one of these days when you least expect it.”
“Have you any money?” inquired Aunt Lucy.
Paul shook his head.
“Then,” said she, drawing from her finger a gold ring which had held
its place for many long years, “here is something which will bring you a
little money if you are ever in distress.”
Paul hung back.
“I would rather not take it, indeed I would,” he said, earnestly,
“I would rather go hungry for two or three days than sell your ring.
Besides, I shall not need it; God will provide for me.”
“But you need not sell it,” urged Aunt Lucy, “unless it is absolutely
necessary. You can take it and keep it in remembrance of me. Keep it
till you see me again, Paul. It will be a pledge to me that you will
come back again some day.”
“On that condition I will take it,” said Paul, “and some day I will
bring it back.”
A slight noise above, as of some one stirring in sleep, excited the
apprehensions of the two, and warned them that it was imprudent for them
to remain longer in conversation.
After a hurried good-by, Aunt Lucy quietly went upstairs again, and
Paul, shouldering his bundle, walked rapidly away.
The birds, awakening from their night's repose, were beginning to carol
forth their rich songs of thanksgiving for the blessing of a new day.
From the flowers beneath his feet and the blossom-laden branches above
his head, a delicious perfume floated out upon the morning air, and
filled the heart of the young wanderer with a sense of the joyousness of
existence, and inspired him with a hopeful confidence in the future.
For the first time he felt that he belonged to himself. At the age of
thirteen he had taken his fortune in his own hand, and was about to mold
it as best he might.
There were care, and toil, and privations before him, no doubt, but
in that bright morning hour he could harbor only cheerful and trusting
thoughts. Hopefully he looked forward to the time when he could fulfil
his father's dying injunction, and lift from his name the burden of a
debt unpaid. Then his mind reverting to another thought, he could not
help smiling at the surprise and anger of Mr. Mudge, when he should find
that his assistant had taken French leave. He thought he should like to
be concealed somewhere where he could witness the commotion excited
by his own departure. But as he could not be in two places at the same
time, he must lose that satisfaction. He had cut loose from the Mudge
household, as he trusted, forever. He felt that a new and brighter life
was opening before him.
VIII.
A FRIEND IN NEED.
Our hero did not stop till he had put a good five miles between himself
and the poorhouse. He knew that it would not be long before Mr. Mudge
would discover his absence, and the thought of being carried back was
doubly distasteful to him now that he had, even for a short time, felt
the joy of being his own master. His hurried walk, taken in the fresh
morning air, gave him quite a sharp appetite. Luckily he had the means
of gratifying it. The night before he had secreted half his supper,
knowing that he should need it more the next morning. He thought he
might now venture to sit down and eat it.
At a little distance from the road was a spring, doubtless used for
cattle, since it was situated at the lower end of a pasture. Close
beside and bending over it was a broad, branching oak, which promised a
cool and comfortable shelter.
“That's just the place for me,” thought Paul, who felt thirsty as well
as hungry, “I think I will take breakfast here and rest awhile before I
go any farther.”
So saying he leaped lightly over the rail fence, and making his way to
the place indicated, sat down in the shadow of the tree. Scooping up
some water in the hollow of his hand, he drank a deep and refreshing
draught. He next proceeded to pull out of his pocket a small package,
which proved to contain two small pieces of bread. His long morning walk
had given him such an appetite that he was not long in despatching all
he had. It is said by some learned physicians, who no doubt understand
the matter, that we should always rise from the table with an appetite.
Probably Paul had never heard of this rule. Nevertheless, he seemed in
a fair way of putting it into practice, for the best of reasons, because
he could not help it.
His breakfast, though not the most inviting, being simply unbuttered
bread and rather dry at that, seemed more delicious than ever before,
but unfortunately there was not enough of it. However, as there seemed
likely to be no more forthcoming, he concluded in default of breakfast
to lie down under the tree for a few minutes before resuming his walk.
Though he could not help wondering vaguely where his dinner was to come
from, as that time was several hours distant, he wisely decided not to
anticipate trouble till it came.
Lying down under the tree, Paul began to consider what Mr. Mudge would
say when he discovered that he had run away.
“He'll have to milk the cows himself,” thought Paul. “He won't fancy
that much. Won't Mrs. Mudge scold, thought? I'm glad I shan't be within
hearing.”
“Holloa!”
It was a boy's voice that Paul heard.