"Well, boy, what do you want?"
These words were uttered in a no pleasant tone by an old gentleman with
a brownish complexion, a yellowish brown scratch wig, somewhat awry, a
decidedly brown coat, breeches, and waistcoat, a neckcloth, once white,
but now partaking of the sombre hue of his other garments; brown
stockings and brownish shoes, ornamented by a pair of silver buckles,
the last-mentioned articles being the only part of his costume on which
the eye could rest with satisfaction.
On his lap was placed a pocket handkerchief, of a nondescript tint,
brown, predominating, in consequence of its frequent application to a
longish nose, made the recipient of huge quantities of snuff.
Altogether there was a dry, withered-leaf-like look about the old man
which was not prepossessing. His little grey eyes were sunk deeply in
his head, his sight being aided by a large pair of tortoiseshell
spectacles, which he had now shoved up over his forehead.
He was seated on a high stool at a desk in a little back dingy office,
powerfully redolent of odours nautical and unsavoury, emanating from
coils of rope, casks of salt butter, herrings, Dutch cheese, whale oil,
and similar unaromatic articles of commerce. It was in that region made
classical by Dibdin--Wapping. The back office in which the old
gentleman sat opened out of one of much larger proportions, though
equally dull and dingy, full of clerks, old and young, on high stools,
busily moving their pens, or rapidly casting up accounts--evidence that
no idleness was allowed in the establishment. On one side was a
warehouse, in which large quantities of the above named and similar
ship's stores were collected. In front was a shop, the ceiling hung
with tallow candles, brushes, mats, iron pots, and other things more
useful than ornamental. From one end to the other of it ran a long,
dark-coloured counter, behind which stood a man in a brown apron, and
sleeves tucked up, ready to serve out, in small quantities, tea, sugar,
coffee, tallow candles, brushes, twine, tin kettles, and the pots which
hung over his head, within reach of a long stick, placed ready for
detaching them from the hooks on which they were suspended. In the
windows, and on the walls outside, were large placards in red and black
letters, announcing the sailing of various ships of wonderful sea
qualities, and admirable accommodation for passengers, with a statement
that further information would be afforded within.
"Speak, boy; what do you want?" repeated the old gentleman, in a testy
and still harsher tone than before, as he turned round on his stool with
an angry glance under his spectacles. "Eh?"
The person he addressed was a fair complexioned boy, about twelve years
old, with large blue eyes, and brown hair in wavey curls, a broad
forehead, and an open, frank, intelligent countenance. He was dressed
in a jacket and trousers of black cloth, not over well made perhaps, nor
fresh looking, although they did not spoil his figure; his broad shirt
collar turned back and fastened by a ribbon showed to advantage his neck
and well-set-on head. It would have been difficult to find two people
offering a greater contrast than the old man and the boy.
"Please, sir," answered the latter, with considerable hesitation,
"Farmer Rowe wished me to come here to see you, as he hopes--"
"And who in the name of wonder is Farmer Rowe, and who are you?"
exclaimed the old gentleman, kicking his heels against the leg of the
stool.
Before the boy could find words to go on with what he was saying, or
could check the choking sensation which rose in his throat, a clerk, the
counterpart of his master, in respect of dinginess and snuffiness,
entered with a handful of papers which required signing, and a huge
folio under his arm. As, in the eyes of the old gentleman, his business
was of far more consequence than any matter which could be connected
with that pale-faced, gentle boy in the threadbare suit, he turned round
to the desk, and applied himself to the papers, as his clerk handed them
to him in succession.
The boy was, in the meantime, left unnoticed to his own reflections.
While the old gentleman was absorbed in the folio, the clerk gave a
glance round at the young stranger, and the expression conveyed in that
glance did not add pleasantness to the lad's feelings, as he stood
clutching his crape-bound hat. Leaving the two old men engaged in their
books and papers, a fuller account must be given of the boy than he was
likely to afford of himself.
Some thirty years before the period at which this history commences a
young gentleman, Owen Hartley, who was pursuing his academical course
with credit, preparatory to entering the ministry, fell in love during a
long vacation with a well-educated young lady of respectable position in
life, if not of birth equal to his. She returned his affection, and it
was agreed that they should marry when he could obtain a living. Being
ordained, he was appointed to a curacy of 50 pounds a year, in which
post he faithfully discharged his duty, expecting to obtain the
wished-for incumbency. Susan Walford existed on the same hope, but year
after year passed by, and she grew pale, and even his spirits sometimes
sank, when the realisation of their expectations seemed likely to be
indefinitely deferred. At length, however, he obtained a living. It
was one no person, except in his circumstances, would have taken. No
wonder; it was among the fens of Lincolnshire, and, after certain
deductions, scarcely produced a hundred a year. Still it was a living,
and a certainty. At the same time Susan received a legacy. It made
their hearts very grateful; although the amount was small, yet, in their
eyes, it seemed magnificent, a clear 350 pounds. To be sure, 300 pounds
would produce only 12 pounds a year when invested, still, that was
something added to a hundred.
The extra fifty was retained for furnishing the vicarage. Ten years
they had waited patiently, now they were married, and were contented and
happy. They did not live for themselves alone, but to be a blessing to
all around them. True, they could not give money, but Owen gave Gospel
truths, simple and without stint; and she, kind words and sympathy, and
a portion of many of their scanty meals. The hale as well as the sick
were visited, believers strengthened and encouraged, and inquirers
instructed. They reaped a rich harvest of affection from their
parishioners. Three years after their marriage a son was born; he was a
treasure for which they were grateful, and he was their only one. The
little Owen flourished, for he was acclimatised, but the breezes which
blow over those Lincolnshire fens are raw and keen, if not generally
unhealthy to the natives, and the vicar and his wife began to complain
of touches of ague, which became, as time went on, more and more
frequent. An income of 112 pounds a year will not allow the happy
possessors to indulge in many of the luxuries of life, and certainly not
in that of foreign travel. When, therefore, the parish doctor hinted
that a change of climate, and more generous diet and port wine, were
absolutely necessary for their restoration, Mr Hartley smilingly
observed, that as he did not think a better climate would come to them,
and as they certainly could not go to it, he did not see how the
combination could be brought about; and as to port wine, it had long
been a stranger to his palate, and was likely to continue so. Still the
doctor urged that he must take it, and sent him some from his own store,
and, moreover, spoke so very earnestly to Mrs Hartley, saying that her
husband would altogether be incapacitated from performing his duties
unless he was supplied with stimulants and more food, that she resolved
to do what many have resolved to do before, and will do again under
similar circumstances. She did not exactly kill the golden goose, but
began to sell out. It was indeed pleasant to have 20 pounds at command.
She ordered wine of the best, with beef steaks and mutton chops, such
things had rarely before been seen at the vicarage. The butcher
wondered, but she paid regularly, and he asked no questions. She,
however, only made-believe to eat of them herself, that Owen might have
the more; and when he came home to dinner she was sure to have taken a
large luncheon while he was out. She thought that his health was
improving, and he declared that he felt stronger.
So delighted was she with the result of this new system, that she
ordered more port wine, and still more amply supplied the table. Yet
the doctor was not satisfied, and urged change of air for a short
time--"His life is so valuable," was his remark, and the doctor's
observation conquered all scruples. A clergyman to do Owen's duty was
to be obtained, no easy matter, and he must be paid. One was found, and
the excursion made. Mr Hartley felt wonderfully better, but not many
weeks after his return the terrible ague again attacked him. Week after
week he was unable to perform his ordinary duty. He staggered to the
church, and in a voice which he could with difficulty render audible,
preached the glorious Gospel as before.
The parish did not suffer so much as it might have done, for Susan
visited the parishioners more frequently than ever. At length the
faithful wife herself fell ill.
The disease made more rapid progress in her weak frame than it had done
in that of her husband. Owen now compelled her to take the same
remedies which she had given to him; both lingered on, striving to do
their duty. The vicar was apparently getting better, and Susan revived
sufficiently to enable her to assist in the education of the younger
Owen. Year after year showed the ravages illness was making on their
frames; the doctor shook his head when the parishioners inquired after
them. Susan died first, Owen did not mourn as one without hope,
although it was evident that he had received a terrible blow. Since his
marriage he had placed all worldly concerns in Susan's hands--no child
could have known less than he did how to manage them--the consequences
were inevitable. The vicar got into debt, not very deeply at first, a
few pounds only, but to these few pounds others were gradually added.
The vicar had a faithful servant, Jane Hayes, who, when a girl, had come
to him and Mrs Hartley on their marriage, for her food and enough wages
to buy clothes. Jane went and went again to the shops for such
provisions as she considered the vicar and Master Owen required.
One was too ill, the other too young to make inquiries or consider how
they were to be paid for. When by chance any tradesman demurred, Jane
was very indignant, asserting confidently that the vicar would pay for
whatever he had when his dues came in.
Mr Hartley now no longer rose from his bed. A neighbouring clergyman,
not much better off than himself, came over occasionally to perform the
duty in the church, getting his own done by a relative who was paying
him a visit. Mr Hartley, although ready to depart, clung to existence
for the sake of his boy. When he had sufficient strength to speak, he
repeated to young Owen the advice and exhortations he had constantly
given him when in health. They came now, however, with greater force
than ever from the lips of the dying man, and words which before had
been heard unheeded, now sank deeply into the heart of the boy.
Young Owen knew nothing of the world, he had never left home, but he was
thus really better prepared to encounter its dangers and difficulties
than many who go forth, confident in their own strength and courage. He
scarcely had, hitherto, realised the fact that his father was to be
taken from him.
"My boy," said the village doctor, as he led him into his father's room,
"you must be prepared for the worst."
These words made Owen feel sick at heart.
While the vicar clasped the hand of his boy, and gazed into that beloved
young face, his gentle spirit winged its flight to heaven, and Owen knew
that he was an orphan. He was not aware, however, how utterly destitute
he had been left. The vicar had to the last been under the impression
that the larger portion of Susan's fortune, for so he was pleased to
call it, still remained, and that it would be sufficient to start Owen
in life. He had paid great attention to the education of his boy, who
possessed a much larger amount of general knowledge than most lads of
his age. The principal people in the parish attended the coffin of
their late vicar to the grave. They had not far to go from the vicarage
to the churchyard.
Farmer Rowe, who lived near, at Fenside Farm, had been the faithful
friend of Mr Hartley from the time of his first coming to the parish,
and taking him by the hand, followed as a mourner. Owen bore up during
the ceremony, but on returning to his desolate home, at length gave way
to the grief which was well-nigh breaking his young heart.
"Don't take on so, Master Owen," cried Jane, leading him to his little
room; "he who is gone would not wish you to grieve. He is happy, depend
upon it, and he wants you to be happy too. We shall have to leave this,
I am afraid, for they will not let you take your father's place, seeing
you are somewhat young, otherwise I am sure you could do it. You read
so beautiful like, and I would rather hear a sermon from you than any
one."
Owen shook his head.
"No, Jane, I should have to go to college first; a person must be
regularly ordained before he could come and preach in our church."
Still Jane was not convinced on that point, and she inquired from Farmer
Rowe whether he could get Master Owen made vicar in his fathers stead.
"That is impossible, Jane," answered the farmer, smiling. "We will,
however, do our best for the boy; we must look into the state of his
affairs, for I can hear of no kindred of his who are likely to do so."
Owen was allowed to remain at the vicarage longer than might have been
expected. It was not easy to find a successor to Mr Hartley. The
place had a bad name, few incumbents had lived long there. The
tradesmen of Reston, the neighbouring town, however, somewhat hesitated
about supplying Jane with provisions.
"But there is the furniture," she answered, "and that will sell for I
don't know how much; it is very beautiful and kept carefully."
In Jane's eyes it might have been so, as it was superior to what she had
seen in her mother's humble cottage. In the meantime she employed
herself in preparing a proper suit of mourning for Owen.
"The dear boy will have to go out among strangers, and he shall be well
dressed, at all events," she observed as she stitched away at his
garments. She had to work up all sorts of old materials. Her own small
wages were due, but of that she thought not; her great desire was that
her young master should be properly dressed.
At length, however, the creditors put in their claims; the furniture and
all the property of the late vicar had to be sold, but it was
insufficient to meet their demands. Farmer Howe, knowing he matters
were likely to turn out, took Owen to his house.
The farmer had a large farm of his own, but there had been a bad
harvest, and at no time had Fenside Farm been a very profitable one; he
therefore could not do as much for the poor lad as his kind heart
dictated. His second son David, the scholar of the family, as he called
him, who was articled to an attorney in a neighbouring town, happened at
the time to be at home.
"David," said Farmer Howe, "surely the vicar and his wife must have had
some kith and kin, and we must find out who they are; they may be
inclined to do something for the boy, or, if not, they ought to do so."
"The first thing I would suggest, father, is to question Owen, and hear
what he knows about the matter," answered David; "we may then see what
letters the poor lady or the vicar have left; they may throw some light
on the subject."
Owen was forthwith called in. He had seldom heard his parents allude to
their relatives, but he held an opinion that his father had several, and
from the way in which he had heard them spoken of he fancied that they
were some great people, but who they were he could not tell. They
certainly, however, had never shown any regard for Mr Hartley, or paid
him the slightest attention. Owen knew that his mother had relations,
and that her father had been in some public office, but had died without
leaving her any fortune; his grandmother had also died a year or two
after her marriage. This much Owen knew, but that was very little. "Oh
yes," he said, "I remember that her name was Walford."
"Well, that must have been your grandfather's name too. Do you know
what your mother's maiden name was?" asked David.
Owen could not tell.
"Perhaps it will be in some of her books," suggested David. "They
sometimes help one in such cases as this."
"The books, I am afraid, were sold with the other property," said the
farmer.
"Then we must find out who bought them," remarked David; "perhaps Dobbs
of our town did. I saw him at the sale. He is not likely to have
disposed of them yet; I will get him to let me look over them."
David fulfilled his promise. Mr Dobbs allowed him to look over the
library of the late Vicar of Fenside, and at length he came to a volume
of "Sturm's Reflections," on the title page of which was written, in a
clear mercantile hand, "Given to Susan Fluke, on her marriage with Henry
Walford Esquire, by her loving cousin Simon Fluke."
David bought the volume and returned with it in triumph. "I have, at
all events, found out the maiden name of the boy's grandmother on his
mother's side, so, if we cannot discover his relatives on one side, we
may on the other. We have now got three names--Fluke, Walford, and
Hartley. The Hartley side will give us most difficulty, for it is clear
that the vicar and his father held no communication for many years with
any of the relatives they may have possessed. Fluke, however, is not a
common name; we will search among the Flukes and Walfords, and see if
any persons or person of those names will acknowledge young Owen. Simon
Fluke, Simon Fluke--the London and County Directories may help us; if
they cannot, we must advertise. It will be hard if we cannot rake up
Simon Fluke or his heirs. To be sure, that book may have been given to
his grandmother fifty years ago or more, and Simon Fluke may be dead."
David carefully locked up the book. "It may tend to prove your
relationship with the said Simon Fluke; and who knows that he may be, or
may have been, a rich man, and that you may become his heir," he
remarked to Owen.
Owen, although he listened to what the young lawyer said, scarcely
understood the full meaning of his observations. Farmer Rowe, ill as he
could afford the expense, sent David off next day to London to make
inquiries. Both the farmer and his family did their best to amuse the
orphan.
Although the hearts of the young are elastic, his loss had been so
recent, and his grief so overpowering, that, in spite of all the efforts
of his kind friends, he could not recover his spirits. Owen, however,
had become calmer when Jane Hayes came to wish him good-bye. She had
been offered another situation, which, seeing that he was well taken
care of, she had accepted. Owen was in the garden when Jane arrived;
the sight of her, as she came to meet him, renewed his grief. They sat
down on a bench together, under a tall old tulip-tree, just out of sight
of the house. Owen burst into tears.
"That's just what I feel like to do, Master Owen," said the faithful
woman, taking his hand; "but it seems to me, from all master used to say
when he was down here with us, that up there, where he and missis have
gone, there is no crying and no sorrow. So you see, Master Owen, you
should not take on so. They had their trials on earth, that I am sure
they had, for I seed it often before you was born; but when you came you
was a blessing to them. Now they are happy, that is the comfort I
have."
"I am not crying for them, Susan," said Owen, trying to stifle his
tears, "I am crying for myself; I cannot help it. I know you love me,
and you always have ever since I could remember--if you punished me it
was kindly done--and now you are going away, and I do not know when I
shall see you again. Mr Rowe is very kind and good, and so are Mrs
Rowe, and John, and David, and their sisters, but, Jane, it is from
pity, for they cannot care much about me, and I feel all alone in the
world."
"Well, I will give up the place, Master Owen, and work for you; I cannot
tell how I should ever have had the heart to think of going away and
leaving you among strangers, although I have known Farmer Rowe and his
family all my born days, and good people they are as ever breathed."
Owen took her hand and put his head on her lap, just as he used to do
when he was a little child, and thus he remained without speaking. Jane
looked down on him with the affection of a mother, and tears dropped
slowly from her eyes.
"The Lord bless the boy," she murmured to herself, as she lifted her
face towards the blue sky, "and take care of him, and give him strength
against all the enemies he will have to meet--the world, the flesh, and
the devil." Her plain features--for Jane had little to boast of in
regard to good looks--were lighted up with an expression which gave her
a beauty many fairer faces do not possess.
Owen lay still for some time; Jane thought that he was sleeping, and was
unwilling to arouse him. At length, looking up, he said--
"I never can repay you enough for all you have done for me. I should be
acting a cowardly part if I were to let you give up a good place for my
sake, and allow you to toil and slave for me, when I am ready enough to
work for my own support; you cannot tell how much I can do, and how much
I know. I do not say it for the sake of boasting, but my father assured
me that I knew enough to teach boys much older than myself. If I was
bigger, I could become an usher at a school, or perhaps Mr Orlando
Browne, David Howe's employer, would take me as a clerk. So you see,
Jane, that I am not afraid of having to work, or afraid of starving; you
must therefore go to Mrs Burden's and look after her children, I am
sure that they will love you, and then you will be happy. It is the
knowing that some one loves us that makes us happy, Jane. I know that
you love me, and that makes me happy now."
"Ah, Master Owen, there is One who loves you ten thousand times more
than I can do, and if you will always obey Him, you will never cease to
be happy too. Master often used to say that to us, you mind. Ah! if
you think of his sayings--and he spoke the truth out of the Book--it
will be a blessing to you."
"Thank you, Jane, for reminding me," answered Owen, his countenance
brightening. "I do, I do; I will try ever to do so."
"That's right, Master Owen, that's right," said Jane; "it makes me very
glad to hear you say that."
The shades of evening were coming on; they warned Jane that she ought to
be on her way. Unwillingly she told Owen that she must be going. He
accompanied her to the gate, for she could not bring herself to go in
and say good-bye to the farmer's family. "They will know that it was
from no want of respect," said Jane. "God bless you, Master Owen, God
bless you."
Owen looked after her until she was lost to sight at the end of the
lane. It was some time before he could command himself sufficiently to
go back into the house.