Sickness and Sorrow.
A TIME of heavy tribulation to the widow followed the horrors of that
night. John Carey was not indeed killed, the spark of life glimmered
still, but he lay for weeks in a dangerous state, sometimes buried in
stupor, sometimes raving with fever, never able to give a clear account
of what had occurred.
It was evident that he had been the victim to violence; the fact of his
having gone to London to cash a cheque for a considerable sum was soon
known far and wide, and it was, of course, concluded that the "young
lion" had been waylaid on his return home, and robbed of the money.
Search was made at once for the man who had committed the crime, a
reward was offered for his apprehension. Suspicion fell upon Soames,
who was proved to have heard from John's own lips of the cheque, and
whose character and wretched circumstances made him appear one not
unlikely to have committed an act of violence to save himself from
destitution. The sudden disappearance of Soames from the neighbourhood
confirmed the suspicion; but the wretched man succeeded in eluding
pursuit; he was reserved to suffer, at a later period, the punishment
due for other crimes.
In anguish, the widow watched and prayed by the bedside of her
suffering son, imploring God, day and night, to spare his life and
his reason. The crisis was over at length; the fever was subdued,
consciousness returned, but the once powerful young man lay weak and
helpless as a child. His tawny locks shorn away, the bandage over his
brow, his eye dim, his cheek hollow, who, in that languid invalid,
would have recognised the "young lion!"
The doctor forbade any subject being mentioned to John that could
produce excitement; he must be kept as quiet as possible, and have as
much good wine and generous nourishment as he could take to restore
his exhausted strength. Good wine, generous nourishment! How were they
to be procured? That question which she could not answer, went to the
mother's heart. Mrs. Carey had earned her livelihood by charing and
washing, but during her son's illness she had been unable to earn a
sixpence by either, nursing him had engaged all her time, and taxed her
utmost strength.
During the first fortnight, his mother had felt the press of poverty
but little; John could hardly touch food, the doctor had not sent
in his bill, much interest was excited in the neighbourhood, little
presents were received, and the few tradesmen who supplied necessaries
let their accounts run up, without troubling the afflicted mother for
immediate payment. Thus for a while, as has been said, Mrs. Carey,
watching by the sick-bed of John, and absorbed by the anxiety caused by
his critical state, felt no actual want of money. But this did not last
very long.
When John was once known to be likely to recover, interest in his
case grew weaker, while the need for help grew greater. The hunger
of convalescence began just when the shelf was empty; and bills came
dropping in when not a sixpence was left in the purse. The baker, who
had at first been all sympathy and bustling kindness, shrugged his
shoulders, and threw out hints that a man in receipt of wages was bound
to subscribe to a club, and not leave the burden of his support during
sickness to a widowed mother, and neighbours who were willing enough to
help, but who had to care for families of their own.
Dick Brace, over his glass of foaming ale, observed that John Carey had
been a simpleton to travel at night with thirty pounds in his pocket,
and doubly a simpleton for having given notice in a low inn that he
intended to do so.
Mrs. Carey, worn out with anxiety and watching, her nerves shaken by
lack of sleep, her spirits depressed by debt and difficulties which
thickened around her, found it hard indeed to let patience have its
perfect work, and to place firm trust in the changeless love of Him who
so sorely tried her.
There are times in the experience of most Pilgrims to Heaven when
darkness seems to be above and around them, and the Tempter whispers
into their troubled ears, "God hath forgotten to be gracious." The
feeble body weighs down the soul, the spirit can scarcely rise in
prayer. In such seasons of weakness and gloom, how soothing these words
of Scripture! "Who is among you that feareth the Lord, that obeyeth the
voice of His servant, that walketh, in darkness and hath no light? let
him trust in the name of the Lord, and stay upon his God." *
* Isaiah l. 10.
The widow could better have borne her outward trials, her son's
illness, and the poverty which it brought with it, had she been able
to see any spiritual good arising from them to one who was dearer to
her than life. But it did not seem to Mrs. Carey that affliction had
brought John nearer to God. When his brain had been excited by fever,
it was about Dinah that he had raved; and now, though he spoke but
little, John had more than once dropped words which shewed that he had
not given up his scheme of partnership with Brace, that he still looked
forward to being joint-landlord with him of the little public-house
near the brick field. This grieved the widow beyond everything else.
She did not, indeed, fear that either Dick or Dinah would have much to
do with a penniless man who might—and probably would—be unable to work
for months yet to come; but that John after all that had happened—after
what seemed to his mother like a solemn warning from Heaven—should
persist in going on his own wilful way against the wishes of a parent
who had almost broken down her health in nursing him, nearly crushed
his mother with grief.
One day (it was the first day on which John had been able to sit up
in a chair), Mrs. Carey placed before him the little dinner which she
had obtained with difficulty, and had prepared with the greatest care.
The pale, gaunt man, who looked the wreck of what he had been, felt
that strong craving for food which often follows long illness, and the
slender repast which his mother brought excited his impatience and
scorn.
"Why, mother, you must think me a baby still," exclaimed the invalid
almost with anger. "Is that spoonful of minced meat a dinner to put
before a man who could devour a sirloin of beef? And where is the wine
which the doctor said I must have?" added John, glancing impatiently
round him.
"My son," answered the widow meekly, "I give you what I can, not what I
would?"
She had herself not tasted meat for a fortnight.
"What do you mean?" cried John. "You know as well as I do that I've
plenty of money—there's all the legacy left by my uncle."
Another pang to the heart of the mother! She had often noticed before
that John's illness had affected his memory, but she had hoped of late
that this was improving. It was a bitter disappointment to find him
thus, as she thought, forgetting the fact that he had been robbed as
well as almost murdered.
"What do you mean?" repeated the sick man with petulance. "And why do
you look so sad?"
"My boy, you know that you were robbed of your all six weeks ago," said
the widow.
"Not of a farthing!" cried John. "Surely you cannot have gone on all
this time without asking for the money?"
He looked eagerly into the face of his mother, who could hardly bear to
meet his excited gaze.
"You applied for it yourself, dear John, on that dreadful Monday," said
she.
"And got a cheque—but the cheque was not signed, I could not cash it,
I could not get a farthing of the money!" exclaimed John, with unusual
animation. "Go, mother, go directly to the Justice, ask him for the
legacy which he has in charge—tell him that the cheque was not worth a
nettle-leaf!"
John's manner was becoming more excited, for he read in his mother's
face that she either did not understand, or did not believe him.
"I cannot go to Justice Burns and ask him for—for—" Mrs. Carey did not
finish the sentence aloud, but thought "for money which he doubtless
has paid already."
The simple widow knew nothing about cheques, had never seen one in her
life, and she feared that her son's fever was returning upon him.
"If you do not go, I must, and will!" exclaimed John, by a desperate
effort starting to his feet, and then sinking back exhausted on his
seat.
"Oh! My son, I will do what you wish, anything that you wish!" cried
the anxious mother. "Only promise that you will keep quiet, and I will
go at once to the Justice."