"My dear Papa,--You will be glad to hear that I am married. Augustus
says that, if I behave well, he will come and see you soon. Dear
papa, your dutiful child, MELISSA SPIKEMAN."
That the letters of Spikeman and Melissa put the old gentleman in no
small degree of rage, may be conceived; but nothing could be more
judicious than the plan Spikeman had acted upon. It is useless to plead
to a man who is irritated with constant gout; he only becomes more
despotic and more unyielding. Had Araminta attempted to soften his
indignation, it would have been equally fruitless; but the compliance
with the request of her cousin of continually railing against her, had
the effect intended. The vituperation of Araminta left him nothing to
say; there was no opposition to direct his anathemas against; there was
no coaxing or wheedling on the part of the offenders for him to repulse;
and when Araminta pressed the old gentleman to vow that Melissa should
never enter the doors again, he accused her of being influenced by
interested motives, threw a basin at her head, and wrote an epistle
requesting Melissa to come and take his blessing. Araminta refused to
attend her uncle after this insult, and the old gentleman became still
more anxious for the return of his daughter, as he was now left entirely
to the caprice of his servants. Araminta gave Melissa an account of
what had passed, and entreated her to come at once. She did so, and a
general reconciliation took place. Mr Mathews, finding his new
son-in-law very indifferent to pecuniary matters, insisted upon making
over to his wife an estate in Herefordshire, which, with Melissa's own
fortune, rendered them in most affluent circumstances. Spikeman
requested Joey to write to him now and then, and that, if he required
assistance, he would apply for it; but still advised him to follow up
the profession of travelling tinker as being the most independent.
Our hero had hardly time to digest the contents of Spikeman's letter
when he received a large packet from Mary, accounting for her not having
replied to him before, in consequence of her absence from the Hall. She
had, three weeks before, received a letter written for Mrs Chopper,
acquainting her that Mrs Chopper was so very ill that it was not
thought possible that she could recover, having an abscess in the liver
which threatened to break internally, and requesting Mary to obtain
leave to come to Gravesend, if she possibly could, as Mrs Chopper
wished to see her before she died. Great as was Mary's repugnance to
revisit Gravesend, she felt that the obligations she was under to Mrs
Chopper were too great for her to hesitate; and showing the letter to
Mrs Austin, and stating at the same time that she considered Mrs
Chopper as more than a mother to her, she obtained the leave which she
requested, and set off for Gravesend.
It was with feelings of deep shame and humiliation that poor Mary walked
down the main street of the town, casting her eyes up fearfully to the
scenes of her former life. She was very plainly attired, and had a
thick veil over her face, so that nobody recognised her; she arrived at
the door of Mrs Chopper's abode, ascended the stairs, and was once more
in the room out of which she had quitted Gravesend to lead a new life;
and most conscientiously had she fulfilled her resolution, as the reader
must be aware. Mrs Chopper was in bed and slumbering when Mary softly
opened the door; the signs of approaching death were on her
countenance--her large, round form had wasted away--her fingers were now
taper and bloodless; Mary would not have recognised her had she fallen
in with her under other circumstances. An old woman was in attendance;
she rose up when Mary entered, imagining that it was some kind lady come
to visit the sick woman. Mary sat down by the side of the bed, and
motioned to the old woman that she might go out, and then she raised her
veil and waited till the sufferer roused. Mary had snuffed the candle
twice that she might see sufficiently to read the Prayer Book which she
had taken up, when Mrs Chopper opened her eyes.
"How very kind of you, ma'am!" said Mrs Chopper; "and where is Miss
---? My eyes are dimmer every day."
"It is me, Mary--Nancy that was!"
"And so it is! O, Nancy, now I shall die in peace! I thought at first
it was the kind lady who comes every day to read and to pray with me.
Dear Nancy, how glad I am to see you! And how do you do? And how is
poor Peter?"
"Quite well when I heard from him last, my dear Mrs Chopper."
"You don't know, Nancy, what a comfort it is to me to see you looking as
you do, so good and so innocent; and when I think it was by my humble
means that you were put in the way of becoming so, I feel as if I had
done one good act, and that perhaps my sins may be forgiven me."
"God will reward you, Mrs Chopper; I said so at the time, and I feel it
now," replied Mary, the tears rolling down her cheeks; "I trust by your
means, and with strength from above, I shall continue in the same path,
so that one sinner may be saved."
"Bless you, Nancy!--You never were a bad girl in heart; I always said
so. And where is Peter now?"
"Going about the country earning his bread; poor, but happy."
"Well, Nancy, it will soon be over with me; I may die in a second, they
tell me, or I may live for three or four days; but I sent for you that I
might put my house in order. There are only two people that I care for
upon earth--that is you and my poor Peter; and all I have I mean to
leave between you. I have signed a paper already, in case you could not
come, but now that you are come, I will tell you all I wish; but give me
some of that drink first."
Mary having read the directions on the label, poured out a wine-glass of
the mixture, and gave it to Mrs Chopper, who swallowed it, and then
proceeded, taking a paper from under her pillow--
"Nancy! this is the paper I told you of. I have about 700 pounds in the
bank, which is all that I have saved in twenty-two years; but it has
been honestly made. I have, perhaps, much more owing to me, but I do
not want it to be collected. Poor sailors have no money to spare, and I
release them all. You will see me buried, Nancy, and tell poor Peter
how I loved him, and I have left my account books, with my bad debts and
good debts, to him. I am sure he would like to have them, for he knows
the history of every sum-total, and he will look over them and think of
me. You can sell this furniture; but the wherry you must give to
William; he is not very honest, but he has a large family to keep. Do
what you like, dearest, about what is here; perhaps my clothes would be
useful to his wife; they are not fit for you. There's a good deal of
money in the upper drawer; it will pay for my funeral and the doctor. I
believe that is all now; but do tell poor Peter how I loved him. Poor
fellow, I have been cheated ever since he left; but that's no matter.
Now, Nancy, dear, read to me a little. I have so longed to have you by
my bedside to read to me, and pray for me! I want to hear you pray
before I die. It will make me happy to hear you pray, and see that kind
face looking up to heaven, as it was always meant to do." Poor Mary
burst into tears. After a few minutes she became more composed, and,
dropping down on her knees by the side of the bed, she opened the Prayer
Book, and complied with the request of Mrs Chopper; and as she
fervently poured forth her supplication, occasionally her voice
faltered, and she would stop to brush away the tears which dimmed her
sight. She was still so occupied when the door of the room was gently
opened, and a lady, with a girl about fourteen or fifteen years old,
quietly entered the room. Mary did not perceive them until they also
had knelt down. She finished the prayer, rose, and, with a short
curtsey, retired from the side of the bed.
Although not recognised herself by the lady, Mary, immediately
remembered Mrs Phillips and her daughter Emma, having as we have before
observed, been at one time in Mrs Phillips's service.
"This is the young woman whom you so wished to see, Mrs Chopper, is it
not?" said Mrs Phillips. "I am not surprised at your longing for her,
for she appears well suited for a companion in such an hour; and, alas!
how, few there are! Sit down, I request," continued Mrs Phillips,
turning to Mary. "How do you find yourself to-day, Mrs Chopper?"
"Sinking fast, dear madam, but not unwilling to go, since I have seen
Nancy, and heard of my poor Peter; he wrote to Nancy a short time ago.
Nancy, don't forget my love to Peter."
Emma Phillips, who had now grown tall and thin, immediately went up to
Mary, and said, "Peter was the little boy who was with Mrs Chopper; I
met him on the road when he first came to Gravesend, did I not?"
"Yes, miss you did," replied Mary.
"He used to come to our house sometimes, and very often to meet me as I
walked home from school. I never could imagine what became of him, for
he disappeared all at once without saying good-bye."
"He was obliged to go away, miss. It was not his fault; he was a very
good boy, and is so still."
"Then pray remember me to him, and tell him that I often think of him."
"I will, Miss Phillips, and he will be very happy to hear that you have
said so."
"How did you know that my name was Phillips? O, I suppose poor Mrs
Chopper told you before we came."
Mrs Phillips had now read some time to Mrs Chopper, and this put an
end to the conversation between Mary and Emma Phillips. It was not
resumed. As soon as the reading was over, Mrs Phillips and her
daughter took their leave.
Mary made up a bed for herself by the side of Mrs Chopper's. About the
middle of the night, she was roused by a gurgling kind of noise; she
hastened to the bedside, and found that Mrs Chopper was suffocating.
Mary called in the old woman to her aid, but it was useless, the abscess
had burst, and in a few seconds all was over; and Mary, struggling with
emotion, closed the eyes of her old friend, and offered up a prayer for
her departed spirit.
The remainder of the night was passed in solemn meditation and a renewal
of those vows which the poor girl had hitherto so scrupulously adhered
to, and which the death-bed scene was so well fitted to encourage; but
Mary felt that she had her duties towards others to discharge, and did
not give way to useless and unavailing sorrow. It was her duty to
return as soon as possible to her indulgent mistress, and the next
morning she was busy in making the necessary arrangements. On the third
day Mary attended the funeral of her old friend, the bills were all
paid, and having selected some articles which she wished to retain as a
remembrance, she resolved to make over to William, the waterman, not
only the wherry, but all the stock in hand, furniture and clothes of
Mrs Chopper. This would enable him and his wife to set up in business
themselves and provide for their family. Mary knew that she had no
right to do so without Joey's consent, but of this she felt she was
sure; having so done, she had nothing more to do but to see the lawyer
who had drawn up the will, and having gone through the necessary forms,
she received an order on the county bank nearest to the Hall for the
money, which, with what was left in the drawers, after paying every
demand, amounted to more than 700 pounds. She thought it was her duty
to call upon Mrs Phillips, before she went away, out of gratitude for
her kindness to Mrs Chopper; and as she had not been recognised, she
had no scruple in so doing. She was kindly received, and blushed at the
praise bestowed upon her. As she was going away, Emma Phillips followed
her out, and putting into her hand a silver pencil-case, requested she
would "give it to Peter as a remembrance of his little friend, Emma."
The next day Mary arrived at the Hall, first communicated to Mrs Austin
what had occurred, and then, having received our hero's two last
epistles, sat down to write the packet containing all the intelligence
we have made known, and ended by requesting Joey to set off with his
knife-grinder's wheel, and come to the village near to the Hall, that he
might receive his share of Mrs Chopper's money, the silver pencil-case,
and the warm greeting of his adopted sister. Joey was not long in
deciding. He resolved that he would go to Mary; and, having locked up
his apartments, he once more resumed his wheel, and was soon on his way
to Hampshire.