THE ROAD, AND THE TRAVELLERS.—THE PLEASURES OF DOING GOOD.—THE BEGGAR
WOMAN.—SIR FRANCIS VARNEY A PHILANTHROPIST.
The road was pleasantly bounded on either side by hill and dale
scenery, while it was itself of a very diversified character; and at
one moment they passed through long avenues of trees, at other times a
bare heath, without so much as a dwarf hedge; and then well-cultivated
country would succeed, studded with handsome villas, and country seats,
old half-castellated mansions and halls, where gentlemen lived in the
abodes of their ancestors, and felt pride in doing so.
The air was balmy and beautiful—every object appeared fresh, and every
tree and shrub looked as though new life had been infused into it; the
birds sang merrily, and the whole party were in high spirits.
“Such scenes as these,” said Sir Francis Varney, “please me better
than the gaieties and follies of the town. I am sure there is much
more happiness to be found by a contented mind, than there is in the
feverish pleasures of a city.”
“There is much truth in that, Sir Francis,” said the captain; “but,
in my own case, connected as I am with my professional friends, I
cannot follow what is the natural bent of my taste; but I find pleasure
wherever I go, for I am determined to make the best of all that passes
beneath my observation.”
“Sweets can be extracted from every bitter, and therefore it is good
philosophy to take the bright side of a picture, in all the ordinary
relations of life; we are better men and better subjects by so doing.”
Thus the distance was soon passed over, and a stage was but the same
as a pleasant morning ride; and then an hour or two spent of the heat
of the day in quiet in some small, but respectable, inn, with wine and
pleasing conversation, gave them a relish for the life they led.
The style of the conversation of the stranger, Sir Francis Varney, was
pleasing in the extreme; he was evidently a man of great and varied
talents and attainments, and one of great experience, and who had seen
much of life.
Two days passed this way, and they had not reached Bath; they were
tempted to stop longer by the way than they would have done.
“To-morrow,” observed Sir Francis, “we must reach Bath. About three
short stages will place us within its precincts, and then I presume
the assembly-room, as well as the pump-room, will occupy much of your
attention.
“We shall certainly go there.”
“Have you been in Bath before?”
“Yes, but many years ago, when we were quite children, so that I have
no recollection of the place.”
“And you, Captain Fraser?”
“No, I have not, I am quite a stranger there; but for the kindness
of your offer, I should have to trust to strangers, or my own good
fortune, to find out those things which strangers usually seek, and
those places they usually visit.”
“I shall have great pleasure in showing you that which is worthy of
your attention. It is now some years since I was there; but I believe,
though there may be improvements, yet the place is essentially the
same.”
“No doubt; cities seldom alter much, unless it be in their suburbs. If
the alteration be great, it will point itself out.”
“Exactly so.”
The party were seated beneath a large cedar tree, which stood in
the inn garden, with a table, upon which were spread some wine and
biscuits, walnuts, and a few things besides, of a character agreeing
much with the place.
Into this garden crept an unfortunate beggar woman, who, espying the
party from the road, escaped the vigilance of the waiters and menials
who hung about the inn, and entered. She crept timidly towards the
party, looking wistfully, but yet fearful of the consequences of the
intrusion; for there was a notice in the village, which gave forth
fearful threats to them, should they dare to beg for the bread for
which they were starving.
Presently, finding the captain’s eye fixed upon her, with a beseeching
look, she dropped her curtsey.
“Who is that woman, and what does she want?”
All turned to look upon the unfortunate creature, who began her
petition by saying,—
“Kind ladies and gentlemen, pity a poor woman who is starving. I am
very weary, and am weak with travelling—”
“Eh! what do you do here?” exclaimed the waiter. “Come, come, we don’t
allow beggars in this place. The high roads, or the Bridewell, are the
only places we have in these here parts.”
“Do not be in a hurry,” said Sir Francis, to the officious waiter.
“It might have been right enough to prevent her entering; but now we
have seen her, I cannot, if she deserve it, refuse to aid her in her
affliction.”
The woman dropped a very low curtsey.
“My good woman, where have you come from?”
“From Bath, sir,” said the unfortunate creature.
“From Bath, eh? And what took you there?”
“I lived there.”
“You lived there; if that were the case, why should you leave a place
where you did live, to wander about where you cannot live? That is a
bad policy, methinks. What do you say, captain?”
“I think so too, Sir Francis,” said the captain; “but that may be only
a verbal blunder of the woman; we can’t expect propriety in speaking
from such people; it would be expecting too much.”
“So it would,” said Mrs. Fraser.
“I have left Bath for two reasons, sir,” said the woman; “one is, I was
too unwell to work, and then my rent got into arrears. While I could
work, I did pay my way, though living very hard.”
“And what was the other reason?”
“Why, sir, I was turned out of my lodging, and having nowhere to go to,
and finding nobody would assist me, was compelled to beg.”
“What induced you to take this road, my good woman?”
“Because, sir, it will, if I live long enough, carry me to Portsmouth.”
“Are you known there?”
“No, sir.”
“What induces you to go so far? Speak out and do not be afraid; we have
no object in asking you questions, save with the view of assisting you
if we find you a worthy object.”
“I am going to Portsmouth,” replied the poor creature, “in the hope
that I may hear from my son, whom I have not seen these many years, and
who went to sea about seven years ago.”
“You have a son then?”
“Yes, sir, I had one. God knows if I have one now.”
The poor woman uttered these words with such sorrowing accents, that
all were convinced of the truthfulness of them.
“Speak out and tell us your story. Bring the poor woman some
refreshment,” said Sir Francis; “her tale may interest us, and give
us food for reflection. I am sure one cannot hear the misfortunes of
others, without feeling grateful for the luxuries and blessings one
enjoys over and above the common lot of mankind.”
“That is very true, Sir Francis,” said Mrs. Fraser; “and I am sure we
ought not to pass those whom we can assist by a trifle, when our means
will permit our doing so.”
“You are perfectly correct, ma’am.”
“Have you no husband?” inquired Mrs. Fraser.
“None, ma’am, none. When I had one, I had a good home over my head. I
would not wish for happier or better days to come again.”
“What was your husband?”
“A respectable tradesman, who kept a good house and his own servants.
We spent such a life as that for nearly fifteen years.”
“And how came it to a close?”
“His death, sir, which was brought on by a sudden cold; in a few days
he was a corpse. I can never forget that dreadful day. We were living
very comfortably and happy. My husband had just at that time entered
into some speculations that promised to make a handsome fortune in
a few years; and all promised success and happiness, complete and
continued.”
“How great a change!” said Miss Stevens.
“Yes, miss, great indeed. My husband hearing some news that caused him
to be anxious to ascertain its truth, he left home one wet night, and
got drenched through; and where he went to, he was obliged to remain in
damp clothes, and not being a strong man, he took a violent cold, and
inflammation followed.
“After this he had medical advice; but he soon sank, and was pronounced
beyond recovery; he died a very few hours after that, and I was left a
widow. A few short hours caused a great change in my circumstances.”
“What became of the business?”
“Why, that was carried on for a time; but an accident deprived me of
that.”
“What was that?”
“I will tell you, sir. My son was about fourteen years of age when his
father died, and was just able to carry on the business; and I believe
we should have done pretty well, because he was a steady youth, and I
could trust him; and he looked after the men employed, and I was not
robbed.
“However, a severe misfortune awaited me. I thought the loss of my
husband a dreadful misfortune; and I believe it was; but in his case he
left one behind who could help to maintain me. His loss I mourned; but
it did not produce the same disastrous results that the loss of my son
produced.”
“How came you to lose him?” inquired the captain.
“Why, sir, I had occasion to have some business transacted at Bristol.
I could send no one else, though I could ill spare him; but then I was
compelled to send him, and did send him. It was to accommodate some
terms of sale; and he only knew the affair. He, therefore, went to
Bristol. He was pleased enough, being his first journey; and I could
hardly have resisted his importunity, if I had been so inclined.
“He left me, and arrived safely in Bristol, and was there a day or
two, when, walking about one evening by the water-side, he was seized
by a press-gang, and carried out to sea. It was useless for him to
complain or to entreat; they would take him, and forced him on board a
man-of-war.”
“He served his king and country, then?” said the captain. “I honour
him, upon my soul; and you are going to learn something of him—if he be
dead or alive?”
“Yes, sir; I know this much, he was alive about two years ago, and
expected to reach Portsmouth in a couple of years.”
“Well, proceed.”
“When I heard my fate—the detention of my son—I was thrown on a bed of
illness, in which I lay for nearly three months, during which time I
was completely robbed, and run into debt; and when I recovered, I had
but a few pounds in the world, for an execution had been put into the
house, and all was sold.
“Thus was I left without a friend or a soul to comfort me, or any
relative upon whom I could call for aid and assistance. I had no right
to do so to any one; and after my misfortunes, I found that my former
friends deserted me. I found that it was necessary to have the means of
purchasing friends, just the same as anything else. I could obtain them
for money; but without money I had no friends.”
“I was by far too independent to ask for what I felt I was capable
of earning. I could live upon little, and I at once left all who had
formerly known me, before I attempted anything. I was determined that I
would not even ask work at their hands, but get it among strangers.
“Of course this caused me to seek a subsistence in the lowest capacity,
and I cared not for it, because it put a still greater barrier between
me and my late acquaintances. It was a long time before I obtained any
employment, because I was unknown to any one who could recommend me, or
who wanted my services.
“This was to be expected; but the first place I obtained work at
was through the interest of my landlady; and then I obtained more
afterwards, and one led to another, till I obtained a hard-earned but
honest living.
“I had a little money by me—some two or three pounds; in case of being
out of work, or in case illness overtook me, then I had something to
fly to, the workhouse being a place of all others I most dreaded;
sooner than go there I would consent to die by the roadside, and I have
put my resolution to the test.”
“You lost your work?”
“I fell ill for some months; all my little store of money was gone, and
my rent grew in arrears. I became more and more deeply indebted, and
what food I obtained was given me by others out of charity; but this
could not last long, and as soon as I was able to walk, my landlady
asked me for my rent.
“I then told her that I had no money, but that, in a few weeks, if I
could find food to enable me to get up my strength, I should then be
able to work, and I would then pay her off by degrees, until I was out
of debt.
“She knew what I had been, and had some thought that I had money, or
if I pleased I could obtain it from my former friends, and expected me
to make the attempt; but this I refused, and upon my doing so, she,
after the first expressions of astonishment and anger, gave me the
alternative of doing so or leaving the house.
“I was turned out, and had no refuge. I wandered about, and knew not
where to go, or what to do; indeed, I was houseless and friendless—a
wanderer without a penny. I could not now obtain work—I could not do
it; and my appearance caused people to shut their doors against me, and
I wandered about begging.
“This was the first time I ever took what I had not earned, save what
was voluntarily given me when I was ill.
“One evening, as I was creeping about, I heard some men conversing
about the different vessels that were out at sea, and one of them named
the one in which my son was. I instantly listened, and heard one of
them say that she was on her voyage homewards, and would be home in a
month.
“I had no sooner heard this than I had some hope.
“‘I will go,’ I said, ‘to Portsmouth. I will meet my son, and he will
not refuse to support his unfortunate mother. I know his disposition
too well to dream of it; and should he be unable to do so, I will beg
for him.’
“I slept in Bath that night, and then began to consider how I should
get to Portsmouth. It was a long road; many weary miles must be walked
over ere I could get there; and as for the means, I must trust to the
charity of the passengers. It would not be much more than what I was
doing. I could sit on a doorstep and beg; but to walk on the road where
there were few or no passengers, I might starve.
“However, I resolved to make the attempt, because I loved my son; and
if I could see him I should see an end to my misery.
“I started out about four days ago, and I have got this far; but I have
had only bread on the road, and almost despair of being able to reach
there; and the charity of people is not enough to support life upon.”
“And where have you slept as you came along?”
“Wherever I could, sir; beneath the haystack, or even a hedge.”
“Where did you sleep last night?”
“Beneath a haystack about seven miles from this place.”
“And is that all you have got through to-day?”
“Yes, sir, every step; and considering my weak state, I consider
it good travelling, and shall feel thankful for even that rate of
travelling. You do not know how intensely I wish to get to see my son.”
“I have no doubt of it, my good woman, and if I can, I will help you on
the road. I think yours is a case that deserves some attention. If you
choose to remain here all night and rest, you may. You shall have food
till you go, and some food shall be placed in your hands before you go.”
“Got bless you, sir,” said the poor woman, in tears; “you will, indeed,
do an act of kindness to me.”
“You will stop?”
“And be grateful to you for your kindness.”
“Here, waiter,” said Sir Francis.
“Yes, sir,” said that worthy, running up.
“Just take this person, and see that she wants for nothing—let her
have a bed here and breakfast in the morning, and let me know what the
charges are, and I will pay for it—do you hear what I say to you.”
“Yes, sir,” exclaimed the waiter, who considered the charge as one
beneath his dignity; but he was forced to obey, and the woman was
desired to follow him, which she did, after thanking Sir Francis Varney
for his humanity and generosity.
• • • • •
“Upon my word, Sir Francis,” said Mrs. Fraser, “you do those things as
if they were common occurrences to you.”
“Why, madam, I am—and perhaps I ought to abstain from making the
confession—one who does not love to come in contact with misery; but
then one does not feel justified in turning away from it.”
“You must have a deep purse to be able to satisfy all such claimants.”
“I cannot do that, if I were inclined, or they were deserving, which
many are not, as you no doubt must be well aware.”
“Indeed, that is a fact. Very few of the claimants possess the same
strength of right to our pity and commiseration. I am certainly struck
with the woman’s manners, and her artless mode of telling her story.”
“Exactly. It bears the impress of genuineness about it.”
“So it does.”
“And when that is the case, I cannot resist the sense of my duty, which
impels me to aid the distressed. But then I injure no one. I have ample
means; and, therefore, others may do less, and yet deserve more credit.
I have no heirs to come into my property, and I cannot, therefore,
injure any one; if I were to give it all away, I should be entitled to
do so.”
“You are as good, Sir Francis, as you are courageous and fortunate,”
said Miss Stevens; “I am sure I have every reason to be thankful to you
for two preservations.”
“Nay, say no more about the past; you say things at which I ought
to blush to hear, for my modesty is greater than you imagine; but,
seriously, I take more pleasure in it than most people, and that may
be a set-off against my disinterestedness, for I am only laying out my
money in pleasure and amusement.”
“No, no, that will not pass.”
“It will, I hope; but permit me to return and see how they have
disposed of this temporary protege of mine.”
“Certainly, Sir Francis; don’t let us detain you; we shall remain here
some time longer, and then we shall leave the shelter of this house.”
• • • • •