RAYS OF HOPE.
From this time our poor hero began to recover; and, although hope is
said to be the best physician in the world, and he had nothing now to
hope for, it was surprising how rapidly he improved. The return from a
sick-bed to the active duties of life, the change from the close and
darkened chamber to the pure air of heaven and the glorious sunlight,
has a wonderful effect in restoring health. He was soon able to make
his appearance in the shop; and, to aid his entire recovery, he was
permitted to be much at Thomas Burton's, where he was really happy. It
was not long before he was able to go to church and to Sabbath school.
Greater than ever seemed the privileges; none are truly valued until
deprived of them. His heart was full of joyful praise on the day when
he first was able to serve the Lord by worshipping in his holy temple.
More contented than he had been since leaving his home at M----, he
found himself at times almost happy. And why, dear reader, was it so?
His outward circumstances were the same; the sun, which shines in
equal brightness upon the just and unjust, had received no additional
lustre since he had wandered, sad and desponding, unheeding its glory
and uncheered by its beams. But now what made the difference? The
sunshine within, the sure possession of a heart at peace with God,
which warms and cheers with its own light, even when the creature's
way is rugged and dark. That made the poor boy's spirit so peaceful.
And, now the poor child, whose path had indeed been through the deep
waters, was soon to be lifted up above the lowly and distasteful
station, so repugnant at first to his feelings and taste, with which
it had been his trial to struggle, and his triumph to conquer; and
"according to the days in which he had been afflicted was he now to be
made glad." Comparative prosperity was soon to be enjoyed; but would
he endure the trial of its deceitful ray as well as he had that of the
obscuring cloud? We shall see.
Months passed away with little change. Mrs. Walters resumed her
scolding and commanding, while Mr. Walters grumbled and found fault to
his heart's content. But Jem Taylor, kinder than ever to our hero, no
longer assailed him with temptation to do wrong, for he felt that
"Bill's" integrity was not to be moved.
Thomas Burton had found, from a newspaper, the owner of the purse, who
was a boy and the son of a distinguished artist living in the suburbs.
As he described the low-storeyed house, with its wealth of natural
beauty without and tasteful embellishment within, William's heart beat
loudly; surely that boy was one of the happy children whom he had seen
on the day he peeped into the school-room; and a feeling of
disappointment stole over him that he had not been able to deliver the
purse himself. This, however, soon subsided, when Thomas told him that
the family were all from home, and that he had left it with an old
gentleman, who was the only person he saw.
The gloomy days of winter had long passed by, and spring, with its
green grass and many-hued blossoms, had cheered the country with its
beauty; but now its task was ended, and the glowing summer was at
hand. The weary dwellers of the pent-up city were leaving in search of
pure air and variety; the dust-covered marble steps in front of many a
shut-up house proclaimed it deserted for the season, and business,
much to Mr. Walters' dissatisfaction, was very dull. Shoes, however,
had to be worn, and as he still continued to furnish the needed
article, he was often called upon, although not quite so frequently as
in the winter.
One day he came in with a pair of prunella boots in his hand, which he
told Bill to carry to the house of Mr. Stewart, a painter who lived in
the outskirts of the city. "They are for Mrs. Stewart, to whom you
took a pair of shoes last autumn," said he. "Go straight to Number 200
----Street, and then keep on to the end of the street. The family, it
seems, have gone there for fresh air, as if they could not breathe
that of the city as well as others."
Never had he received a more welcome commission. He even felt as if he
could have embraced his stern master for such an indulgence. The day
was so fine, he had longed to get out into the sunshine, and now the
prospect of a long walk to the beautiful cottage of Mr. Stewart filled
him with the liveliest joy.
He was quite busy putting strings into a pair of boots for a lady, but
joy lent him speed, and in a few moments his task was finished, and,
stringing up the shoes and putting on his cap, he was soon on the road
to ---- Street.
His steps were light, and so was his heart. He wondered if he should
again be able to look into the school-room and see those happy
children; and so great was his haste to be at the end of his journey,
that the gay pictures in the shop-windows had not power to tempt him
to linger a moment. He passed Number 200, where all was closed, and
keeping on to the end of the street, soon came in sight of the
cottage, which looked far more lovely now, robed in the rich garniture
of summer, than when he last had seen it. The branches of the climbing
plants, then bare and leafless from the breath of frost, were now
hiding the walls with a more beautiful tapestry than that woven by the
hand of man; twining their flexile vines together, they mounted even
to the roof, or, covered with many-hued flowers, hung loosely down in
long reaches, giving out sweet odours as they waved in the summer
breeze. It was a fitting abode for one who was a lover of the
beautiful, as all painters are supposed to be.
He opened the gate, walked up the gravelled path, and ascended the
high steps. He did not, however, at once ring the bell; he thought he
would first take a look at the school-room. The windows were closed,
as if the room were unoccupied, and a feeling of disappointment crept
over his heart, which was again exchanged for a more hopeful mood,
when, continuing to survey the other parts of the building, he found
the door of a room on the opposite side open, and filled with objects
more attractive to his eye than even those he had seen in the
school-room.
It was evidently a painter's studio, for it was fitted up with
everything requisite for the study of the glorious art. The walls were
hung with pictures, several busts and statues were ranged round on
brackets, detached models of portions of the human frame cast in
plaster were on the table; but the easel, standing near the door with
a picture more than half finished, interested him more than all the
rest. Several tubes of colour lay on a chair, and a prepared
pallet-board, with some brushes beside it, seeming to have been just
now in use, gave reason to conjecture that the occupant of the room
was not far off.
William, forgetting that he had not rung the bell, wondered why no one
came to the door, and half attracted by the view of a painter's room,
and half urged by the wish to find some one to whom he could deliver
his message, he cleared the steps at a bound, and stood before the
open door. He looked within; no one was there; and as he stood he
could plainly see the picture, which was a Scripture subject. Was it
wrong that he ventured, the shoemaker's boy with a painter's heart,
step by step quite within the precincts of that chamber? So lost in
pleasant observation was he, so perfectly guileless, he never once
thought that, however innocent, his motive for intruding might be
mistaken. He stood rapt and immovable before the picture, forgetful of
everything but his present enjoyment, so that he did not hear the
opening of a door behind him, nor that a footstep was approaching.
It was Mr. Stewart himself, who, having left his studio but a few
minutes before, was now returning to his work; and as his eyes fell
upon this unexpected guest, he at first was disposed to believe him
some young vagabond who had come in to pilfer. But the statue-like
attitude of the boy, the fixed look with which he surveyed the
picture, and the gaiter boots which dangled by their connecting string
from his arm, his whole appearance making him a fit subject for study,
soon banished suspicion, and with all the sympathies of a most
benevolent nature aroused, he stood silent for a moment, for he
hesitated to disturb so visible an enjoyment.
But as there was no knowing how long the survey might last, he at
length advanced, and touching our little shoemaker on the shoulder,
said, in a playful tone, "Why, boy, you must love pictures as well as
does a painter; have you not been dreaming long enough? Tell me, now,
what brought you here?"
Fully aroused, William turned to answer and apologize; but when he
looked into the face of the gentleman before him the words died on his
lips. Mr. Stewart himself was not without astonishment, as, when
William pulled off his cap, he recognised the features of the orphan
boy in whose grief he had long ago sympathized so deeply, and he once
more spoke.
"I believe we have seen each other before," said he; "are you not the
boy I met in the grave-yard at M----?"
"Yes, sir," answered William; "and I have got the little picture which
you coloured for me still."
"You are, then, really the same boy?" said Mr. Stewart; "but tell me,
how did you get here? and what are you doing in this room?"
"Oh, sir," he replied, as he blushed deeply, "please forgive me; my
master sent me with the shoes, and when I saw the door open and the
picture, I could not help it. Indeed I did not mean any harm."
"I believe you," rejoined Mr. Stewart; "and now tell me how you got to
New York, and what you are doing."
Our little shoemaker did so with his usual openness and candour; and,
accustomed never to swerve from, the straightforward and direct line
of truth, the stamp of that virtue was so apparent in all he said,
that the kindly sympathies of Mr. Stewart were once more awakened in
his behalf. He was, however, too prudent to excite any hope which he
might afterward be obliged to crush; so telling our hero where to go
in order to deliver his errand, he took up his pallet and began to
paint.
"Stop one minute," he called, as William was leaving the room. "Have
you any friends in the city? and where do you live?"
William replied that he had no real friends but old Thomas Burton the
watchman, and his wife. Mrs. Bradley, the market-woman, had been very
kind to him too, but it was the old watchman who took him to church,
and when he was troubled about the purse, had taken it to the right
owner. The sounds of swift footsteps were now heard, and a
bright-looking boy of fourteen came bustling in at the door. "Father,"
he said, "grandfather wants me to take a drive with him; can I go?"
"Stay a moment first, George," answered Mr. Stewart. "I believe you
lost your purse on Christmas eve, at least I heard you lamenting
something of the kind. You recovered it, and you said you wished to
reward the finder; did you ever do so?"
"No, father," replied George, "I did not. An old watchman who brought
it told grandfather that a shoemaker's boy had found it, but was then
so ill that it was most likely he would never recover, and so--"
"And so, George, you never inquired whether he lived or died," said
Mr. Stewart. "That is the true spirit of the world, to care only for
self. George, I believe this is the boy who found it; thank him, at
least, if you do not reward him."
"I do not want any reward for giving to another that which was his
own," said the little shoemaker; "but if Master George chooses, he can
give something to little Ned Graham, who needs it very much."
"And who is little Ned Graham?" inquired Mr. Stewart, smiling.
Our hero explained in as few words as possible; at the close of which
narration Mr. Stewart, making no remark, turned once more to his
easel, and George conducted the little shoemaker to the room where he
was to leave the shoes. The old lady was pleased, and William, having
received the money for them, ran swiftly homeward, never once dreaming
of the good that was in store for him.