"Yer's me, indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Cleveland, "what sort of a way is
this to build a fire?"
"I rispec you is bin kick um, sir," said Tom.
"Hey? What? Well! suppose I did bin kick um, if it had been properly
made, it would not have tumbled down. Fix it this minute, sir!"
"I is gwine to fix um now, sir," said Tom, fumbling at the fire.
"Well! fix it, sir, without having so much to say about it; you had
better do more, and say less," said Mr. Cleveland.
"Yes, sir," answered Tom.
"You _will_ keep answering me when there is no occasion!" exclaimed
Mr. Cleveland; "I just wish I had my stick here, I'd crack the side
of your head with it."
"Yer's de stick, sir," said Tom, handing the walking cane out of the
corner.
"Put it down, this instant, sir," said Mr. Cleveland; "how dare you
touch my stick without my leave?"
"I bin tink you bin say you bin want um, sir," said Tom.
"You had better tink about your work, sir, and stop answering me,
sir, or I'll find a way to make you," said Mr. Cleveland. "Bring in
some more light wood, and make the fire, and shut in the window
shutters. Do you hear me, sir?"
"Yes, sir," replied Tom.
"Well, why don't you answer, if you hear, then? How am I to know
when you hear me, if you don't answer?" said Mr. Cleveland.
"I bin tink you bin tell me for no answer you, sir," said Tom.
"I said when there was no occasion, boy; that's what I said,"
exclaimed Mr. Cleveland, reaching for his stick.
"Yes, sir," said Tom, as he went grinning out of the room.
Mr. Cleveland was, in the main, a very kind master, though somewhat
hasty and impatient. Tom and he were for ever sparring, yet neither
could have done without the other; and there was something comical
about Tom's disposition which well suited his master's eccentric and
changeable moods. Tom evidently served as a kind of safety valve for
his master's nervous system, and many an explosion of superfluous
excitability he had to bear.
On the night in question, Mr. Cleveland was particularly out of
sorts. The truth is, he was naturally a generous, warm-hearted man,
but in consequence of early disappointment, had lived a solitary
life, and was really suffering for the want of objects of affection.
His feelings, unsatisfied, unemployed, yet morbidly sensitive, were
becoming soured, and his untenanted heart often ached for want of
sympathy.
He rose and took several diagonal turns across the room. At length
he opened a window, and looked out upon the stormy night. "What
confounded weather!" he muttered to himself, "it makes a man feel
like blowing his brains out! There are no two ways about it, I'm
tired of life. What have I to live for? If I were to die to-morrow,
who would shed a tear?"
Then whispered conscience, "It is thine own fault. A man need not
feel alone because there are none in the world who bear his name, or
share his blood. All men are thy brethren. Thou art one of the great
human family, and what hast thou done to relieve the poor and
suffering around thee? Will not thy Master say to thee at the last
day, 'I was an hungered, and you gave me no meat; I was thirsty, and
you gave me no drink; I was a stranger, and ye took me not in;
naked, and you clothed me not; sick, and in prison, and you visited
me not. Inasmuch as you did it not to one of the least of these my
brethren, _you did it not to me._'"
This was a strong and direct appeal, and it was not without its
effect. Then muttered Mr. Cleveland to himself again, "Well, how can
I help it? It has not been for want of inclination. Heaven knows I
am always ready to put my hand in my pocket whenever people call on
me for charity. How can I help it if the poor and suffering do not
make their wants known to me?"
Then again spake Conscience: "Thou art trying to deceive thyself,
but thou canst not deceive nor silence _me_. Thou hast known of the
existence of suffering, and thine indolence has prevented thee from
going abroad to relieve it. Did thy Master thus? Did he not _go
about_ to do good? Did he not sit down to meat with publicans and
sinners? Can you stand here, and look out upon such a night as this,
and not think of those who are exposed to its bitterness? Can thy
human heart beat only for itself when thou thinkest of the thousand
miseries crying to Heaven for relief? Resolve, now, before thy head
touches its comfortable pillow, that with the morning's dawn thou
wilt resolutely set about thy work; or, rather, thy Master's work."
"It is very hard," still muttered Mr. Cleveland to himself, "that
these thoughts will continually intrude themselves upon me. They
give me no peace of my life. Stifle them as I may, they come with
tenfold force. People have no business to be poor. I was poor once,
and nobody gave charity to me. I had to help myself up in the world
as well as I could. I hate poor people; I hate unfortunate people;
in fact, confound it! I hate the world and everybody in it."
Then answered once again the still, small voice: "For shame, Mr.
Cleveland, for shame! You will ruin your soul if you thus darken the
light within. You know better than all this, and you are sinning
against yourself. You want to be happy; well, you may be so. There
is a wide field of duty open before you; enter, in God's name, and
go to work like a man. What you say about having helped yourself, is
perfectly true, and you deserve all credit for it. But remember that
the majority of the poor are entirely destitute of your advantages.
You had the foundation rightly laid. A thousand circumstances in
your early life conspired to render you energetic and self-relying.
You had the right sort of education, and Providence also helped to
train you. Besides, once more I ask you, did your Master stop to
inquire how human misery was brought about before he relieved it?
Away with this unmanly, selfish policy! Follow thy generous
impulses, follow out the yearnings of thy heart, without which you
never can have peace; above, all, follow Christ."
Mr. Cleveland shut the window, heaved a deep sigh, and took several
more turns across the room. "I believe it is all true," at length he
said, "and I have been a confounded fool. I'll turn about, and lead
a different life, so help me Heaven! I have wealth, and not a chick
nor a child to spend it on, nor to leave it to when I die, and so
I'll spend it in doing good, if I can only find out the best way;
that's the trouble. But never mind, I'll be my own executor." He now
rang the bell for Tom.