IT was Saturday evening, about eight o clock. Mary Gray had finished
mangling, and had sent home the last basket of clothes. She had
swept up her little room, stirred the fire, and placed upon it a
saucepan of water. She had brought out the bag of oatmeal, a basin,
and a spoon, and laid them upon the round deal table. The place,
though very scantily furnished, looked altogether neat and
comfortable. Mary now sat idle by the fire. She was not often idle.'
She was a pale, delicate-looking woman, of about five-and-thirty.
She looked like ones who had worked beyond her strength, and her
thin face had a very anxious, careworn expression. Her dress showed
signs of poverty, but it was scrupulously clean and neat. As it grew
later, she seemed to be listening attentively for the approach of
some one; she was ready to start up every time a step came near her
door. At length a light step approached, and did not go by it; it
stopped, and there was a gentle tap at the door. Mary's pallid face
brightened, and in a moment she had let in a fine, intelligent-looking
lad, about thirteen years of age, whom she welcomed with evident
delight.
"You are later than usual to-night, Stephen," she said.
Stephen did not reply; but he threw off his cap, and placed himself
in the seat Mary had quitted.
"You do not look well to-night, dear," said Mary anxiously; "is
anything the matter?"
"I am quite well, mother," replied the boy. "Let me have my supper.
I am quite ready for it."
As he spoke, he turned away his eyes from Mary's inquiring look.
Mary, without another word, set herself about preparing the supper,
of oatmeal porridge. She saw that something was wrong with Stephen,
and that he did not wish to be questioned, so she remained silent.
In the mean time Stephen had placed his feet on the fender, rested
his elbows on his knees, and his head on his hands. His hands
covered his face; and, by and by, a few large tears began to trickle
down his fingers. Then suddenly dashing off his tears, as though he
were ashamed of them, he showed his pale, agitated face, and said,
in a tone of indignation and resolve,
"Mother, I am determined I will bear it no longer."
Mary was not surprised. She finished pouring out the porridge; then,
taking a stool, she seated herself beside him.
"Why, Stephen," she said, trying to speak cheerfully, "how many
hundred times before have you made that resolution! But what's the
matter now? Have you any new trouble to tell me of?"
Stephen answered by silently removing with his hand some of his
thick curly hair, and showing beneath it an ear bearing the too
evident marks of cruel usage.
"My poor boy!" exclaimed Mary, her tears starting forth. "Could he
be so cruel?"
"It is nothing, mother," replied the boy, sorry to have called forth
his mother's tears. "I don't care for it. It was done in a passion,
and he was sorry for it after."
"But what could you have done, Stephen, to make him so angry with
you?"
"I was selling half a quire of writing paper to a lady: he counted
the sheets after me, and found thirteen instead of only twelve; they
had stuck together so that I took two for one. I tried to explain,
but he was in a passion, and gave me a blow. The lady said something
to him about his improper conduct, and he said that I was such a
_careless little rascal_, that he lost all patience with me. That
hurt me a great deal more than the blow. It was a falsehood, and he
knew it; but he wanted to excuse himself. I felt that I was going
into a passion, too, but I thought of what you are always telling me
about patience and forbearance, and I kept down my passion; I know
he was sorry for it after, from the way he spoke to me, though he
didn't say so."
"I have no doubt he suffered more than you, Stephen," said Mary; "he
would be vexed that he, had shown his temper before the lady, vexed
that he had told a lie, and vexed that he had hurt you when you bore
it so patiently.
"Yes, mother, but that doesn't make it easier for me to bear his ill
temper; I've borne it now for more than a year for your sake, and I
can bear it no longer. Surely I can get something to do; I'm sturdy
and healthy, and willing to do any kind of work."
Mary shook her head, and remained for a long time silent and
thoughtful. At length she said, with a solemn earnestness of manner
that almost made poor Stephen cry,
"You say that, for my sake, you have borne your master's unkind
treatment for more than a year; for my sake, bear it longer,
Stephen. Your patience must, and will be rewarded in the end. You
know how I have worked, day and night, ever since your poor father
died, when you were only a little infant in the cradle, to feed and
clothe you, and to pay for your schooling, for I was determined that
you should have schooling; you know how I have been cheered in all
my toil by the hope of seeing you, one day, getting on in the world,
And I know, Stephen, that you will get on. You are good, honest lad,
and kind to your poor mother, and God will reward you. But not if
you are hasty; not if you are impatient. You know how hard it was
for me to get you this situation; you might not get another; you
must not leave; you must not break your indentures; you must be
patient and industrious still; you have a hard master, and, God
knows, it costs me many at heartache to think of what you have to
suffer; but bear with him, Stephen; bear with him, for my sake, a
few years longer."
Stephen was now fairly crying and his mother kissed off his tears,
while her own flowed freely. Her appeal to his affection was not in
vain. He soon smiled through his tears, as he said,
"Well, mother, you always know how to talk me over, When I came in
to-night I did think that I would never go the shop again. But I
will promise you to be patient and industrious still. Considering
all that you have, done for me, this is little enough for me to do
for you. When I have a shop of my own, you shall live like a lady.
I'll trust to your word that I shall be sure to get on, if I am
patient and industrious, though I don't see how it's to be.--It's
not so very bad to bear after all; and, bad as my master is, there's
one comfort, he lets me have my Saturday nights and blessed Sundays
with you. Well, I feel happier now, and I think I can eat my supper.
We forgot that my porridge was getting cold all this time."
Stephen kept his word; day after day, and month after month, his
patience and industry never flagged. And plenty of trials, poor
fellow, he had for his fortitude. His master, a small stationer in a
small country town, to whom Stephen was bound apprentice for five
years, with a salary barely sufficient to keep him in clothes, was a
little, spare, sharp-faced man, who seemed to have worn himself away
with continual fretfulness and vexation. He was perpetually
fretting, perpetually finding fault with something or other,
perpetually thinking that everything was going wrong. Though he did
cease to go into a passion with, and to strike Stephen, the poor lad
was an object always at hand, on which to vent his ill-humour, Many,
many times was Stephen on the point of losing heart and temper; but
he was always able to control himself by thinking of his mother.
And, as he said, there was always comfort in those Saturday nights
and blessed Sundays. A long walk in the country on those blessed
Sundays, and the Testament readings to his mother, would always
strengthen his often wavering faith in her prophecies of good in the
end, would cheer his spirits, and nerve him with a fresh resolution
for the coming week. And what was it that the widow hoped would
result from this painful bondage? She did not know; she only had
faith in her doctrine--that patience and industry would some time be
rewarded. _How_ the reward was to come in her son's case, she could
not see. It seemed likely, indeed, from all appearances, that the
doctrine in this case would prove false. But still she had faith.
It was now nearly four years since the conversation between mother
and son before detailed. They were together again on the Saturday
evening. Stephen had grown into a tall, manly youth, with a gentle,
kind, and thoughtful expression of countenance. Mary looked much
older, thinner, paler, and more anxious. Both were at this moment
looking very downcast.
"I do not see that anything can be hoped from him," said Stephen,
with a sigh. "I have now served him faithfully for five years; I
have borne patiently all his ill-humour; I have never been absent a
moment from my post; and during all that time, notwithstanding all
this, he has never thanked me, he has never so much as given me a
single kind word, nor even a kind look. He must know that
apprenticeships will be out on Tuesday, yet he never says a word to
me about it, and I suppose I must just go without a word."
"You must speak to him," said Mary; "you cannot leave without saying
something; and tell him exactly how you are situated; he cannot
refuse to do something to help you."
"It is easy to talk of speaking to him, mother, but not so easy to
do it. I have often before thought of speaking to him, of telling
him how very, very poor we are, and begging a little more salary.
But I never could do it when I came before him. I seemed to feel
that he would refuse me, and I felt somehow too proud to ask a
favour that would most likely be refused. But it shall be done now,
mother; I will not be a burthen upon you, if I can help it. I'd
sooner do anything than that. He _ought_ to do something for me, and
there's no one else that I know of that can. I will speak to him on
Monday."
Monday evening was come; all day Stephen had been screwing up his
courage for the task he had to do; of course it could not be done
when his master and he were in the shop together, for there they
were liable at any moment to be interrupted. At dinner-time they
separated; for they took the meal alternately, that the post in the
shop might never be deserted. But now the day's work was over:
everything was put away, and master and apprentice had retired into
the little back parlour a to take their tea. As usual, they were
alone, for the stationer was a single man (which might account for
the sourness of his temper), and the meal was usually taken in
silence, and soon after it was over they would both retire to bed,
still in silence. Stephen's master had poured out for him his first
cup of tea, handed it to him without looking at him, and begun to
swallow his own potion. Stephen allowed his cup to remain before him
untouched; he glanced timidly towards his master, drew a deep
breath, coloured slightly, and then began:--
"If you please, sir, I wish to speak to you."
His master looked up with a sudden jerk of the head, and fixed his
keen gray eyes on poor Stephen's face. He did not seem at all
surprised, but said sharply (and he had a very sharp voice), "Well,
sir, speak on."
Stephen was determined not to be discouraged, so he began to tell
his little tale. His voice faltered at first, but as he went on he
became quite eloquent. He spoke with a boldness which astonished
himself. He forgot his master, and thought only of his mother. He
told all about her poverty, and struggles to get a living. He dwelt
strongly, but modestly, on his own conduct during his apprenticeship,
and finished by entreating his master now to help him to do something,
for he had nothing in the world to turn to, no friends, no money, no
influence.
His master heard him to an end. He had soon withdrawn his eyes from
Stephen's agitated face, then partially averted his own face, then
left his seat, and advanced to a side table, where he began to
rummage among some papers, with his back to Stephen.
Stephen had ceased speaking some time before he made any reply. Then
still without turning round, he spoke, beginning with a sort of
grunting ejaculation--"Humph! so your mother gets her living by
mangling, does she? and she thought that if she got you some
schooling, and taught you to behave yourself, your fortune would be
made. Well, you will be free to-morrow; you may go to her and tell
her she is a fool for her pains. Here are your indentures, and
here's the salary that's due to you. Now you may go to bed."
As he spoke the last words, he had taken the indentures from a desk,
and the money from his purse. Stephen felt a choking sensation in
his throat as he took from his hands the paper and the money; he
would even have uttered the indignation he felt, but, before he
could speak, his master left the room. Disappointed and heart-sick,
and feeling humiliated that he should have asked a favour of such a
man, the poor lad retired to his garret, and it was almost time to
get up in the morning before he could fall asleep. On the Tuesday,
when the day's work was over, Stephen packed up his bundle of
clothes;--should he say good-bye to his master? Yes; he would not be
ungracious at the last. He opened the door of the back parlour, and
stood just within the door-way, his bundle in his hand. His master
was sitting, solitary, at the tea-table.
"I am going, sir, good-bye," said Stephen.
"Good-bye, sir," returned his master, without, looking at him. And
so they parted.
The result of the application told, the mother and the son sat
together that night in silence; their hearts were too full for
words. Mary sorrowed most, because she had hoped most. Bitter tears
rolled down her cheeks, as she sat brooding over her disappointment.
Stephen looked more cheerful, for his mind was busy trying to form
plans for the future--how he should go about to seek for another
situation, &c. Bed-time came; both rose to retire to rest. Stephen
had pressed his mother's hand, and was retiring, saying as he went,
"Never mind, mother, it'll all be right yet," when they were
startled by a loud rap at the door.
"Who's there?" shouted Stephen.
"A letter for you," was the reply.
Stephen thought there was some mistake, but he opened the door. A
letter was put into his hand, and the bearer disappeared. Surprised,
Stephen held the letter close to the rush-light Mary was carrying.
He became still more surprised; it was addressed to Mrs. Gray, that
was his mother, and he thought he knew the handwriting; it was very
like his master's. Mary's look of wonder became suddenly brightened
by a flash of hope; she could not read writing--Stephen must read it
for her. He opened the letter, something like a banknote was the
first thing he saw--he examined it--it was actually a ten pound Bank
of England note; his heart beat rapidly, and so did his mother's;
what could this mean? But there was a little note which would
perhaps explain. Stephen's fingers trembled sadly as he opened it.
There were not many words, but they were to the purpose. Stephen
read them to himself before he read them aloud. And as he was
reading, his face turned very red, and how it did burn! But what was
the meaning of tears, and he looking so pleased? Mary could not
understand it.
"Do read up, Stephen," she exclaimed.
With a voice broken by the effort he had to make all the time to
keep from crying, Stephen read,
"MADAM--Put away your mangle-that son of yours is worth mangling
for; but it is time to rest now. The note is for your present wants;
in future your son may supply you. I let him go to-night; but I did
not mean him to stay away, if he chooses to come back. I don't see
that I can do well without him. But I don't want him back if he
would rather go anywhere else; I know plenty that would be glad to
have him. He has been seen in the shop, and noticed, and such lads
are not always to be got. If he chooses to come back to me, he won't
repent. I've no sons of my own, thank God. He knows what I am; I am
better than I was, and I may be better still. I've a queer way of
doing things, but it is my way, and can't be helped. Tell him I'll
be glad to have him back to-morrow, if he likes. Yours,
"J. W."
"I knew it!" exclaimed Mary, triumphantly; "I always said so! I knew
you would get on!"
Stephen did go back to his eccentric master, and he never had any
reason to repent. He _got on_ even beyond his mother's most soaring
hopes. The shop eventually became his own, and he lived a
flourishing and respected tradesman. We need scarcely add that his
mother had no further use for her mangle, and that she was a very
proud and a very happy woman.