WHAT OCCURRED AFTER JOSHUA'S DEPARTURE.
The nicest mathematical calculations of the probability of events are
not uncommonly subjected to shocks which, to those dull and
unreflective persons who cannot distinguish between rule and
exceptions, seem to give the lie to science. Yesterday the world was
at peace, and rulers and politicians were eloquent in phrases of
friendship and goodwill to the inhabitants of every nation on the
face of the earth. To-day the world is at war, and rulers and
politicians, hot with wrath at a cunningly-provoked insult, are eager
to avenge traditional wrongs at any expense of blood and human
suffering, and to resent what they choose to call national
humiliation. Yesterday two nations clasped hands, and smiled upon one
another. Suddenly, as thus they stood, a fire--kindled by the worst of
secret passions and by the lust of self-aggrandizement--flashed into
their palms, and they threw each other off, and drew the sword. A more
serious shock was never given to the calculation of the probable
course of events.
Yesterday peace was certain, and men were preparing to gather the
harvests; today war is raging, and the cornfields are steeped in
blood.
So have I seen in a far-off country--now almost in its infancy, but
whose growth is swift, and whose manhood will be grand--a sluggish
river rolling lazily to the sea. Walking inland along its banks, now
broadened by fair plains, now narrowed by towering ranges, I have come
suddenly upon the confluence of it and another river, whose waters,
springing from cloud-tipped mountains of snow, rush laughingly down
the grand old rocks. Here, in the narrow pass where the rivers meet,
the gray sluggish stream of a sleeper opposes itself to the
marvellously blue waters of a passionate life. One, dull and inert,
rolls like a soulless sluggard sullenly to the sea; the other, with
its snow-fringed lines reflected in its restless depths of blue, leaps
and laughs as it flashes onwards, like a godlike hero, to the mightier
waters of the Pacific. But a few hundred yards away from the
confluence of the streams, no stranger, walking thitherward, could
imagine the singular and grand contest that is eternally waging in
that wonderful pass; and when he comes upon it suddenly, admiration
impels him to stand in silent worship.
One of the commonest of common similes is the simile of life and a
river. But as it is not because a thing is rare that it must needs be
sweet, so it is not because a thing is common that it must needs be
true. Every river fulfils its mission: does every life? More like a
stream than a river is life. Trace the stream, from the inconsiderable
bubbling of a mountain spring, down the hillsides, over rocks, through
glades lighted by sunlight and moonlight, through tortuous defiles and
rocky chasms, into a sparkling current, which swells and swells and
grows into a lovely channel, or into a sullen rill, which drips and
drips and loses itself in a puddle.
When Joshua's ship had sailed, gloom fell upon the house of the
Marvels: the sunshine that used to warm it no longer shone on it.
George Marvel showed his grief more plainly than did his good woman.
He was more gentle towards her, and sometimes his gentleness of manner
took the form of submission. Singularly enough she was seriously
distressed at the change. She wished him to be positive and
contradictory, as he used to be; to scold her and put her down, as he
used to do; to be more masterful and less gentle. She strove in all
sorts of ways to bring back his old humor; she tried his temper by
opposing him in trivial matters; she contradicted him when he spoke;
and she even ventured, on two or three occasions, to tell him that he
would have to wait for his meals--which waiting for one's meals, as is
well known, is one of the leading causes of domestic differences. But
all her well-meant efforts were thrown away; and when she saw him sit
down patiently on being told, with assumed snappishness, that tea
wouldn't be ready for half an hour, she gave it up as a bad job, and,
acting wisely, left time to cure him. It _did_ cure him, as it cures
greater griefs; but in the mean time he suffered greatly.
The fact of it was, George Marvel was troubled in his mind at the
prominent part he had taken in influencing Joshua's choice of a
profession. Having driven his son to sea, he felt as if he had a hand
in every storm, and as if he were in some measure responsible for
every gust of wind, inasmuch as it expressed danger to Joshua. Then
the thought of Joshua's being shipwrecked haunted him. "Suppose Josh
is shipwrecked, father," his wife had said, "what would you say then?
You'd lie awake night after night, father--you know you would--and
wish he had been a wood-turner."
"Maggie was right," he admitted to himself; "it would have been better
for Josh, and happier for all us, if he had remained at home and been
a wood-turner."
Being in pursuit of misery, he showed the doggedness of his nature by
hunting for it assiduously. He read with remorseful eagerness every
scrap of print relating to shipwreck that he could lay hands upon. He
would go out of his way to borrow a paper which he had heard contained
an account of disasters at sea, and when he obtained it, he would shut
himself up, and read it and re-read it in secrecy, until he extracted
as much misery from it as it could possibly yield him. The second
Saturday night after Joshua's departure he saw a number of persons
assembled round a sailor who was begging. The sailor had a patch over
his eye and a wooden leg, and he was singing, in a voice of dismal
enjoyment, a woful narration of his sufferings on a raft. George
Marvel stopped until the song was finished, and then gave the man a
penny. The following Saturday night he went in search of the sailor,
and listened to his song, and gave him another penny. And so, for many
successive Saturday nights, he went and enjoyed his penny-worth of
misery, getting, it must be admitted, full value for his money.
On other evenings he smoked his pipe in the kitchen as usual. If the
weather was boisterous, he would go restlessly to the street-door, and
come back more low-spirited than ever.
"It's dreadfully windy to-night, Maggie," he would say.
"Do you think so, George?" Mrs. Marvel would ask, making light of the
wind for his sake, although she too was thinking of Joshua.
"Not a star to be seen," he would add despondently.
Then would come a stronger gust, perhaps, and George Marvel would
shiver and ask his wife if she thought it was stormy out at sea. She,
becoming on the instant wonderfully weatherwise, would answer, No, she
was sure it wasn't stormy at sea, for the sea was such a long way off,
and it wasn't likely that a storm would be all over the world at once.
One night when a great storm was raging through London, and when the
thunder was breaking loudly over the chimney-tops in Stepney, Mrs.
Marvel lay awake, with all a mother's fears tugging at her
heart-strings, praying silently for Joshua's safety, and clasping her
hands more tightly in agony of love at every lightning-flash that
darted past the window. She hoped that her husband was asleep,
oblivious of the storm; but he was as wide awake as she was,
and was following Joshua's ship through the fearful storm. At one
time, the house shook in the wild blustering of the wind, and they
heard a crash as of the blowing down of some chimneys.
"Maggie," whispered Mr. Marvel, wondering if his wife were awake.
"Yes, father," answered Mrs. Marvel, under her breath.
"It is an awful storm." Then, after a pause, "Have you been awake
long, mother?"
"I have been listening to it for ever so long, dear," said Mrs.
Marvel; adding, with a cunning attempt to comfort him, "And praying
that it might spend out all its force over our heads, and not travel
away to Joshua's ship. We ought to be thankful that Joshua is on the
open sea. Mr. Meddler says there's no danger for a ship in a storm
when it isn't near land."
"And he knows better than us, mother."
"Yes, dear. All we can do is to pray for Joshua. God will bring him
back to us, father."
"I hope so; I pray so. Goodnight, Maggie. Go to sleep."
"Yes, George. Goodnight."
But they lay awake for a long time after that, until the storm,
sobbing like a child worn out with passion, sighed and moaned itself
away.
As for Dan, for many days after Joshua was gone he felt as if a dear
friend had died; not Joshua, but some unknown friend almost as dear.
He had reason enough for feeling lonely and miserable. His dear
friend's companionship had been inestimably precious to him; Joshua's
very footfall had made his heart glad. The hours they had spent
together were the summer of his life, and now that he and Joshua were
parted he recognized that a great void had been made in his life, and
that it behoved him to fill it up. That void was want of occupation.
What was he to do now that Joshua was gone? When Joshua was at home,
there had been every day something to do, something to talk about.
something to argue upon. Then, time did not hang heavily upon his
hands; now, when there was no Joshua to look forward to, he found
himself falling into a state of listlessness which he knew was not
good for him. He wanted something for his hands to do. What? He
thought a great deal about it, and had not settled the difficulty when
a domestic calamity occurred.
The drinking proclivities of Mr. Taylor have been incidentally
referred to. These proclivities had unfortunately grown upon him to
such an extent, that he was now an ardent and faithful slave of that
demon to so many English homes among the poor--Gin. It has been spoken
of often enough and truthfully enough, God knows! But it cannot, until
it lie vanquished in the dust, be too often struck at. If there is a
curse in this our mighty England which degrades it to a level so low
that it is shame to think of, that curse is Gin! If vice, domestic
misery, and prostitution have an English teacher, that teacher is Gin!
And in this England, which we so glorify, so sing about and mouth
about, no direct attempt has ever yet been made by statesmen who work
as Jobbers to root this teacher out of our wretched courts and alleys,
and replace it by something better. Perhaps one day, when a lull takes
place in the jangle of Politics--amid the din of which so many strange
sounds are heard; such as the wrangle of religious creeds, whose
various exponents split worthless straws in Church-and-State bills for
Heaven knows what purpose, unless it be for the triumph of their
particular creeds; such as the wrangle of private members whose hearts
and souls (literally) are wrapt up in private bills for the good of
the people--perhaps one day amid the lull, a wise and beneficent
statesman may turn his attention to the abominable curse, and earn for
himself a statue, the design of which shall be--after the manner of
St. George and the Dragon--Gin writhing on the ground in all its true
deformity, pierced through by the spear of a wise legislation, which
in this instance at least shall have legislated for the good of the
many.
Mr. Taylor, one of the Gin Patriots, having enrolled himself as a
soldier in the cause, was necessitated by the magnanimity of his
nature to become a soldier leal and true. So he bowed himself down
before Gin, and worshipped it morning, noon, and night. Even in his
dreams he was faithful to the cause, mumbling out entreaties to his
god. His devotion causing him to neglect all lesser worldly matters,
he fell into a bad state of poverty, and his family fell with him. The
worst form of Mr. Taylor's devotion did not appear until Joshua left
home; hitherto he had been working up to his ambition's height. Having
reached it, he rested on his oars, which, being composed of the
frailest of timber, gave way and sent him rolling into the mud. As he
declined to provide for his family, that duty devolved upon Mrs.
Taylor, and she patiently and unmurmuringly performed her duty, and
worked her fingers to the bone, until her strength gave way. She was
one of those quiet souls who always do their best, and never complain;
and having done her best, she closed her eyes upon the world, and
passed without a murmur out of the hive of busy bees.
There was much sadness in the house when the event occurred, and
there was much helpful sympathy among the neighbors. Not for Mr.
Taylor--although they remembered the time when he was a respectable
member of society, before he had fallen under the fatal influence of
Gin--but for the children. During Mrs. Taylor's illness, which lasted
but a very short time, Susan came to the house and helped Ellen in her
household work and in nursing their mother. It was an anxious time for
the poor little maid; but she did her work willingly, and with the
patient spirit her mother had exhibited. Susan was a great help to
her, and there was more sisterly love between them during that time
than had ever before shown itself. At the funeral, Mr. Taylor
presented himself in as decent a state of Gin as he could muster up
for the occasion; drivelled a little, trembled a great deal, and
proclaimed himself a most unfortunate man. Finding that he obtained no
sympathy for his miserable position from his children or from the
neighbors, he, when the funeral was over, pawned his waistcoat, and
dissolving the proceeds wept tears of Gin over the death of his wife.
While he was employed in that process of drowning his grief, the three
children were sitting together in Dan's room talking in hushed tones
over their loss and over their prospects. After the funeral, Mrs.
Marvel--who had helped to nurse Mrs. Taylor--quietly prepared tea in
Dan's room, and with her usual sympathetic instinct of what was best,
kept herself out of sight as much as possible. But at the last moment,
when tea was ready and she was about to leave the children
undisturbed, she placed her arm round Dan's neck, and whispered that
Joshua's home was Dan's and that he might come and occupy Joshua's
room whenever he pleased. "And be another son to us my dear," said
good Mrs. Marvel; "so that we shall have two." Dan thanked her, and
looked at Ellen thoughtfully, and then Mrs. Marvel left the children
to their meal.
Said Dan, "Mrs. Marvel has asked me to live in her house, and sleep in
Joshua's room."
"It would be a good thing," observed Susan.
Dan stole his hand into Ellen's, who had been looking down sadly; she
felt the warm pressure, and her fingers tightened upon his. That
little action was as good as words; they understood each other
perfectly.
"No," he said, "it would not be a good thing. It was a good thing for
Mrs. Marvel to offer, but then she is Jo's mother, and as kind and
good as Jo is; but it would not be a good thing for me to accept. For
there's Ellen here; she is half of me, Susey, and we mustn't be
parted. But indeed there will be no reason for it. I have a wonderful
scheme in my head, but it wants thinking over before I tell it."
Dan spoke bravely, as if he were a strong man, with all the world to
choose from.
"O Dan!" exclaimed Susan, tears coming to her eyes at his brave
confident manner, "if it hadn't been for me you wouldn't have been a
cripple, and your poor legs might have been of some use to you."
"They will be of more use to me perhaps than if they were sound,
Susey," said Dan cheerfully, "if I can make something out of the
scheme I have got in my head--and I think I can. Let us talk sensibly.
Now that poor dear mother's gone, we must all do something. I intend
to commence doing something to-morrow."
"What, dear Dan?" asked Susan.
"You will see. What I should like is that we should all live together.
Perhaps not just now, Susey, but by and by. What do you say to that,
Susey?"
Susan thought of Basil and Minnie Kindred, and felt that it would be
impossible for her to leave them. "It would be very good," she said,
"but we can talk of that by and by, as you say."
"Very well. The first thing, then, we have to consider is
bread-and-butter. Bread-and-butter," he repeated, in reply to their
questioning looks. "We must have it, and we must earn it."
Susan nodded gravely, and said, "Ellen had better learn to be a
dressmaker."
Ellen looked up with joyful gratitude.
"Oh, how good of you, Susey!" she exclaimed. "Then I could earn money.
I wouldn't mind how hard I should have to work."
"It is a capital idea," said Dan, taking Susan's hand. "The best thing
you can do, Susey, is to bring some of your work here every day for a
couple of hours, and let Ellen help you--she will soon learn."
"That I will," said Ellen in a voice of quiet gladness.
These young people, you see, were not entirely unhappy.
"I wonder where Joshua is," remarked Ellen during the evening.
"Ah, where?" sighed Dan. "But wherever he is, he is doing his duty,
and we will do ours. How happy we all were that night at Mr. Meddler's
What a beautiful day that was! Like a dream! Hark! There is the
church-bell striking nine o'clock." They listened in silence. "That is
like a wedding-bell. Now the other church is striking--how solemn it
sounds--like a funeral-bell."
The tears came to their eyes when Dan inadvertently made the last
remark.
They did not speak for a long time after that, and then Dan said,--
"I feel now just as I felt the day after Jo went away."
They sat up talking until eleven o'clock. They spoke in low tones, and
they sat in the dark.
"Don't you miss mother's step, Dan?" asked Susan.
"How strange it is to know that she is not in the house!" said Dan.
"Hush!"
There was a step outside the door; it was the drunken step of their
father, who stumbled through the passage and up the stairs, shedding
tears of Gin as he staggered to bed, bemoaning the death of his wife.
They listened with feelings of grief and fear until they heard his
bedroom-door shut, and then turned to each other with deeper sighs.
Shame for the living was more grievous to bear than sorrow for the
dead.