HARSH JUDGMENTS.
The foundering of the "Merry Andrew" and the loss of every soul on
board were duly recorded in the newspapers, and utterly shattered the
happiness of that humble home in Stepney wherein love and content had
dwelt for so many years. If Mrs. Marvel's daughter Sarah, who has
played an insignificant part in this history, had been at home,
unmarried, her parents might have derived relief and consolation in
watching the progress of her fortunes; but Sarah had had the rare good
fortune to be quickly wooed and quickly won by a country mechanic, and
her subsequent career has nothing in common with these pages. So that
Mr. and Mrs. Marvel were left alone in their unhappy position. They
could not bear to live longer in the house in which Joshua had been
born and reared, and they agreed to Dan's proposition, that they
should move, and live with him and his sisters. What added to their
unhappiness was, that they were at war with every one of their
neighbors. When the news of the loss of the "Merry Andrew" reached
Stepney, the neighbors one and all decided that Joshua was guilty, and
many of them declared that the punishment which had overtaken him was
a just visitation. To listen to this in silence seemed to Joshua's
family to be nothing less than flat treason; they fought stoutly and
earnestly against the calumny, and defended the character of their
lost son with all the strength of their loving hearts. But vainly. The
neighbors persisted in their belief until George Marvel gave out that
if he caught any man speaking against the dead, he would thrash him.
He had not long to wait to give effect to his words. He came home one
day with a black eye and a bruised face. "I've been fighting Bob
Turner," he said in explanation, "for taking away our Josh's good
name." Now Bob Turner was a favorite in the neighborhood, and the
cause in which he received a drubbing was not his alone, but all
his neighbors' as well. Was free and fair speech to be burked by
such an obstinate and opinionated old fellow as George Marvel? Were
they to be deprived of their legitimate privilege of gossiping and
tittle-tattling? Things had come to a pretty pass, when a man was to
be allowed to bully all his neighbors because they wouldn't agree with
him. The fight between Bob Turner and George Marvel was an exciting
topic of conversation in every house for a dozen streets round; and a
unanimous verdict was given in favor of Bob Turner, who was looked
upon in some sort of way as the general champion of the important
privilege of Tittle-tattle. Much sympathy was expressed for him,
inasmuch as he had been taken home after the fight with a battered
nose and bunged-up eyes, and could not go to his work for a week
afterwards. During that week George Marvel thrashed another man, and
called a woman unpleasant names; and when the woman's husband demanded
an explanation, he received one of such a nature as to convert him
instantly into an active enemy. Then Bob Turner, convalescent, made
his appearance in the streets again, with traces of disfigurement in
his face; and burning with animosity and shame, armed himself with a
stone tied in the corner of his pocket-handkerchief, and, swinging his
sling defiantly, expressed his regret that Joshua had been drowned,
for thereby the gallows had been cheated. George Marvel, hearing this,
went in search of his enemy Bob, and came away again with his hand so
disabled by a blow from the sling, that he also could not work for a
week. At which Bob Turner rejoiced, and all the neighbors rejoiced
with him. After that George Marvel refused to speak to any of his
work-mates, and they, in retaliation, passed a resolution sending him
to "Coventry" for six months; which sending to "Coventry" may, to the
uninitiated, be described as the very refinement of cruelty, inasmuch
as it ignores the offender's existence, and condemns him not to be
spoken to by any of his fellow-workmen. This enforced silence was a
dreadful punishment to George Marvel. He bore it patiently enough for
two or three weeks; but then it became a horrible torture. To sit at
his work day after day, and week after week, uttering no word, and
with his work-mates avoiding his very look, was almost maddening. It
drove him to something which I am sorry to have to record; it drove
him to drink. And the habit that began to grow upon him was of the
worst kind. Having no one to drink with him, he drank by himself, and
soon began to carry a flat bottle in his pocket, liberally supplied
with that national curse--Gin.
Although it may be objected of George Marvel that in his behavior
towards his neighbors he carried things with too high a hand, he acted
only in strict accordance with his nature; and indeed, if he had been
less dictatorial and more conciliatory it is likely that the same
result mould have been produced. It was not to be expected of him to
be gentle and self-suffering under the dreadful accusation that was
brought against his son, when Mrs. Marvel's conduct was taken into
consideration. She could not listen patiently to the revilings of the
neighbors; to remonstrate with them, to speak gently to them, to beg
of them to be more merciful in their speech, would have been an
injustice to the memory of her son. Every tender remembrance
connected with him--and ah, how many there were, and how she cherished
them!--urged her to defend him. And she did defend him, with all her
mother's love, and with flaming eyes and agitated breast; told the
revilers that they ought to be ashamed of themselves, and that they
must be bad and wicked themselves, else they could not set their
tongues to such bad and wicked accusations of the best son that ever
blessed a mother's eyes. Poor thing! it was a sad sight to see her
make her indignant defence in public, and then to see her in her
room--pale, powerless, trembling--sink into a chair, overcome by the
agony of her grief. It was not long before white hairs began to
multiply, and before the cheerful look quite died out of her face. And
Dan and Ellen worked on, and never lost their faith in the dear one
who was lost to them; and Susan, notwithstanding what had befallen,
still watched and rose in the night, and went into the street,
awaiting the return of Basil Kindred's murderer. But no word of him
passed her lips; she worked at her dressmaking in silence, and never
uttered a cheerful word. A blight had fallen upon those once happy
homes.
They had, however, two friends and constant visitors, Praiseworthy
Meddler and Solomon Fewster. Through good and evil report, these two
friends remained faithful to Them, although from widely-different
motives. Considering all the circumstances, every thing had turned out
very fortunate for Solomon Fewster. He confessed as much to himself
exultantly, and curiously enough, gave himself some credit for having
brought it about. Every tittle of evidence against him had been
destroyed; no suspicion rested against him. Joshua was drowned; and
Ellen remained, looking prettier in her black dress than he had ever
seen her. He was sure of her now. He had only to wait. She had an
encumbrance, certainly, which he would gladly have dispensed with--her
baby-girl, born in sorrow. But he made up his mind that he would be
kind to her, if she lived; and this resolve, to his own thinking,
atoned for any hand he may have had in Joshua's misfortunes. When he
saw Ellen with her baby in her lap, he thought, and thought rightly,
that he had never seen a more beautiful sight. "One day," he said to
himself, "I shall see her with a child of mine upon her breast;" and
he dreamed with tender pleasure, and with no pangs of conscience, of
the happy time to come.
So time passed on, and no ray of sunshine illumined the darkness of
that unhappy home. Things were going from bad to worse. George Marvel
was not a confirmed drunkard, but he drank more than was good for him;
and his reputation as a cunning workman was on the wane. He did not
work regularly either; he was often absent, and earned less money. His
wife expostulated with him many times, and begged him not to drink. He
listened without impatience, and said, "It's of no use, Maggie; if I
didn't drink I should go mad. I'm an altered man to what I was, and
I've brought it all on myself."
"Nay, George," she said, "you cannot say that and mean it."
(It is to be noticed as a singular thing that now she never called her
husband "father," and indeed had not done so since the news of
Joshua's death had reached them. The delicacy and thoughtfulness of a
faithful wife's love are not to be excelled.)
"I _can_ say that and mean it, Maggie," he replied; "I have been the
cause of all this. I wasn't content that my son should be a
wood-turner; no, I drove him to sea and away from all of us. We might
have been as happy as the day is long if he had remained at home. And
he would have remained but for me. I remember what you said, Maggie,
as well as if you'd said it last night: 'If Joshua is shipwrecked,
don't forget that I warned you beforehand.'"
"O George!" cried Mrs. Marvel, in an agony of remorse, "how can you
bring my wicked words up against me now?"
"I do not bring them up against you, wife; I bring them up against
myself. And they were wise and good words--not wicked ones. I ought to
have listened to them; but I was obstinate and pig-headed, and
thought, like a fool, that I knew better than you. Ah! but it's too
late to alter what is past; and I've brought death to our son and
misery to you, and shame on all of us."
Then he refused to listen to her longer, and walked away to chew the
cud of his remorse, and to drink more gin. To her and to the others in
the house he was gentle: but to everybody else he was a bear. One
night he came home in a condition which may be described as neither
drunk nor sober. Dan and Ellen were sitting together, and the baby--to
whom they had given Mrs. Marvel's name of Maggie--was lying in the
cradle, when he came into the house. It belonged to his humor not to
show himself ashamed of his new bad habit: when he was drunk he did
not slink away and hide himself; but exhibited a kind of reckless
defiance, for which it would have been as hard for him as for others
to account. So upon this occasion he came into the room, quickly
followed by his wife, who never watched him out of doors, but who
attended to him in the house as if he were a child. He took his seat
in the chair which Ellen placed for him, and sat moody and silent
while Mrs. Marvel quickly set his supper before him. But he could not
eat it. He pushed the food from him fretfully, and took his wife's
hand and patted it, and then said suddenly,--
"Maggie, we must go away from here."
"Go away, George!" she exclaimed. "Where to?"
"I don't know; but I can't stop here much longer. If I do, I shall
bring fresh disgrace upon you. I can't live this life any longer; it
is killing me. We have already lost our good name and our good
character in the neighborhood, and where I used to get respect I now
get contempt. And, Maggie, I am afraid of myself! A new workman came
into the shop to-day, and I heard Bob Turner tell him about us and
about our poor lost boy, and speaking of him in such a way--Dan!
Ellen!" he cried, appealing to them in justification of himself
"_could_ you stand by quietly and listen to shameful words spoken of
our Joshua? Could you restrain yourself if you heard him spoken of as
a--Oh, but I cannot say it!"
Ellen rose, with flashing eyes and cheeks burning with honest
indignation.
"No," she exclaimed; "I could not, father. I should tell the wretch he
was a coward and a villain."
"I told him so--your very words: I called him a coward and a villain;
and I almost had my hand on his throat, when the other men interfered.
But there was a row in the place for an hour: for I was almost mad.
And then the master called me into his room, and told me--what do you
think? Why, that he was very sorry to see the change that had taken
place in me lately; that he was very sorry to see that I had taken to
drink; that I was a good workman, and that I had worked well for him
for a many years; but that if I couldn't behave myself as I used to
do, I must find another shop. That was a pretty thing to say to
me!--the best workman he ever had, and the steadiest too--no, I can't
say that now; but I could up to a little time ago. I had a mind to
take off my apron, and fling it in his face, but thought of all of you
stopped me. Instead of that, I asked him what he would have done in my
place supposing he had had a son; but he stopped me there, and said
that he was talking business, and not sentiment. With that I flung
myself out of the room, and swore I'd join the Chartists, and teach
the masters one day that workmen have hearts"--But Mr. Marvel broke
down here and glared about him in violent agitation.
They let him be, and waited till he was calmer; they had studied how
best to humor him. Then Mrs. Marvel said:--
"What do you think we had best do, George?"
"I don't know," he answered somewhat roughly; "I'm not fit to give
advice. I was dead against you when you didn't want our poor boy to go
to sea, and I'm rightly served for it; but I'll never advise again.
I'll be led now, not lead."
At this point, Dan, purposely, but without attracting observation,
pushed the cradle so as to awake baby, and thus caused a diversion.
After that, he quietly gave Ellen and Mrs. Marvel to understand that
he wanted to speak to Mr. Marvel alone, and the women presently glided
out of the room. George Marvel took no notice of their departure, and
indeed did not notice it until Dan aroused his attention. Then he
said,--
"Where's Ellen and the wife?"
"Gone to bed, sir," replied Dan; "and I'm glad of it, because I wanted
to speak to you."
George Marvel gave Dan a disturbed look, and said,--
"Won't another time do, Dan?"
"No, sir; I want to say what I have to say now, particularly."
George Marvel nodded, and somehow or other, the flat bottle in which
he carried his gin obtruded itself unpleasantly upon his notice. It
made a bulge in his pocket, and he tried to hide it from Dan, but did
not succeed.
"Will you give me leave to speak of certain things in the past, sir,
and not consider it a liberty?" asked Dan.
"Say what you like, Dan; I can't consider any thing you say a
liberty."
"Ah--then I may speak of another thing presently, which makes us all
very unhappy." (George Marvel shifted uneasily upon his chair, and
wished he could get rid of the flat bottle which made itself so
conspicuous in his breast-pocket.) "We have gone through many changes
in our humble life; but for the most part we have been very happy. Do
you remember, sir, when father died, how perplexed I was as to how we
should live, and how, when every thing seemed to be a failure, and
there didn't seem to be a ray of hope, you came to me with twelve
pounds four shillings, in a bag, which you had collected for us among
the neighbors?" (George Marvel groaned, and thought, "What would the
neighbors say to me now if I went to them on such an errand? But I was
respected then.") "Well, sir, from that time fortune smiled upon us,
and we got on, until the unhappy day came. You know, sir, what father
died of; it causes me shame and sorrow to think of, although it is a
long time ago. I remember how Ellen and I used to sit here, in this
very room, and tremble when we heard his step in the passage--she was
frightened, but I was more ashamed than frightened. There was the day
poor mother was buried--I shall never forget that night when we sat
here in the dark; Mrs. Marvel was very kind to us that day, but indeed
she was always that. Jo's mother couldn't be otherwise." (George
Marvel gave a gasp, and lowered his head.) "It cuts, sir, to speak of
Jo in this way; I feel it as well as you. But it may do good. Now I'll
tell you what I thought that night of poor mother's funeral, when I
heard father stumbling in the passage. I thought it was cruel and
unkind to mother; I thought that even if he had the right to bring
shame on himself (which I am certain he hadn't, for no man has), he
had no right to bring it on us; I thought that perhaps poor mother
died sooner than she might have done if father had been a steady and
sober man. For father earned very little money, and mother had to work
very hard to make both ends meet. I have known her get up in the
winter mornings at five o'clock, and work and slave till near
midnight, and all because of father's idleness. Now tell me, sir, you
whom I have always looked up to because you are a just man, could any
thing justify father in leading the life he did?"
"Nothing, Dan," replied George Marvel, in a low voice.
"He did not even have the excuse of a great grief," said Dan
courageously and tenderly. "Why, when he died that dreadful death,
shamed and shocked as I was, I looked upon it as a mercy to him and to
us that he was taken away. Yet, going a long way back, to the time
when I was very young, I remember that father was not so very bad; he
used to drink a little, but was not always drunk. It grew upon him, I
suppose, until it mastered him, and made him what he became."
Certainly, Dan proved himself the cunningest of physicians; he had
brought home to George Marvel a consciousness of the abyss towards
which he was walking, and had executed his task tenderly, wisely, and
without giving offence. "Now, come, sir," continued Dan boldly; "let
us look things straight in the face. You said you must go away from
here--you mean all of us, of course. Have you any idea where we should
move to?"
"None, Dan. Only one thing is plain to me--ay, much plainer to me
after what you have said--and that is that I must go from this
neighborhood, where once I held up my head and was respected, but
where now every man and woman is my enemy. I never will be friends
with them again--never! If they held out their hands to me now, I
should refuse them after what they have said of our poor dead boy."
"Dead boy!" mused Dan. "Are you certain, sir, that Jo is dead?" So
startled was Mr. Marvel by the question, that he gazed at Dan in
speechless astonishment. "I haven't spoken of it to anybody else, but
something tells me that our Joe is alive. Yes, sir, you may well stare
at me, for every other person but you and Ellen and Mrs. Marvel would
call me mad for saying such a thing. I can give you no reason for the
belief--for it is a belief, not a fancy. Haven't you heard, sir, of
men being wrecked on strange lands, and living there for many years
after they were supposed to be dead? Haven't you heard of men living
amongst savages, and suddenly appearing among their friends years and
years after they were lost? Some such thing, happily, may have
occurred to Jo."
"But it's two years now since Josh went away," gasped Mr. Marvel; and
then added, "Don't tell mother, Dan; it would drive her out of her
senses."
"I shall wait before I tell her, but I shall tell Ellen when the
proper time comes. Hope isn't a bad thing, sir.
"But hope without reason," suggested Mr. Marvel.
"Except the reason that exists and the comfort that exists in thinking
of the cases that we have read of in stories of shipwrecked men who
have been preserved from death. But hope is a good thing always,
whether it comes from reason or fancy. And if you can believe as I
believe, it will be the better and not the worse for you. Indeed,
indeed, sir, you don't know how earnest I am in this. Think of the
friendship that exists between me and Jo; I believe it to be something
better and higher than ordinary friendships among boys and men. It has
grown up with us, until it has become almost a part of our very being.
We are never out of each other's thoughts; when he was away on his
first voyage he was always thinking of me, and I of him. And that
Christmas night that he came home--do you know what happened then,
sir? Ellen can tell you that during the whole of that day I was uneasy
about Jo; I had dreamed of him the night before, and my dream made me
unhappy, for I was convinced that he was in danger. I had no reason
for that, nor had I any reason for telling Ellen that Jo was very near
us an hour before he came to the door. But unhappily, it all came true
as I feared. Now, sir, I have thought often that if Jo was dead, I
should feel it and know it--and I don't feel it and don't know it.
Something keeps whispering to me, 'You will see him again, be with him
again.' And I believe that I shall. For last night, sir, I dreamed of
Jo, and Jo was alive; and as sure as we're sitting here talking, we
shall see Jo one day, and all the dreadful mystery that looks so black
against him will be cleared up."
Mr. Marvel jumped to his feet, and walked excitedly about the room.
There was something contagious in Dan's enthusiasm. So earnest, so
thrilling was Dan's voice, that Mr. Marvel's heart beat high with the
hope in which there was no reason.
"I have not done yet, sir. When you said to-night that you must go
away from here, I was amazed, for it seemed to belong to part of my
dream. Jo seemed to say to me, 'I can't come to you Dan; come to me.'
And I want to go to him"--
Mr. Marvel stopped suddenly in his walk, and stood before Dan with a
startled look on his face.
"I want to go to him, or as near to him as I can. The last place Jo
was heard of was at Sydney, and the ship is supposed to have foundered
somewhere near the Australian coast. Well, sir, if by any means it can
be managed, we ought to go to Australia."
"All of us!" exclaimed Mr. Marvel.
"All of us," repeated Dan. "Why not? We are miserable here--unhappy
here. We haven't, as you say, a friend in the place. Everybody is
against Jo, and believe him to be bad, while we know him to good. I
agree with you, sir, that if those we thought were our friends and who
have spoken against Jo were to hold out their hands to me, I would not
take them. It would be treasonable to Jo. To live on here in this way
would only be adding to our unhappiness. I dare say we could manage to
get along out there. Mr. Meddler says it is a rising place, and a
splendid country for a poor man to get along in. You could take your
tools, and could get work. I could take my birds, and should be able
to get plenty there that I could train. Why, sir, it would be a
splendid thing, and the best for all of us."
"I believe it would--I believe it would," said Mr. Marvel, his voice
trembled with eagerness; "but where is the money to come from?"
"We have forty pounds of Jo's, sir, that he left for you and me; I
wouldn't mind it being spent that way. That wouldn't be any thing like
enough, I know; but I think I have a friend. However, sir, let us
think over it for a little while. I am glad that we've had this talk.
You'll forgive me, sir, won't you, for what I said in the first part
of it?"
George Marvel made no reply, but, standing by Dan, put his arm
affectionately round the neck of his son's friend; then left the room,
and comforted his wife by a very simple act. He took the flat bottle
out of his pocket, and said, "Maggie, I have done with this; I shall
never fill it again." And, happily for him and all of them, he kept
his word.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
MR. MARVEL SHAKES THE DUST FROM HIS FEET.
Dan took the Old Sailor in to his confidence, and the impracticable
old fellow excitedly proposed that they should leave Stepney and come
and live with him in his barge. But as Dan declared that that was
impossible, the Old Sailor's hopes fell down to zero.
"We can't live in this neighborhood much longer," said Dan; "it
wouldn't so much matter to me, for I'm always indoors, but it does to
Jo's father. I know what he must suffer. You see, what we want is a
friend."
"Ah!" said the Old Sailor, "what you want is a friend. Well, we'll
talk of this again by and by."
"He went down stairs to see Ellen, and found her crying over her baby.
"Come, come, my dear," he said; "this won't do; you'll be making an
old woman of yourself in no time." And he dried her eyes with his
handkerchief.
"You're the only friend we've got now," said Ellen sadly.
The Old Sailor thought: "Says Dan, 'What we want is a friend.' Says
Ellen, 'You're the only friend we've got.'" And he put this and that
together, as he had done once before in the memorable conversation he
had had with Joshua at Gravesend, when he set all matters straight.
"What were you crying for, my lass?" he said aloud.
"Ah, sir!" replied Ellen, "I don't mind telling you. I was looking
down at baby, and thinking that when she is old enough to understand
things--and baby is very quick, and almost understands already, don't
you, my pet?--she will hear such stories from ill-natured people about
father, as will make her as unhappy as her poor mother is. When I
thought that, sir, I began to cry, and was almost wicked enough to
believe that it would be better for both of us to die than to live
amongst such bad-hearted people."
The Old Sailor did not stop long, but walked away in profound thought.
Soon after that, another misfortune occurred. George Marvel told them
that he had left his situation. "I gave it up of my own accord,
Maggie," he said to his wife, to whom he first spoke upon the subject;
"If I hadn't, I should have done something that would have made the
master give me warning, and I should have been disgraced. I can't make
sure of myself now; my blood boils up so when I hear a word dropped
about Josh, that every thing swims before my eyes. I can't help it, my
dear. Don't blame me."
She did not blame him, but said she was sure he had done what he
thought was for the best.
"I've worked in the shop, man and boy, for more than thirty years," he
said huskily, "and I doubt if I shall get another. Trade's overdone. A
good many men are out, and I'm not as young as I was. I don't quite
see the end of it, Maggie."
She cheered him and comforted him, and he went out the next morning in
search of work, feeling very much ashamed of himself. It was like
begging. He came home disheartened and footsore, and hadn't a cheerful
word or look for any one. "A nice ending this is!" he said bitterly.
"But I brought it all on myself. I shouldn't have driven our boy to
sea." He seemed to think it was nothing but strict justice that he
should take all the blame upon himself. He earned so little money,
that presently he had to break into Joshua's legacy to him and Dan,
and it began to melt like magic. Things were getting very bad. The
dressmaking work, too, was slackening, and Susan and Ellen had many
idle days.
Solomon Fewster observed all this with inward satisfaction, although
outwardly he sympathized with them, and was profuse in his offers of
assistance. But they would not accept any thing from him; and very
soon the proceeds of the birds he continued to purchase from Dan
became their most dependable source of revenue. Notwithstanding that
he was careful never to say a word of the past that would be
distasteful to them, he did not make much way in their good graces.
They did not show this, however; he was consistent in his offers of
assistance and in his friendly behavior, and they could not show
ingratitude; but their instincts were against him. He allowed a year
to pass before he spoke to Ellen of his love for her, and even then he
thought it best first to make sure of the co-operation of her friends.
He addressed himself in the first place to George Marvel, who opened
his eyes very wide, and was indeed very much astonished at Mr.
Fewster's declaration. He had never suspected that Mr. Fewster had an
attachment for Ellen.
"I loved her before she was married," said Mr. Fewster to him; "but
then I saw that she loved your poor son, and I was too honorable to
interpose. So I did not distress her by telling her of my love."
Mr. Marvel thought that that was manly and straightforward, but asked
Mr. Fewster why he spoke to him upon the subject.
"You are in a sort of way Ellen's father," replied Mr. Fewster, "and
it is due to you that I should speak to you first. I should not be
justified otherwise in offering myself to Ellen. I have something to
say also, if you will excuse me for taking the liberty"--
Seeing that Mr. Fewster hesitated, Mr. Marvel bade him proceed, and
then the wooer cunningly placed before Mr. Marvel certain advantages
that would accrue to him if Ellen consented.
"I should feel it my duty," said Mr. Fewster, "to see that the man I
look upon as Ellen's father is properly cared for."
"Never mind that," said Mr. Marvel; he had recovered from his
astonishment, and felt a sort of displeasure at Mr. Fewster's
proposal. "Never mind that," he repeated dryly, "but tell me what it
is you want me to do."
"I want you to give your consent, Mr. Marvel, and to assist me."
"Assist you in making a woman love you, Mr. Fewster!" exclaimed Mr.
Marvel. "No, no; the matter rests with you and Ellen. It is none of
mine, and any feeling I may have in the matter it is but right I
should keep to myself."
"But you won't say any thing in my disfavor," urged Mr. Fewster,
alarmed at Mr. Marvel's coldness of manner, and thinking to himself
that when Ellen was his wife, he would have as little as possible to
do with the Marvels.
"I shall say nothing to Ellen one way or the other," replied Mr.
Marvel moodily. "I have no doubt Ellen knows what is due to herself.
And to Joshua," he was about to add, but he only thought the words;
they did not pass his lips. When Mr. Fewster went away, Mr. Marvel was
very despondent, and thought with some bitterness that he would have
spoken to Ellen's lover very differently, if he hadn't been so low
down in the world. So discouraged was Mr. Fewster by his interview
with Mr. Marvel, that he did not speak to any other members of the
family, not even to Dan, but came straight to the point at once with
Ellen. After all, whom else did it concern but Ellen and himself? She
was sitting in the kitchen, working; baby was in the cradle, and upon
Ellen's face were traces of tears. When she and baby were alone, her
tears flowed too readily now. Solomon Fewster had prepared himself
carefully for the occasion. He was attired in his best, and presented
quite a holiday appearance. He bought a bunch of flowers for Ellen, of
which he begged her acceptance. With a little hesitancy of manner, she
took them from his hand and placed them on the table. There is
something in the air of a wooer that betrays his purpose to the woman
he loves, and when Ellen looked into Mr. Fewster's face and saw this,
she rose hurriedly, and stooped to take baby out of the cradle,
intending to leave the room. But Mr. Fewster's hand upon her arm
restrained her.
"Nay, Ellen," he said awkwardly, "let baby alone for a little; don't
disturb her--she looks so pretty in her sleep." And calling up a look
of admiration in his face, he contemplated baby with an appearance of
affectionate interest, which would have won its way to the heart of
most mothers at once. But not to Ellen's. Mr. Fewster's tender manner
brought back to her the memory of all his disagreeable attentions when
they were first acquainted, and she waited in silent apprehension for
what she dreaded was to come. But round about the bush went Mr.
Fewster.
"Things are very much changed, Ellen," he observed. She would have
resented his calling her by her Christian name on the present
occasion, although he had often done so before; but he was Dan's
patron and their chief dependence, and she did not dare to object.
"Very much changed," he repeated. "Mr. Marvel, poor fellow, looks
quite shabby. He has a difficulty in getting work, I believe. Very
sad--very sad. But it's the way of the world. One man up, another man
down, Lucky, man that who can always keep up."
"He is indeed, Mr. Fewster," said Ellen, constrained to say something
in reply. "But we can't help misfortunes coming."
"No; but we can often turn bad fortune into good. Now, looking lately
at Mr. and Mrs. Marvel, who are far from happy, poor things! far from
happy, I have been thinking what a beautiful thing it would be to make
them easier in their mind as regards their worldly circumstances, for
there is no doubt that that constitutes the greatest part of their
unhappiness. As for the other part of their unhappiness--family
grief--time will soften that. But time doesn't soften poverty if it is
always with you. It is a sad thing, a very sad thing, but it is so
unfortunately. There is no harder misfortune in the world than
poverty."
"Yes, there is, Mr. Fewster," said Ellen, who had taken baby on her
lap as a kind of protection. "There are griefs of the heart which are
bitterer to bear than poverty."
"I stand corrected. But then that will be the case with the few, not
with the many--with the few who are superior to most people, and who
are the more to be admired for the possession of such excellent
virtues. I know one woman who is far above all others in this respect,
and whom I therefore love and admire far above all other women." Ellen
trembled and turned very pale, but Mr. Fewster proceeded rapidly,
fearful lest he had been too precipitate, "Coming back to Mrs.
Marvel--would it not be a good thing to make her comfortable in her
mind about her worldly circumstances?"
"It would be--a very good thing," answered Ellen, in a low tone.
"And it can be done. There is one person who has it in her power to do
this for Mrs. Marvel." Again Mr. Fewster paused until Ellen asked,
"Who is that person, Mr. Fewster?"
"You," he said eagerly. "You can do this, and at the same time you can
make a man who has loved you from the first day he saw you the
happiest man in the world."
"Stop, sir!" cried Ellen, in a firm voice. "You must not say what you
were about to say. It would be folly--worse than folly--it would be
wicked for me to pretend not to understand you. It would be merciful
to me, and best for both of us, that you should not say any thing more
now. I have no heart for any thing but my grief and my child."
So earnestly did she speak, that Fewster was fain to desist. The only
words he said were, "You shall see how I respect and love you: your
word is my law;" and straightway left her. But he did not leave her
despairingly. One little word that Ellen had unconsciously uttered
filled him with hopeful anticipation. She had said, "It will be
merciful to me, and best for both of us, that you should not say any
thing more _now_." She had put no impression upon the word; but the
wish that "keeps the word of promise to the ear" imbued it with a
distinct utterance to Solomon Fewster's sense. "I must not say any
thing more _now_," he thought; "that opens the way for the future. I
must be content for a little while." He thought he had made a good
move, and that he was sure to win the game.
When he was gone, Ellen caught her baby to her bosom, and ran to Dan's
room for consolation--almost, as it seemed to her, for protection.
There she found George Marvel sitting in an attitude of sadness. He
had not had an hour's work for the last fortnight, and half of
Joshua's savings was spent: but barely twenty pounds remained. When
that was gone! Well, that was what was fermenting in George Marvel's
mind now. When that was gone, what was he to do? Sit down and starve?
Without doubt, they could not all live upon Dan's earnings; for Dan
and his sisters earned barely enough to keep themselves. He groaned in
bitterness of spirit to think that he, the only man in the house who
could work, was doomed to idleness. He had striven hard, and still
strove, to obtain employment--with what success has been narrated. He
felt at times as if he would be justified in demanding work, instead
of begging for it. Indeed, on one occasion he had asked for work in
some what defiant tones, and, being refused, had spoken out of the
bitterness of his heart, of the injustice and hardship that stood in
his way of earning food, being willing to work for it honestly. The
only answer he received was an order to quit the shop immediately, if
he did not wish to be given in custody. The sentiments to which he had
given utterance were soon made known to many masters in the trade,
some of whom afterwards, in reply to his applications, said they did
not want any Chartists in their workrooms. His case was a desperate
one indeed. The problem which he was trying to solve as Ellen entered
the room after her interview with Solomon Fewster was a common one
enough, more's the pity. He would have expressed it in very simple
words: "I must work to live. I am able to work, and willing. I cannot
get work. How am I to live?" Ellen saw the trouble in his face, and
sat down by his side. He gave her just one glance, and learned what
had occurred; for he had seen Solomon Fewster go out of the house.
"I know what has occurred, my dear," he said anxiously. "Mr. Fewster
has been speaking to you. And your answer?"
"I have no need to tell you, father," said Ellen, raising her eyes to
his. She said nothing of the bribe Fewster had offered for her love.
George Marvel saw that Ellen had refused Mr. Fewster, and he nodded
grave approval; yet, from a sense of justice, was compelled to ask,--
"Have you considered all the circumstances, Ellen? Have you considered
the future?"
"I don't know," she answered; "I only know that I have done what is
right, and what is due to my dear Joshua's memory."
All this was Greek to Dan, and it had to be explained to him. He
listened in silence, and was very thoughtful afterwards. He let the
matter drop, however, until he and Ellen were alone; and then he told
her, gently and by degrees, of his belief that Joshua was not lost,
and of his earnest desire to go over the seas and commence a new life.
She, listening eagerly, almost breathlessly, pressed his hand to her
lips and kissed him again and again, and was absolutely so simple as
to share his belief. Hope revived within her; and when Dan said, "You
are not widowed yet, dear; of that I feel assured," she blessed him
for the words in which there was no reason.
Other troubles came. Solomon Fewster, strong in cunning, made a new
move in the game. His orders began to fall off, and in a short time he
bought one bird where formerly he had bought three. Perhaps he
thought, "If love won't drive Ellen into my arms, necessity may." It
was a cruel device, mean and merciless, and it struck fresh terror to
their hearts. They could do nothing; but wait and watch the tide come
up. And things grew so bad for them that they had to content
themselves with two meals a day, and those but poor and scanty ones.
Their condition was a strange parallel to that of the unfortunate
passengers of the "Merry Andrew" on the raft. There are wrecks on land
as sad as any in the records of the sea.
Solomon Fewster, of course, was profuse in his regrets at the
falling-off of the business, and offered to lend Dan and Ellen money,
which they refused. He renewed his offer many times, not offended at
the refusal. "He wants to buy Ellen," thought Dan; "but he doesn't
know her. Jo said once that Ellen was not the kind of a girl for a
heroine. Would he say so now, if he could see her, I wonder?"
It was in this way that he often thought of Joshua as of one who would
be restored to them some day. He had fixed the belief firmly in his
mind, and nothing could shake it. He had no hope of ever seeing Minnie
again. She was as one who had passed out of his life forever. But she
lived in his mind and in his heart, and came to him in his dreams. And
in the light, often and often, he would muse upon her tenderly and
lovingly.
So they lived on, and the tide of adversity rose higher and higher,
until they were compelled to begin to pawn things. But a better time
was coming. The Old Sailor passing a pawn-shop one day in Dan's
neighborhood--he was on his way to Dan's house--saw Ellen hurry out of
the shamefaced door. He was so staggered that he allowed her to escape
his sight. He had had no idea that things were so hard with them as
that. When he recovered himself, he gave his chest a great thump,
called himself "a blind old swab," and made his way to Dan's house. He
went straight down to the kitchen, prying old interloper as he was,
and caught Ellen, in the act of counting a few--very few--small pieces
of silver and copper in Mrs. Marvel's hand. He was so distressed, that
the blood rushed into his face. He only desired to see Ellen alone and
speak to her, and here he was shaming them in their poverty. The
tender-hearted old fellow was fit to sink into the ground, he was so
remorseful. He stammered out a few words of apology, said he thought
Ellen was alone, but that Dan would do as well. He went up to Dan, and
to Dan's astonishment locked the door. Then he inclined his head
melodramatically, to be sure that no one was listening, and, being
satisfied, drew a chair close to Dan's.
"Hark ye, my lad," he said: "can you and I speak to the point, and
without beating about the bush?"
"I think we can, sir," replied Dan, smiling; the Old Sailor's voice
always did him good.
"Frankly, then," said the Old Sailor, "do you find it a hard matter to
live?"
"Very hard, sir."
"No money in the house, eh?"
"None, sir."
"And business falling off?"
"Fallen off would be more correct, sir. My earnings for the last month
not more than ten shillings."
"And Mr. Marvel?"
"About a day's work in the week, sir."
"And the money that poor Josh left?"
"All gone, sir."
"O Dan!" groaned the Old Sailor, "why wasn't I told of this?"
Dan gave him a sad look, but made no other reply.
"And the poor mother," continued the Old Sailor, "how must she have
suffered! And Ellen, poor lass! and the little one! Dan, Dan! if I
don't feel to you as if you were my son, I could find it in my heart
to be angry with you!"
"Nay, sir," urged Dan gently, "you are not to blame. We are
unfortunate, that is all. We are not the only ones, I dare say."
"Come, now, open your mind to me. Look things in the face. What do you
see before you this time twelve months?"
The practical question was like a blow, and Dan trembled. The answer
came from his reason in which there was no hope.
"What do I see before me this time twelve months? Worse poverty than
this--and this is hard enough, God knows! We are growing poorer every
day, and every day it is a puzzle where to-morrow's food will come
from. All our friends have fallen off from us; when Ellen and Jo's
mother go into the streets, not one pleasant face greets them. They
come back, sad and suffering. And they must bear it while they remain
in this neighborhood, if they are to be true to Jo. I can understand
now how some good people are made bad by the world's injustice. It
won't make them bad, I can answer for that; but I'm not so sure of Mr.
Marvel. I haven't seen a smile on his face for months; his nature
seems to be completely changed. I am almost afraid to think what
remorse might drive him to, for he is continually reproaching himself
with being the cause of all our misfortunes. He says he drove Jo to
sea, when his influence would have kept him at home; and this thought
stings him day and night. As for me, I earn very little money now. And
I am so stupid," he added, with an odd smile, yet thoughtful withal,
"as to repine sometimes that we can't live without silver and copper."
The Old Sailor dabbed his face with his handkerchief in a state of
great excitement during this recital, and was compelled to wait until
he was cool before he said, "So, taking them altogether, things are
very bad."
"Taking them altogether, sir," said Dan, "I don't see how they could
be worse. We have only one consolation."
"What is that, Dan?" asked the Old Sailor eagerly, with a faint hope
that it was something tangible.
"Our faith in Jo, and our knowledge that he is good and true, as we
have always known him to be. Poor Jo!"
The Old Sailor groaned.
"You can't live on that, Dan," he said.
"No, sir," replied Dan with rare simplicity; "but it is a great
comfort, nevertheless."
The Old Sailor pressed Dan's hand.
"'Tisn't so bad a world," he murmured more to himself than to Dan,
"despite its injustice." Then aloud: "What would be the best thing for
all of you to do, Dan, under the circumstances?
"There is but one thing, sir; and I might as well wish for cheese from
the moon as wish for that."
"Perhaps not, Dan, perhaps not. Tell your wish."
"I want some money."
"Ah! how much?"
"Enough to take us to Australia, where we could commence a new life."
"You hinted at that some time ago, Dan."
"Yes, sir."
"That's what you meant when you said you wanted a friend?"
"Yes, sir."
"And I took no notice of it, like a hard-hearted old hunks as I am. Do
you know why I took no notice of it, Dan?"
"No, sir."
"Because I didn't want to part from you--because I didn't want to lose
the only friends I have in the world--because I thought only of
myself; and how lonely I should feel when you and my little Ellen and
the good mother were thousands of miles away. Well, well! Old as I am,
I'm not too old to learn from younger heads. Look you, my lad! But
stop--we'll have the women up."
The Old Sailor went down into the kitchen where Ellen and Mrs. Marvel
were, and took a hand of each, and led them gravely up stairs into
Dan's room.
"This is a family council, my dears," he said, kissing them, "where we
are to speak our minds without hesitation. Dan has been making things
clear to me, and I see a good deal to which I've been blind, selfishly
blind, more shame to me. When the storm came on, I had an idea that
you might be able to weather it; but you were not strong enough, and
human hearts have not been so kind to you as winds and waves are. The
winds howl to-day, but a calm comes to-morrow; the waves dash over you
for a time, but presently the sea grows smooth. That's at sea; 'tis
different on land sometimes. You have found it so, my dears, eh?"
They sighed assent, and waited in a state of painful expectancy for
what was to come.
"And here you are with every sail split, with every spar broken, with
bulwarks dashed in, and every thing adrift. And around you cruel
tongues and unjust hearts. What! with all this craft in view, won't
one come forward, and ask, What cheer? Not one? And yet you've held
out a helping hand many a time, my dear" (to Mrs. Marvel), "as I well
know, and spared a spar here and a bit of canvas there, with a willing
heart and a free hand. But you are pearls, you women, and teach us
goodness. The Lord love you, and send you happier days!"
He almost broke down here; but he recovered himself by a great effort,
and continued, somewhat huskily at first:--
"Ah, my dears, I've been in storms, but never a worse than this has
been to you. Look up, my lass!" he cried to Ellen, and pointing
upwards to the dingy paper ceiling in so earnest a tone that he found
all of them followed the direction of his finger, while a new-born
hope entered their hearts. "Look up! D'ye see the clouds a-breaking?
D'ye see the sun tipping the edges with white light? If you don't,
take my word for it, the storm's over, and a friendly craft is bearing
down upon you." He paused awhile before he spoke again. "'You see,'
says Dan to me, 'what we want is a friend.' Says Ellen to me, the very
same day, 'You're the only friend we've got.' What did I do? Clap on
sail and bear down upon you? Not I!"
"Nay, sir," interposed Dan.
"Hold your tongue, Dan; I deserve to have the cat for my behavior.
Now, hark ye. Before my poor lass here was married to Josh--don't cry,
my dear--I made over my little bit of money to them jointly, for
better or worse. I dare say it will come to a matter of two hundred
pounds. Will that be enough, Dan?"
Dan's sobs prevented a reply, and the women sat silently thankful.
"So look upon that as settled," said the Old Sailor, rising; "and make
your arrangements. I'll see what ships are going out, and 'll let you
know to-morrow."
He left the room abruptly, unable to bear the thankful looks and tears
of his friends. Besides which, he was almost unmanned at the thought
of parting from them. They were the only friends he had in the world,
as he had said; and when they were gone, he would be left lonely in
his old age. The thought flashed across him to go with them, but he
dismissed it at once. Not only was he too old to cross the seas, but
he felt he could not leave his barge near the old Tower Stairs.
"I should be like a fish out of water," he thought; "and besides, I
should only be an encumbrance to the poor souls. I shall be in my
dotage soon, and they have troubles enough of their own. No; I'll stop
and lay my bones in Old England."
So the faithful old soul set to work at once, and left himself with
the very barest pittance to live on, in order to get together
sufficient money for the necessities of his friends.
The news soon spread. Some of the neighbors said it was a good job
they were going; some were envious; and a few repented of their
harshness. These last went so far as to make slight advances towards
Mr. and Mrs. Marvel. Mr. Marvel looked at them angrily, and responded
with hard words; but his wife, a true peacemaker, was more
conciliatory. When she remonstrated with him, and begged him to
consider that they were sorry because they had concurred in the
general verdict of condemnation of Joshua, he said,--
"Let be, Maggie; if they're sorry for what they've said about Josh,
the more shame for them for hurting us as they did. You can do as you
like; I sha'n't mind your shaking hands with them. But for me, I've
said I'll never forgive them, and I never will." When Susan was told
that they were going to Australia, her dull vacant face suddenly lit
up.
"We shall be near _him_," she muttered; "near Minnie too. Poor Minnie!
where is she?"
The next moment her old manner was upon her, and she relapsed into
vacancy again.
But there was one by whom the news of their intended departure was
received with a chill of angry despair. Solomon Fewster could scarcely
believe it when he was told. He hurried to the house, blaming himself
for his stupidity in trying to starve Ellen into acquiescence.
"This would never have come about," he thought, "if they had not been
driven to it by necessity. I ought to have shown myself a greater
friend than ever to Dan. Gratitude would have made Ellen love me."
To obtain Ellen's love had become a mania with him. The farther she
was removed from him, the stronger grew his desire. "Perhaps it is not
yet too late," he thought. He broke into Dan's room in feverish haste,
and cried,--
"Good news, Dan! I've got a customer for four birds, and he wants them
at once."
"Here are two bullfinches and two canaries," replied Dan with a queer
smile; "I thought you would have wanted them earlier. I have others
ready, if you want more."
"I'll take them by and by," said Solomon Fewster; and then treated Dan
to a long account of the late dulness and the expected revival of
trade, and to the certain prospect of there being a great demand for
Dan's birds presently. Dan listened in silence, and discomfited
Solomon Fewster by charging a higher price than usual for the
bullfinches and canaries. Solomon Fewster thought it would be fatal to
hesitate, and he paid the money with apparent willingness; and Dan
gave another queer little smile as he put the money in his pocket.
Then Fewster referred to the rumor, and Dan said it was true.
"We shall sail in about a month," said Dan.
"But why go at all?" asked Fewster.
"We are not able to get a living here, sir," said Dan. He did not
tell everybody of his fancy about Joshua.
"If that's your only reason," urged Fewster, "stop, and let me be your
friend. I promise that you shall never want, especially if--if"--
But he could not get the intended reference to Ellen gracefully off
his tongue.
"I understand you, sir," said Dan; "but nothing that you can say can
keep us here."
At this point Mr. Marvel entered, and Fewster left. Between the two
men there had been an utter absence of cordiality since Fewster's
overtures respecting Ellen. Besides, Mr. Marvel had suspected why
Fewster's commissions for birds had fallen off, and had made Dan
acquainted with his suspicions; and this, indeed, was the reason why
Dan, whose eyes were open to Fewster's meanness, had taken a secret
pleasure in charging him a high price for his present purchase.
Solomon Fewster tried by every means to induce them to stay, but his
efforts were unavailing. The passages were taken, the day was fixed.
The Old Sailor made special arrangements for the accommodation of
Dan's birds on board ship, and Dan bought a number of young songsters
to train on the voyage out, although the Old Sailor shook his head and
expressed grave doubts whether the birds would live. As the day of
departure approached, the excitement in the neighborhood grew
stronger, and public opinion veered steadily round in favor of the
Marvels. The band of the remorseful ones received fresh recruits
daily, until, when the day arrived, there were not a dozen of the
neighbors who were not sorry for the judgment that had been pronounced
against Joshua, and who did not, in one way or another, give
expression to their sorrow. Mr. Marvel would not listen to them; the
others did, and took pleasure in listening to apologies which were in
some sort a vindication of Joshua's character. But Mr. Marvel declared
bitterly that he would shake the dust from his shoes the day he left
Stepney, and that he was only too thankful to escape from the nest of
vipers.
"You women," he said, "are too soft-hearted for justice: if a
scoundrel who has wronged you comes crying to you, you look kindly on
him, and cry with him, out of the tenderness of your hearts. But for
me, when I think of the many years we've lived here, with never a
black mark against us--when I think of the good turns we've done for
this one and that one, and of the manner in which they have returned
our good offices, I'm fit to choke with passion. They tried to
disgrace me, and would have seen us starve without offering us bit or
sup. But now that we're going, well off as they think, they come
whining round us, sorry for the mud they threw at us. The mud didn't
stick, that's one comfort. I could dash my fist in their faces when I
think of it!"
So matters went on until the morning came when they were to go aboard
the ship at Blackwell. They had a few little odds and ends to take
with them, and a cart was at the door to convey them to the docks. All
the women and children in the neighborhood flocked round the cart to
see the last of the emigrants. First Ellen, with her child, got in;
the women kissed their hands to her, and murmured to each other that
she looked older than her years. Ellen's eyes were blinded with tears
as she looked up at the old house and at the familiar faces in the
crowd. Susan was the next: she looked vacantly at the throng, and
turned her eyes to her lap, taking no further heed of them. Dan
followed with his birds, and listened gravely, and not without
tenderness, to the farewells which greeted him. After him came Mr.
and Mrs. Marvel.
"Good-by, my dear; God bless you! God take you safely over, my dear!"
In twenty different ways were these farewells and good wishes
expressed, and Mrs. Marvel pressed her hand upon her heart, and sobbed
till she could not distinguish a face in the crowd that surrounded
her.
"Get in Maggie," said George Marvel; and then, deliberately and
gravely, stooped and took off his shoes. He climbed into the cart in
his stockings, and bending over the wheel, shook the dust from his
shoes. "I'll take no dust from here with me," he said in a loud tone;
"I leave that and your lying words behind me. I loved you once, and
loved these streets; but I've hated you and them from the time you
turned upon us and made our lives bitterer than misfortune had already
made them. By and by, you can tell the men I've worked with and been
kind to, that I was glad to go from the place where I was born, and
that I shook the dust from my feet before I went away."
Then, amid a dead silence, the cart lumbered away from Stepney on to
Blackwall. There they found the Old Sailor waiting for them. "I will
keep with you until you are fairly off," he said. They were thankful
enough for his company, and as he did what he could to cheer them, and
they had plenty of work to do in their cabins, they soon became more
cheerful and hopeful than they had been for many a day. Soon the ship
was at Gravesend, a place fraught with sad and sweet memories--for
Ellen especially. Mrs. Friswell, at whose house the wedding was
celebrated, came aboard to see them, and admired the baby, and
whispered to all of them in turns, that if there ever lived a man with
a heart tender enough for twenty men, that man was the Old Sailor, and
no other. No need to say with what heartiness they all indorsed this
sentiment.
A surprise awaited them. On the morning of the ship's sailing, there
came climbing up the side Solomon Fewster. He accosted them gayly.
"You were wondering, I dare say, why I hadn't been to wish you
good-by."
"We thought you would be sure to come although at the last moment,"
answered Dan.
Solomon Fewster first rubbed his hands and then his chin.
"No need to say good-by," he said, with a conscious look at Ellen; "I
am going with you."
They were too much astonished to reply.
"Yes," he continued; "when my best friends were going, I didn't like
the idea of stopping behind. So I've sold my business upon capital
terms--capital terms. A good sum down, and a share in the profits for
the next ten years. Shall be able to make plenty of money in
Australia, eh, Mr. Meddler?"
"No doubt, no doubt," said the Old Sailor, with a disturbed look.
Solomon Fewster, divining that his absence would be agreeable to them,
hurried away to look after his boxes.
"I am sorry he's going," said Dan; "but it can't be helped. We must
make the best of every thing not the worst."
In the tender conversation that ensued, consequent upon their parting
from the Old Sailor, Solomon Fewster was forgotten.
"Write to me as often as you can," said the Old Sailor, "and I will
do the same to you, though my old joints are getting stiff. You'll
soon be settled down somewhere, and you can let me know. 'Tis a sad
word--good-by. But I shall soon be saying good-by to all the world, my
dears."
He sat among them until the last moment, and first wished Susan
good-by.
Then said George Marvel, as he and the Old Sailor stood hand in hand,
amidst the confusion of ropes and cases, "If there had been hearts
like yours among our neighbors, my poor Josh's name would not have
been blackened. Heaven will reward you. I couldn't honor my own father
more than I honor you."
The Old Sailor quivered at the stroke; he could better have stood a
hard knock. He kissed Ellen tenderly, and she him; and he put a ribbon
round baby's neck with a little silver whistle at the end of it. "In
memory of me, my dear," he said.
"I will teach her that it is the symbol of the heart of a good man,
dear sir," said Ellen, her eyes full of tears; "and when she is an old
woman--if she lives to be such--it may happen that she will show it to
her children, and tell them her mother's sad story, and how her life
was sweetened by the kindest, dearest, best"-- Sobs choked her voice.
The Old Sailor waited a while until she recovered, and then said, with
exquisite tenderness,--
"If she will sound the whistle sometimes when she is a young woman,
and I am in my grave, I shall hear her perhaps." He smiled
thoughtfully at this conceit. And then folded Ellen in his arms, and
saying, "God bless you, my lass!" released her and turned to Dan and
Mrs. Marvel. She took his hand and kissed it; she could have knelt to
him, her heart was so full--too full to speak.
"I know, I know, my dear," he said, and kissed her. "I asked you once
if you would like to be a sailor, Dan; do you remember?" His arm was
resting on Dan's shoulder, and Dan drew it round his neck and laid his
face upon it. The action conveyed such tender meaning, that the tears
rolled down the Old Sailor's cheeks.
"When I see Joe," said Dan, "I may tell him that you never doubted
him?"
"Ay, Dan," replied the Old Sailor aloud; but thought, "I shall see him
before you do, my lad." He would not disturb Dan's faith by uttering
the thought.
"Do I remember your asking if I would like to be a sailor?" continued
Dan. "Ah, yes! what of that day can I ever forget? You taught me to
splice a rope, and I showed you Jo's heart and mine spliced, so that
nothing could sever them. And the poor birds shipwrecked, as Jo is. We
little thought then, did we, sir?" The Old Sailor grasped Dan's hand,
and the next minute was in his boat; and the ship was swinging round,
hiding him from the loving gaze of his friends.
Through the river that runs to the sea the ship makes its way slowly
and grandly. In the ship's stern, looking with dimmed eyes over the
bulwarks, are Dan and Ellen and Mr. and Mrs. Marvel. Good-by, dear
friend! Good-by, dear heart! Smaller and smaller grows the ship in his
eyes. Can they see him still? he is lost in the whirl of boats. No; he
is standing up, cap in hand. Good-by, faithful simple heart, richer in
your honest goodness than if you were endowed with all the jewels that
lie concealed in earth's depths. He is lost to them now, and they
shall see him no more--here!
Lost? No. He is with them every night in their prayers--he dwells in
their hearts. To their dying days they think of him tenderly.
Blessings on the dear Old Sailor!
CHAPTER XXXIX.
SO NEAR AND YET SO FAR.
"Minnie!"
"Yes, Joshua."
"That is all; I thought you were asleep."
"You are very kind to me, Joshua. I feel a little better to-day, I
think."
"That's a good hearing, Minnie. Get strong, my dear, for my sake."
"Ah! If I could; but I fear--I fear." (This last to herself under her
breath.) "Sit nearer, Joshua."
Many moons had passed, and with the exception that Minnie had grown
very weak, only one event of importance had occurred since the
departure of Rough-and-Ready and Tom the sailmaker. That event was the
death of the Lascar; and the discovery made a deep impression on
Joshua. It occurred within a few weeks of the parting of the tribes.
The tribe of which Opara was the chief, observing that Minnie was
drooping, resolved to return to the spot where they had found her. By
easy stages they travelled near to the rocks where the castaways had
landed, and rested there some days, in the belief that Minnie would
regain her health. The mysterious influence she had over them was
never weakened, and as she and Joshua were inseparable, he shared in
the favor which was shown to her. She saw this, and would not allow
him to quit her side, fearful lest harm should befall him. One evening
she and Joshua had wandered from the native camp to the pool where the
Lascar had stolen upon him, with the intention of killing him; and
they talked together of the villain, and wondered what had become of
him. They saw a wonderful sight as they sat and talked. From the
distant woods rose an immense army of flying foxes, not less than four
or five thousand in number, flying in a straight line to a distant
pool. When they arrived over the water, they dipped down to drink in
regular order, keeping their ranks, so that presently they presented
the shape of a perfect curve. Joshua and Minnie watched the singular
flight until the last of the animals had satisfied its thirst; shortly
afterwards the entire flock disappeared. As they retraced their steps
to the native camp, Joshua observed something unusual lying on the
ground. It looked like a crouching animal, and Joshua drew Minnie
aside fearing that it might be a dangerous creature; but it remained
perfectly still, and Joshua, drawn thereto by an irresistible impulse,
slowly approached the spot. To his horror he found that it was a human
creature--dead; and turning the face recognized the Lascar. So! his
enemy was dead, and this was the end of his animosity. The
circumstances of the eventful meeting when he had rescued Susan from
the Lascar's pursuit came to Joshua's mind as he looked upon the dead
form. "His hate of me would not have lived so long," thought Joshua,
"if it had not been fed by other means. Whom did he refer to when he
spoke of his master the day he stole upon me with the stone? But that
is past discovery now!" The dead man's face was distorted by agony, as
if he had died in torture, and Joshua looked around for the cause of
death. There were a variety of trees near the spot--among them some
stinging trees. Joshua knew the fatal effect of the deadly tree, and
divined that the Lascar had fallen from one of the higher trees, which
he must have climbed in search of food, into the poisonous nettles,
and so been stung to death. He could not have been dead above a few
hours. Joshua turned away, and told Minnie.
"You will not leave him there unburied, Joshua?" said Minnie.
"No, Minnie, it would not be right. He was our enemy, but there is an
end to all that now. Sit down on this trunk, my dear, and I will be
kinder to him in death than he was to me in life." With his knife and
a stout stick he removed sufficient soil to lay the dead man in; as he
moved the body, a silver watch fell from a pocket. Joshua picked it
up, and involuntarily opened it. There was an inscription on the case,
roughly scratched in, and Joshua read, "From Solomon Fewster to his
Lascar friend." Joshua's heart beat loudly as he read these words. He
felt that he was on the eve of a discovery. "They knew each other," he
thought in amazement; and then, like a flash, it came upon him that
Solomon Fewster was the master for whom the Lascar said he was
working. Eagerly he searched the Lascar's pockets for more evidence;
and found it in the shape of the following document: "To my Lascar
friend: I give you twenty-five pounds in gold, and a silver watch and
two knives for services you have rendered me in connection with J. M.
And I promise you twenty-five pounds more in gold, if; when you return
in the 'Merry Andrew,' you have accomplished what has been agreed upon
between us.--S. F."
Joshua read this document twice, and then looked round, as if in
expectation of meeting Solomon Fewster face to face.
"Let me fix the villain's features in my mind," he thought; "I will
raise him before me, so that when we meet, in this world or the next,
I may bring his treachery home to him." With the eyes of his mind he
saw Solomon Fewster's false face, and he dashed his fist into the air
with a loud cry. "Fool!" he muttered, recovering himself; "am I
growing as much a savage as those amongst whom I live? Was it Fewster
or this villain who stabbed me when I came home?" He looked down, and
seemed to find his answer. "It was your hand that struck the blow, and
he employed you. He was too much of a coward to do it himself, and he
paid you for your services as you have told me. And he wanted to get
me out of the way, so that he might win the love of my Ellen." A
bitter smile came to his lips, passed away, and a sweeter expression
took its place. "To win the love of my Ellen! No, he can never do
that; she is mine till death, and after it, and is as true to me as I
am to her. Ellen, dear wife! hear me, and be comforted."
Concealed beneath his covering of fur, was a small bag, made of stout
skin, well dried, containing Ellen's portrait, her lock of hair, Dan's
Bible, and the page from Captain Liddle's log-book, appointing him
captain. Into this bag he put the silver watch and Fewster's document.
"Rest there," he muttered. "When I am dead, chance may direct these
relics into the hands of my friends. I will write a statement myself
of certain things, and place it with these. Be merciful, O God! and
keep firm the faith of my friends."
The appeal was like a prayer, and its utterance soothed him. He laid
the Lascar's body in the shallow grave, and covered it as well as he
could with earth and leaves and branches. Then he returned to Minnie,
and they walked to the camp. He did not tell her of his discovery. It
would have made her more unhappy.
On another occasion they were sitting together in the woods, in
silence and resignation. They had sat so for full half an hour, and
not a word had passed between them; their thoughts were with their
friends, thousands of miles away. Suddenly there came to their ears
the tinkle of a bell. They started, and looked at each other in
wonder. A wild hope entered Joshua's heart. The sound was faint but
distinct. It was like an evidence of approaching civilization.
Presently it sounded again, and was followed by other bells of
different tones, but each note being clearly uttered. Tinkle, tinkle,
tinkle! till the woods were filled with music. Creeping slowly and
softly in the direction of the sounds, they discovered the cause. The
sounds were not produced, as they had hoped, by bells on the necks of
cattle, but by a congregation of small birds of a greenish-yellow
color, who, perched upon the branches of trees, in a spot where the
trees formed a circle, were singing to each other their sweetest
songs. Disturbed by the approach of footsteps, the birds hid
themselves among the leaves, and were silent; but Minnie and Joshua
remained perfectly still, and soon the sweet sounds were heard again,
and the concert was resumed, to the delight of the hearers.
For many evenings after this Joshua and Minnie came to the spot to
listen to the melody of the bell-birds. It was on one of these
evenings that an idea in association with the birds presented itself
to Joshua. Why should he not employ a little of his idle time in
training some of the birds with which the beautiful woods abounded, as
Dan and he used to do in their boyish days? He trembled with delight
at the thought, and was eager to begin. It seemed to bring him nearer
to Dan and the beloved ones at home. He told Minnie of his fancy, and
she encouraged it. He would set about it at once; but first he must
make a cage. He made one of wickerwork, sufficiently large to hold a
score of birds; and in a very little while his cage was inhabited by
birds as beautiful and almost as docile as any he had taught at home.
All this while they were allowed by the natives to do pretty well what
they pleased. Food was supplied to them regularly, and they were not
expected to work or hunt for it. Scarcely a night passed without
Joshua played his accordion in the shade of their hut, and the
singular fancy which the natives entertained respecting Minnie was
strengthened by these mysterious melodious sounds. From time to time
the natives shifted their camp, according to the seasons, and they
invariably regulated their day's walking by Minnie's strength.
Uncultured and savage as these ignorant creatures were, they were
tender and kind to Minnie and Joshua, and showed them a thousand
little attentions which could only have been prompted by the most
delicate consideration. Joshua's fancy about the birds was quite a
natural thing in their eyes. Minnie wanted the birds to talk to; she
understood the mysterious voices of birds and trees. Their reverence
for her was increased when they saw her one day with a golden-crowned
honey-sucker upon her finger. This was one of the first birds which
Joshua had tamed; he was careful to give it its favorite food,--the
blossoms of the blue gum-tree when it was in flower, and at all times
honey and sweet leaves, and had anticipated the effect it would
produce upon the natives, when they saw it perching contentedly upon
Minnie's finger.
"See!" said Opara, "the birds know our Star; she talks to them the
language of the trees. From us they fly, and hide themselves in
clouds; but she bids them come, and they rest upon her bosom."
Soon other birds were tamed and trained; and the wonder spread to
distant tribes, who made long journeys to see the Star of Opara's
tribe, who understood the voice of Nature, and talked with all the
children of the Great Mother; for so the simple savages interpreted
it.
But Minnie grew weaker and weaker. She concealed her weakness as much
as possible from Joshua, who was very tender to her, very, very kind.
He had quite forgiven her; no cloud disturbed the harmony of their
strange lives. Bearing always in mind the advice which Rough-and-Ready
had given them to endeavor to make their way southward, and knowing
the one great wish of Joshua's heart, she had used all her influence
with the tribe to induce them every time they shifted their camp to
move in that direction, and had succeeded so far, that every season
found them nearer to the settled districts. But, although three years
had passed, they had not seen the slightest signs of civilization.
Once Joshua was in a terrible state of agitation. He was gathering
sweet leaves for his birds, when "Crack!" went the sound of a whip. He
uttered a joyful cry, and threw himself upon the ground with all his
heart in his ears, for he had not caught the direction of the sound.
"Crack!" went the whip again. He ran swiftly towards it, and listened
again. Rough-and-Ready had told him many times to keep his ears sharp
open for the crack of a whip, and here it was, at last, after weary,
weary waiting.
"You will find most likely," Rough-and-Ready had said, "that it is a
stockman looking after some stray cattle. Then you will be all right."
The thoughts that crowded upon Joshua's mind in the few moments that
elapsed between the cracking of the whip would occupy an hour to
describe; they may be summarized thus: "That is a stockman's whip.
Thank God for it! I shall see him presently, and he will wait while I
fetch Minnie. Then we will go to where his companions are, and I will
get some presents for our kind friends the natives. Minnie will soon
grow strong; thank God! We will go down to Sydney, and get passage
home in the first ship. Then--then--O Ellen, Ellen! O Dan, dear
friend! dear mother and father! All will come right--all will be set
right. Thank God!"
"Crack, crack!" Nearer--nearer. He was close to it, but saw nothing.
He looked round carefully, watchfully. "Crack!" Over his head. He
turned his eyes to the clouds, and saw a bird--the whip-bird--flying
over the trees, uttering its "crack!" as it flew, taking his hopes
with it, and bearing them away to where perhaps he would never meet
with them again.
And Dan is sitting in a wooden hut built near the banks of a beautiful
river. Seas do not divide him from his friend. They both live on the
same bit of land, ignorant of each other's whereabouts. The same
continent holds those two faithful hearts. What is Dan doing? who are
with him? what kind of a place is this where he and they reside?
A village in which dwell not more than a few hundred inhabitants. Not
free from care, for care is human; but happier than inhabitants of
great cities are. There is plenty of work for hands to do; more than
there are hands to do it. What luxury there is, is the luxury of
nature--rich fruits, bright flowers, clear atmosphere, sweet air,
lovely skies, grand sunrises and sunsets, and sparkling watercourses
whose banks teem with graceful shapes and lovely color. Here a city is
to be formed, and they who live in it and are content shall see it
grow up to strength--ay, to manhood--and shall have a share in its
increasing wealth. First, tents of canvas to live in; now huts of
wood; by and by houses of stone. But these last, though they be
stronger, will not bring more enduring happiness. And here is Dan,
with his birds, as usual. He earns money enough now. Not a hundred
miles away, in the capital of the colony of which this little village
is a speck, lives a dealer who comes regularly to Dan's wooden house,
and buys such birds as he has trained, and pays handsomely for them.
Not Solomon Fewster. He also is in that rising capital, and Dan will
not sell him a bird. Not that Solomon Fewster needs them; for he
is making money fast, and the miserly passion of accumulation is
growing very strong in him. His business carries him often to Dan's
village,--twice a month, perhaps; and regularly every two or three
months he makes some kind of overture to Ellen, who shakes her head,
and sometimes answers him, and sometimes evades the subject. Dan has
remonstrated with him, and has begged him never to refer to the
subject again. But he answers,--
"I cannot help it, Dan. If you knew what love was, you would know that
a man can no more help loving than he can help feeling. It was love
that first brought me to your house in Stepney. I didn't want the
birds; but so that I might have the privilege of coming to the
house--and of doing you and Ellen a good turn at the same time, mind,
Dan--I took a deal of trouble to find dealers in birds who would buy
them of me at the same price I paid you for them; and I shouldn't be
telling an untruth if I said that I lost money by many of the birds I
paid you for. One man I sold to failed, and I had to take a
composition. Well, I didn't know then that Ellen loved Joshua; nothing
was said between them; and when he first went away he wasn't old
enough to know his own mind. He came back, and when he was ill I
didn't show a bad spirit to him. After Ellen and he were engaged, I
did not desert you; and I didn't annoy Ellen by forcing my attentions
upon her. You spoke to me once about that unfortunate canary that died
in my hand when I bade Joshua good-by. You can't think that I killed
it purposely. But you may be able to form some idea of my feelings
(which can't always be suppressed, Dan), and of the restraint I had to
put upon myself when in the presence of the man who had taken from me
the most precious thing in the world to me--Ellen's love--and you can
put down the poor canary's death to that cause. I've no need to say
any thing more. I've loved Ellen all along, and I've always treated
her with respect and consideration. You mustn't debar me from the
chance of being happy; Ellen may change her mind one day. It is many
years now since I first saw her, a girl; and that I am content now to
wait and hope ought to be sufficient proof of my disinterestedness and
sincerity."
To such-like pleading Dan finds no reply, and so they go on as usual.
To Dan, as he sits with his birds, comes Ellen with her peaceful sad
face. She has not found happiness, but she has found peace. Solomon
Fewster is not her only suitor. Every single man in the village is
enamoured of her, and would be glad to make her his wife. But she
tells her story to all with a womanly purpose. She is married, and her
husband went out as third mate of the "Merry Andrew," and the ship was
lost and all hands, as it is supposed. But she cannot believe that her
husband is dead; something tells her that he is alive--living upon
some uninhabited shore mayhap, and looking forward to the time when,
by the mercy of God, they shall be together again. Her story is
repeated from one to another; and some kind souls who have been in the
colony a few years come to her and Dan with little scraps of
information concerning the "Merry Andrew," such as the finding of a
piece of a figure-head which belonged to her husband's ship, and other
similar evidence, which convince them that the "Merry Andrew" was lost
off the Australian coast. "Is it not possible," asks Dan, "that some
of the crew may have been saved, and may be dwelling now on some part
of the uninhabited Australian coast?" "Quite possible," they answer:
and they relate such instances as they know of vessels being wrecked,
and of some of the sailors being saved and found years after they were
supposed to be lost. Dan and Ellen derive much comfort from these
narrations.
Ellen's little child Maggie is the pet of the village. At the present
moment she is playing with her goat in the paddock at the back of the
house, breathing in health with fresh air. To-night, when she says her
prayers, she will pray that God will please send her father home--a
prayer joined in by all of them every night.
Who is this? Susan. In no whit changed. With the same strange watchful
manner upon her as in the old days in Stepney, but never uttering a
word concerning Joshua. Sometimes she will go for days without
speaking to a soul, and a smile never crosses her lips.
And this gentle woman, going about the house quietly, doing her work
cheerfully, with a sweet smile for every one she comes across, and by
whose side the little Maggie is content to sit in silence with her
hands folded in her lap? This is Mrs. Marvel. You would know her if
you had only seen her once, although her hair is nearly white now; for
hers is one of the peaceful faces that dwell in your memory and remind
you of your mother. As for her hair being nearly white--for the matter
of that, so is Mr. Marvel's. It would not do for him to pay for every
white hair that is pulled out of his head, as at the commencement of
this story.
They sit together on this evening, as is their wont, and as they used
to do in the dear old kitchen in Stepney, and talk of Joshua. And
George Marvel smokes his pipe, and his wife darns--more slowly than in
the old days, for her sight is not so strong as it was--and Dan trains
his birds and reads to his friends. They have been sorely afflicted,
but faith and love have banished despair.