COMFORT.
When I came to know what I had done, through shameful levity, and
heedlessness, and selfish triumph and greedy ways--for that crab had
much to do with it--also through laziness, and, self-conceit, and the
absence of humble gratitude--which would have taught me to fall on my
knees, instead of skipping up like a bubble--for many hours I lay and
groaned, and was much more likely to sink into the earth, than ever to
mount into the air again.
My mother, in her first great shock and anguish, had called me a wicked
boy, and said that I never ought to have been born; and I could only
answer--
"Oh, how much I wish I had never been! But it was more your doing than
mine, mother."
I believe that I should have gone mad, after seeing the people come with
father's coffin, if I had been left in the house, to hear, and think of
all that they were doing. For mother was not at all strong-minded, but
kept on falling from one condition of heart into the opposite; and
sometimes cried by the hour, and sometimes laughed at herself, for the
soreness of her eyes. And then it was so clear what father had been, by
the way that every one spoke well of him--so gentle, and generous, and
kind-hearted, and living entirely for the good of others--that instead
of being comforted, I cried more, to think that it was I, who had
destroyed all this. Several people took me by the hand, or patted my
head, and made me look up at them, all of them seeming to say the same
words, so far as I took heed of them--"Don't fret, my boy, don't knock
under like that. It can't be helped now. Why, you did not mean to do it;
and you must bear it, like a man, you know."
But all this only made me fret the more; my heart was so broken that I
touched no food, and I kept on asking every man, who looked at all like
an authority, to please to get me sent to prison for seven years' hard
labour. Finding no one ready to do this, I banished myself to the
coal-cellar, and had a fresh cry with the maid, whenever she came to
fill the scuttles. For no one else came near me now, my poor mother
being unwell upstairs, and the command of the house handed over to
people, who called themselves her nearest relatives; and were so, if
Uncle Bill had met with a watery grave, as was supposed. These people
were the Stareys of Stoke Newington,--a widow lady, and her two
unmarried daughters, beginning now to be old maids. Mrs. Starey was
mother's half-sister, yearly fifteen years the elder; and so her
daughters were my half first cousins, and might have tried to help me.
Mother said afterwards, when she came to know of all their conduct, that
they did their best to send me after father; and for a very good reason
of their own--if I were out of the way, they would be the nearest to
her (if Uncle Bill were drowned, as they had reason to hope of him) and
under my father's will that might be of no little service to them. But
it is not in my nature, to believe that they would act so. And even by
seeming so to do, they lost all chance of everything. So much wiser, as
well as sweeter, is it in the long run for us, to be kind to one
another.
But to dwell upon this, is hateful to me, and I cannot bear ill-will.
Most likely the truth was simply this, that they had quite enough to do,
with mother lying ill, and father dead, and could not be bothered with
me as well, and therefore, were glad to be quit of me, saying that a
boy's grief soon forgets itself. And if I did not eat, it was because I
was not hungry; but time and youth would soon cure that. And perhaps
they might have done so.
However, a man who was not in the habit of judging people harshly, the
Reverend St. Simon Cope, was highly indignant with them. As soon as he
heard of our sad loss, he thought he had a right to come and help us, as
a minister of the Lord, though we were not in his District, and even
belonged to another parish. Mr. Cope was not at all the man to move his
neighbour's landmark, and he knew that our parson (who never came near
us) was largely Evangelical, as the people who went to hear him said. So
that Mr. Cope came to visit us, and was careful to put it so, not as a
minister of the Word, but as my tutor in dead languages. In whatever
capacity he meant to come, no sooner did he see how we were placed, than
he threw parish boundaries overboard, and became the true minister of
Christ. It is not for me to tell what he said; such matters are far
above me. And in truth it was less what he said than did, and his manner
of doing it, that moved us. I had thought him a very cold man before--so
little had he shown of feeling, as perhaps was needful among boys, but
now brave tears were on his firm thin cheeks; and I sobbed to look at
them.
"Tommy," he said, as he drew me forth from the coal which was all over
me, and he never had called me "Tommy" before, which made it sound so
kind to me; "Tommy, you must get up, and wash, and take some food, and
come with me. Your dear mother is very poorly, and I have promised to
take you to her. It is the greatest comfort she can have; but she must
not see you look like this."
"Have I been and killed mother too? Will mother die, sir, do you think,
the same as my father did, through me?"
"No, my dear boy. Your mother will soon be well again, when she sees
you. She keeps on calling 'Tommy, Tommy!' But they say that you refuse
to go to her."
"They told me, sir, that she never would bear the sight of me again, as
long as she lived. And she keeps on saying, 'Wicked Tommy, wicked Tommy,
why ever were you born?' And I wish I never had been, sir."
"Listen to me for a moment, Tommy. Not one word of that is true. What
she may have said at first, I cannot tell, and you must not think of;
for she cannot have known what she said. I am sure, that you have a
tender heart, and not a bitter one, my child. You have been afflicted
heavily, and you blame yourself unjustly. Your only fault was sudden
and thoughtless joy; and your mother sees that now. She wants you to
forgive her, for she behaved unkindly, and she feels it. And if you wish
to make her well, go up, and see her, and give her a kiss, and let her
talk, while you say little. Then she will get some sleep to-night; she
has not had a wink, since her sad shock. And to-morrow, she will be well
almost, and able to face her sorrow calmly, for her illness is more of
the mind than body. But go, and do what I told you first; and then I
will take you to the door."
Thus it was that this good man saved us, or me at least, from black
despair, and consequent insanity; for who can be sane, when hope is
dead? Everything came to pass, exactly as he had foretold it; though I
will not attempt to describe what passed, between dear mother and
myself. Such matters are more for the heart, than tongue. Enough, that
when she was quite worn out, with feeling things, and talking of them,
she fell into a smiling sleep, and I smoothed the bows of her night-cap,
and tried not to believe how pale she was, and how many little sheaves
of silver grief had set up in her fine dark hair.
Then, when she was fast asleep, after having managed, with my help, to
get through a calf's sweetbread--which Mr. Cope himself went all the way
to Mr. Chumps, to fetch for us--and there was no likelihood of her
wanting me till morning, my tutor said,
"Tommy, you look respectable; which could hardly be said of you just
now. Get your nightclothes, and whatever you want, and reverse the
accustomed walk. Come with me to Kentish Town and I will bring you back
in a day or two. But I cannot give you much time to get ready, and you
will have to walk six miles an hour."
If he had told me to take his hand, for an urgent appointment with the
Devil, I should have done it, without two thoughts; but the only
engagement he had to keep, was with his congregation. This was at eight
o'clock in the evening; and counting me, and a baby, there were eight of
us there for the good of it, without including the minister. This made
me think, with a turn of tears, of a story my father used to tell, of
his asking the Clerk at some church, why the Vicar had service at five
o'clock of an afternoon on week-days, instead of seven, or eight, or
nine. "Lord bless you, sir," the Clerk replied, "if we was to go into
them long hours, we should never keep up with the time of day; five is
our number at the outside, and no more." And although the joke was very
small, it made me smile, as a bad joke does; when I never expected to
have another smile. The service, moreover, did me good; though I never
heard a word of it.
He put me with the other boys, next day; and they were very kind to me,
knowing the trouble that I was in. Jack Windsor was not there now;
because Mr. Cope had plainly told his father, that he found it useless
to go on with him, unless there were any downright need of a standard to
pass--and it must be a low one--for the Army, or for medicine, or for
Holy Orders. For all lower purposes, his tutor said that he was quite up
to the average; he could write and spell, quite well enough, and was up
to the mark in arithmetic. But of Latin and Greek, if by great pressure,
any more were ground into him, there was no chance of it staying longer,
than the time his nails (which he was always biting) would take to grow,
if he left off. Mr. Windsor answered loftily--for, together with his
wife, he had always taken Jack to be a wonder--that he considered his
son too good, by a d--d sight, for any of the lines of life Mr. Cope had
been kind enough to mention, and he would take away poor Jack that day,
and put him into his own office; where he would learn life, instead of
burying dead languages.
Now, my dear father was in the habit of speaking his mind quite plainly;
but he never would have spoken like that, so rudely; and sooner would he
have bitten his tongue, very severely, I am sure, than have sworn, in
the presence of a parson!
However, although Jack was gone, there were several fellows who had
heard all, and a great deal more than all, about me, and my inborn
affliction; and although they behaved with extraordinary kindness (being
all on the way to be gentlemen) whenever they thought that I was not
looking, they were looking at me, with desire to form their own opinions
silently, and compare them freely, when my back was turned. For the
result of any peculiarity, less conspicuous perhaps than mine, is to
attract attention; and that becomes a curse far greater, than the
blessing of even the noblest gifts.
When the Doctor was kind enough to spare my mother all the public pain
of an inquest, by certifying "sudden death, from failure of the heart,
after violent attack of Cholera," it might have been hoped, that
outside strangers would have gone on their way, without meddling. So all
right-minded persons did. They had their little talk among themselves,
and expressed a very natural surprise, and agreed, or differed,
according to the peace, or pugnacity of character. And the matter would
have been a nine days' wonder, for the nine or ten beholders, but for
the prying self-conceit of a picker-up of news for the _Pratt Street
Express_, a penny paper, coming out on Saturdays. I will not speak ill
of this gentleman; for I came to know him afterwards, and found him a
pleasant, and well-meaning man. He had no intention of inflicting pain;
and he freely admitted, that a sense of duty compelled him to write,
what he did not believe a word of, lest a rival journal should get the
start of his.
My tutor, Mr. Cope, sent a line to my mother on Tuesday, to inform her,
that he thought it would be, for very many reasons, wiser that I should
not be present, at the funeral of my beloved father. He did not tell me,
that it was to be that day; and I did not venture to ask about it,
leaving myself entirely in his hands. My mother wrote back, as it
afterwards appeared, that she quite agreed with him, and would not
expect me, until all was over. That same evening, he took me home, and
asked me on the road, whether I could bear to hear a few words from him.
I said yes, whatever he thought fit, for my heart was strengthened,
while I held his hand.
After words of religious consolation, which fell from his lips, as if
from heaven--for the whole of his life was above this world, and the
preface to a better one--he proceeded partly as follows, though I
cannot put it quite as he did--
"From all that I hear, and allowing much for large exaggerations, you
have a remarkable gift, my boy; of which I heard something from my
friend, the Bishop. From my own observation, I know that your bodily
frame is of wonderful buoyancy; as your mind was also, until this sad
distress, for the time, oppressed it. You have very good abilities, far
above the average, an extremely tenacious memory, quick apprehension,
with clearness of insight, and a love of whatever is elegant; which
would make you a very good classical scholar, with industry, good
teaching, and above all, good health. That last is the point, which
makes me doubt the wisdom of pressing you much, in that way; although
you have never known a day of illness, until this trouble fell upon you.
For a body so light can scarcely contain the substance needful for hard
work. But your duty, as to that, will depend very much upon what your
father's orders were. He has left, (as I happened to observe) a
statement in writing of his wishes concerning you. One of the ladies in
the house had opened his desk, which had the key left in, while looking
for some paper, to boil the kettle. And I fear, that she would have used
this important paper, in ignorance of what she was doing at the moment,
if I had not asked her to put it back. Then I locked the desk, and your
mother has the key. It was not a will--your mother has his will--but to
you it should have all the authority of a will. These things are
important; but what I would speak of is, from my point of view, more
important still. You know, that whatever is given to us, is given for
some good purpose. Your mental gifts are not wonderful; although, as I
have said, they are above the average. But your bodily gifts are quite
exceptional--I think I may say, though I have never studied physics--and
for them, you will have a good account to render."
"But how, sir, how?" I asked with some excitement; "as yet I have only
come to trouble, through all that. Please to tell me any way of doing
any good with it."
"At present I cannot," Mr. Cope replied; "but as sure as I am speaking
to you, Tommy Upmore, the way and the means will appear, by and by. It
is your duty, to improve your gift, so far as discretion and health
permit, and to await the opportunity for some great good, to your
country, humanity, or religion."