A fine but yet a solemn evening trod upon the steps of a May day.
There was a red light in the west under deep purple clouds. Overhead,
all was blue, intense, and unbroken even by a feathery vapour. A star,
a planet, faint from the sun's rays still unrecalled, was seen
struggling to shine; and a lingering chillness came upon the breeze as
it swept over a wide heath. The road from London to Southampton might
be traced from the top of one of the abrupt knolls into thousands of
which the heath was broken, winding on for four or five miles on
either side, and dim plantations bounded the prospect. Between,
nothing caught the eye but the desert-looking, wavy expanse of
uncultivated ground, except where, in a little sandy dell through
which poured a small white line of water, appeared a low thatch and
four ruinous walls. At first one thought it a cowshed or a pigsty, but
a filmy wave of smoke showed it to be a human habitation. The nest of
the wild bird, the hole of the fox, the lair of the deer, is more
warm, and sheltered, and secure than it was.
A carriage came in sight from the side of Southampton, dashing along
with four horses. At first it looked in the distance like a husk of
hempseed drawn by four fleas; but as it came rattling on, it turned
out a handsome vehicle and a good team. The top was loaded with boxes,
imperials, and all sorts of leathern contrivances for holding
superfluities, towering to the skies. Underneath was a long, square,
flat basket of wicker, likewise loaded heavily.
The carriage dashed on over one slope, down another, across a sharp
channel left by a stream of water which had flowed down two or three
days before after heavy rains, up part of a hill, and there it
suddenly stopped, toppled, and went over. The axle had broken, and a
hind wheel had come off. The servant flew out of his leathern cage
behind, lighted in a huge tuft of heath somewhat like his own
whiskers, and then got up and rubbed his shoulder.
Then a gay, joyous, mellow voice was heard calling out from the
inside, "Spilt, upon my life! What a crash! Are you hurt, Mr.
Winkworth? Venus and all the Graces smashed to pieces, for a thousand
pounds! Ha! ha! ha! Well, this is a consummation--Here, boy! open the
door and let us out. I always lie on my right side--I think,
Winkworth, you'll be glad to get rid of me."
"Uncommonly!" said a voice from below. "I thought you light-headed and
light-hearted; but something about you, boy, is heavy enough."
By this time the postboys were out of their saddles and the servant
was hobbling up. The door was opened, and forth came a tall,
good-looking young man, dressed in gay travelling costume, who
instantly turned round to assist somebody else out of the broken
vehicle.
The next person who appeared upon the stage was a man of sixty or
more, spare, wrinkled, yellow, with very white hair and a face close
shaved. If he were ugly, it was from age, and perhaps bad health, the
colour of his skin being certainly somewhat sickly; but his features
were good, and his eye was clear, and even merry, though a few testy
lines appeared round the lips. He stooped a good deal, which made him
look short, though he had once been tall; but in no other respect did
bodily strength seem decayed, for he was as active as a bird. No
sooner was his younger companion out of the chaise than he was seen
issuing forth, all legs and arms together, in the most extraordinary
manner possible, and the whole process was accomplished in a moment.
"Pish!" cried the elderly man, peevishly: "pretty reception to one's
native land after seven-and-twenty years' absence."
"It has had time to forget you," said the younger, laughing.
"To break down on the first road I come to!" went on the other. "It is
all because you overloaded the carriage so. I should have done better
to have travelled by the stage, or any other conveyance, instead of
taking a seat in your mud-loving vehicle."
"The stage might have been overloaded and broken too," rejoined the
other. "Take all the rubs of life quietly, Mr. Winkworth. Something
must be done, however. One of you fellows, ride on, and get the first
blacksmith you can find. Send a chaise, too, to meet us; we'll walk
on. You, Jerry, stay with the carriage, and when it is mended bring it
on. You're not hurt, are you?"
"My shoulder, sir, has suffered from too close an intimacy with mother
earth," replied the servant in an affected tone, "and my leg, I take
it, is of a different figure from the ordinary run; but I dare say all
will come straight with time."
"Puppy!" grumbled the old gentleman, and began walking on as fast as
his legs would carry him. He was soon overtaken by his young
companion, and as they walked on together the postboy overtook and
passed them. They said little; but Mr. Winkworth looked about him and
seemed to enjoy the prospect, notwithstanding the accident which had
forced it upon his contemplation.
The postboy trotted on, and the two gentlemen walked forward; night
was falling fast; and just when the messenger sent for the chaise had
disappeared on one side, and the carriage with its accompaniments on
the other, a bifurcation of the road, without a finger-post, presented
itself.
"Now, Mr. Charles Lovel Marston, what is to be done?" said the old
gentleman. "You and I are two fools, my dear sir, or we should have
mounted the two posters, and let the postboys get themselves out of
the scrape they had got themselves into."
"It is just as bad to gallop along a wrong road as to walk along one,"
replied his young companion with a laugh--"only one goes farther, and
faster to the devil."
The Old gentleman laughed heartily. "There is something on there which
looks like fellow-humanity," he said: "it may be a stunted tree or a
milestone, but we may as well ask it the way;" and putting on his
spectacles, he walked forward with his head raised to see the better.
Charles Marston followed; and for a minute or two both were inclined
to think the form they saw would turn out a mere stump after all, so
motionless did it appear. On a nearer approach, however, a human
figure became more distinct. It was that of a woman, old, and
evidently very poor, sitting motionless on the top of a little
hillock, her hand supporting her chin, and her eyes bent upon the
ground. The short-cut grey hair escaped from under the torn cap; the
face was broad, especially about the forehead; the eyes were large and
black; the skin, naturally brown, was now yellow and wrinkled; and the
hand which supported the head, while the other lay languidly on the
lap, was covered with a soiled and tattered kid glove. Round her
shoulders was an old dirty shawl, mended and patched; and the rest of
her garmenture was in as dilapidated a state.
She took not the least notice of the two travellers, though they stood
and gazed at her for a full minute ere they spoke. At length Mr.
Winkworth raised his voice and asked, "Can you tell us which is the
London road, my good woman?"
The poor creature lifted her eyes, and looked at them with a scared,
wandering expression. "They shaved his head," she said, in the most
melancholy tone in the world, "indeed they did. They thought he was
mad; but it was only remorse--remorse. He never held up his head after
he was quite sure the poor boy was dead--he whom he had wronged, and
blighted, and killed."
She paused and began to weep.
"She's mad, poor thing!" said Mr. Winkworth: "she should not be left
on this common alone."
"He saved his own life at the boy's expense," said the woman again;
"but what a heart he had ever after! Wine would not quiet it--spirits
would not keep it up. But when he found the boy was dead, then was the
time of suffering. And they thought he was mad when he raved about it,
but remorse will rave as well as madness; and they shaved his head and
put a strait waistcoat on him; and one of the keepers knocked him down
when he struggled; and he died in the night, you know. It was no fault
of mine," she added, looking straight at the old man, as if he had
accused her. "I could not leave him in his misery because he was
sinful. He was my own brother, you know. No, no; I could not do that."
"Of whom are you speaking, my good woman?" asked the younger gentleman
in a commonplace tone. "Why, my brother, to be sure," said the poor
woman, looking at him with an expression of bewildered surprise--"whom
else should I be talking of?--Ay, ay; he was a rich man once, till he
took to gambling."
"Stay! here is some one coming," said the old gentleman; "this is a
sad sight, Charles Marston. This poor woman has seen better days. This
is a bit of a real cashmere shawl she has over her shoulders; I should
know one when I see it, I think. We cannot leave her here alone. We'll
ask this boy, who comes trudging along, if he has ever seen her before
or knows anything about her."
"Come, Bessy--come in. I have got one-and-ninepence for the eggs, so I
bought a loaf and an ounce of tea. Don't sit moping there--it's cold,
Bessy."
His tone was very kind and affectionate, and the two gentlemen
examined him as well as they could by the failing light. He was a lad
of fourteen or fifteen years of age, short, but seemingly strong and
well-made; and his countenance, as far as they could see, was frank
and intelligent. His clothing was both scanty and poor, but it was
well patched and mended, and he had a pair of stout shoes on his feet.
"I'm coming, Jim; I'm coming, my dear!" replied the old woman, in
quite a different tone from that in which she had been speaking to the
strangers. "I just went out to get a little fresh air; and I found
another nest, and put all the eggs on the shelf, my man."
The two gentlemen called the boy to them, and in a low tone
asked several questions about the poor creature whom he called
Bessy--especially the younger one, who seemed a good deal interested.
The elder inquired whether she was his mother or any relation. The boy
replied that she was not, and his little history was soon told. She
had come about their cottage, he said, three or four years before, and
had slept one night upon the heath. His mother, who was then living,
had been kind to her, and had taken her in.
"We had two cows then," said the boy, "and used to feed them on the
common; and it was a good year, and poor Bessy used to do what she
could to help. She's a famous hand with her needle, and mended all the
clothes; my mother had a little washing, and we got on well enough,
what between the butter and the washing, and a few vegetables out of
the garden. But, a year ago last Christmas, mother died, and I and
Bessy have lived here alone as well as we can. She is not at all
dangerous, and at times quite right; and she helps me to find plovers'
eggs, and to watch wheat-ears, and all that she can; she mends the
clothes, and does many little things; and she has taught me to read
and write in her well times. When she's at the worst, she can always
read the Bible of a night. I'm sure I don't know what I should have
done without her since mother died."
"Was she better dressed when she first came to your cottage?" asked
Charles Marston.
"Oh! to be sure," replied the boy; "but her clothes are worn out now,
poor thing!"
"Well, we'll come and rest at your cottage," said Mr. Winkworth; "our
carriage has broken down on the common, and we've sent for a chaise."
The boy seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then said--
"It is a poor place."
The gentlemen, however, persisted; and again rousing the poor old
woman, who had once more fallen into a fit of gloomy thought, the lad
led them to the hut of which mention has been made in the beginning of
this chapter.
It was a poor place, as he had said--as poor as it could be. The
unmended windows, in spite of rags and paper, let in the winds of
night; the door leaned back upon its heels, like a drunken man trying
to stand soberly; the thatch was worn through in many places; and it
was a happy time when it did not rain. In short, it had been
originally but a hovel of clay of the poorest kind. Now it was still
poorer; and when the boy and the old woman together--for she helped
him--had lighted a fire with some bundles of dry heath, and the flame
rose high and flickered round the broken walls, the two men,
accustomed to luxury and ease, and comfort of every kind, felt a
shuddering impression of the evils to which their fellow-creatures are
often subject, which was likely to do both their hearts no harm. The
boy was communicative enough, and told all that he knew with quiet
intelligence; but they could get the old woman to speak no more. She
answered every question with a monosyllable, and then fell into
silence again.
They did not leave the hovel as destitute as they found it. They had
with them neither provisions, nor furniture, nor suitable clothing to
give; but they had that most malleable of metals, which, when properly
hammered out, spreads into meat, drink, and clothing.
Nor were they satisfied with this. When they reached a little town,
the old gentleman with the yellow face sent for a bricklayer, gave him
some orders in a low tone, and wrote down an address upon a piece of
paper. The younger one talked for half-an-hour with the landlady in
the bar, and next morning paid her four pounds nine shillings more
than his own bill. That was a happy day for the poor people of the
cottage on which Charles Marston and his old companion broke down upon
the heath.