Homeless.
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"SHALL I go to Percival to-day or not?" was the question which I asked
myself as I looked out—not for first or second time that morning—from
the window, dimmed by pattering rain.
The day was one of the worse to be seen, even in London; the sky
blotted out by dense smoke; the pavement brown and wet, and the road
all mud; the rain pouring down incessantly; and the wind howling
dismally in the chimneys. Now and then a foot-passenger hurried past,
struggling to prevent his dripping umbrella from being turned inside
out by the gale.
Sometimes a cab was driven along the miry road, appearing for a few
moments, then disappearing in the misty gloom. I had attempted to hail
one which was empty; but the driver took no notice. No cab-stand was
near: so if I should sally forth it must be on foot, with a river of
mud to ford. I was, however, ashamed of my hesitation: on so dreary a
day, my invalid friend would specially welcome a visit; so I took my
umbrella and sallied forth.
I knocked at the door of Percival's lodging, which was opened, as
usual, by the landlady in her mob cap. She cast uneasy glances at the
mud-prints left by my boots on the old oil-cloth in her hall. On the
narrow staircase I met the maid of all work carrying down an untasted,
and by no means tempting-looking, dinner. Dirty and slip-shod the girl
always was; but now she looked sulky also.
"He won't eat nothin'," she said, almost angrily, as she pushed
past me. And the odour of the meat which she was taking away, quite
accounted for the invalid's want of appetite for his meal.
"Of all dreary, miserable places in the world, a lodging in Fog Street
must be the worst," I muttered to myself, as I reached the top of the
long narrow staircase.
The sight of the room which I entered by no means altered my opinion. A
pane of glass had been smashed in the window; and through the aperture
swept the cold wind and the driven rain, the latter making tiny
rivulets on the damp carpetless floor.
"How is this? How comes that pane to be broken?" I exclaimed. "The
window was all right yesterday."
"It is only a bit of Polly's handiwork; or more correctly, elbow-work,"
answered Percival with a smile. "The girl put her elbow through the
glass yesterday evening, when she brought in my supper."
"You don't mean to say that the window has remained in that state all
night; with the rain drifting on to your bed, and the wind making the
room like an ice-house!"
As I spoke, I was vigorously stopping up the hole with a many-tinted
towel, which Percival had been using for his painting.
"I could not get at the window myself. Mrs. Bond was out taking tea
with a neighbour; and Polly was in one of her little tempers: so I had
just to make the best of my position," said my friend.
"But have you not suffered from this inexcusable carelessness?" I
asked, seeing a look of suppressed pain on the pale countenance of the
artist.
"Only a touch of neuralgia," was Percival's reply, its cheerful tone
contrasting with the appearance of suffering on his pallid features.
I made the invalid as comfortable, or rather as little uncomfortable,
as circumstances permitted; and then took a chair by his side.
"Percival, I cannot bear to see you in this depth of discomfort!" I
cried.
"One could descend a good deal lower than this," was the playful reply.
"I have a roof over my head; a good bed under me; food, when I can eat
it; my palette; and my friend: and more, much more besides," Percival
added more gravely, as he glanced at the Bible which lay by his side.
Seyton. You are the most long-suffering of men! But is not even your
patience strained to the snapping point in a wretched lodging like this?
Percival. Very nearly, sometimes, I confess: at least it was so a
little time since. Not great trials, but little ones, made it almost
give way. It is not the heavy blow; but constant friction, that wears
out the chain. I bore with tolerable fortitude the doctor's verdict
which condemned me to a life of helplessness and pain, with no prospect
of my sufferings ending on this side the grave; I saw before me a
cross, and was given grace to take it up; but—but—
Seyton. But the thousand and one worries of existence in Fog Street; a
servant's slatternly habits and sullen temper; bad cooking; loneliness;
the absence of anything to give a colour to existence—would make a
saint's temper and patience give way.
Percival. I own that I was anything but philosophic in regard to some
cornet practice in the room just below this. Every evening, sometimes
till late in the night, the horrid discordant blare effectually chased
sleep from my eye-lids. Difficult passages were practised over and
over with a resolute patience which all but exhausted mine. A hundred
times I felt disposed to strike the floor violently with my stick, in
hopes of stopping my tormentor below. In fact I did strike more than
once: but the trumpeting went on all the same; its noise, perhaps,
overpowering that which I made.
Seyton. Why did you not speak to your landlady about the annoyance?
Percival. I did; but was silenced by her reply, "Oh dear, yes: the poor
gentleman loves his horn as if it were his child. I think it is the
only pleasure he has; for he is hard at work in his office all day, and
never goes out of an evening." Then I asked myself whether it would be
reasonable or right to tax the kindness of a stranger by asking him to
forego his one indulgence; and that a harmless one too. Would it not be
better, thought I, to train my own mind to bear the petty annoyance?
Seyton. Not a petty one to an invalid, with a refined taste for music.
Did you succeed, my dear fellow, in training your mind?
Percival. Fairly well—after a time. I was most helped by trying to fix
my thoughts on the daily trials which were, no doubt, the Master's
portion on earth. We are apt to think of the great temptation in the
wilderness, and the sufferings in Gethsemane and on Calvary; as though
they included almost all that Christ had to endure: but there were
doubtless a thousand minor links of pain and annoyance which made
Christ's earthly life a net-work of trial.
Seyton. Yes, even His brethren did not believe in Him; and his
dull-minded disciples were always mistaking His meaning.
Percival. I was alluding to commoner trials than these. Hunger; thirst;
the sense of privation; the extreme weariness, which caused the Lord to
sleep on in the midst of a tempest: very often must such trials have
oppressed Him, who was "made like unto" us in all things. Our Saviour
travelled on foot: how often must He, like ourselves, have felt "the
languid pulse, the aching limb;" have longed in the noonday for shade;
or, dragging His weary steps along the dusty highway, have wished for
some stream in which to lave His burning feet!
Percival proceeded: I pondered on these things till thought took its
usual form—on canvas. I made this sketch; and, slight as it is, it has
had a wondrous effect in allaying my natural impatience of disposition,
and the irritability of nerves caused by my illness.
Seyton. I see that you have depicted the Master walking alone on the
side of a hill. The landscape around is dreary and almost devoid of
vegetation, save that thorn-bushes overgrow the path: some fluttering
fragments of white clothing upon them denote that a way has had to be
forced with difficulty through them. The Wanderer's feet look bruised;
and there are red traces on His hands.
Percival. Yes, many were earth's thorns which wounded Christ's mortal
frame, before they—as a climax—crowned His sacred brow.
Seyton. You have written under your sketch, "The Son of Man hath not
where to lay His head;" and the picture forms a comment on the words.
The sky above is dark and louring, showing that a storm is about
to burst: we see lightning already flashing in the background. The
Wanderer has no heavy mantle to wrap around His slightly clad form:
every heavy drop will penetrate and chill. Christ's eyes are raised
towards the mass of threatening clouds above Him. We see that He would
willingly seek shelter; but none is near.
Percival. None for Him, the Lord of Creation. But notice yon small hole
in the side of the sandy bank. The little fox of Palestine finds its
home there; the fierce storm will not reach it. The wild creature knows
more of comfort than does the Master! Seyton, when I had drawn this
feeble picture of One who was homeless on the earth which He had made,
I felt humbled and ashamed at ever having felt impatient under the
slight annoyances which, cheerfully borne, will be found amongst the
all things which work together for good to them that love God.
Here the conversation closed; but I may mention that by an arrangement
with a kind relative of my own, Percival passed the short remainder
of his life in comparative freedom from all trials from which woman's
tenderness and considerate kindness could shield him.
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