FAMILY SECRETS.
Mr. Arruther’s evil bodings had had some effect in depressing Owen’s
spirits before he opened the following letter from his mother, which he
found on the table of his little apartment when he reached his lodgings.
Nurse’s share of the correspondence with her son usually consisted of
cheerful and loving messages, sent by some friendly mediator who might
be likely to see Owen, or was about to drop him a line on business. She
had never before sent a letter, but once; and that was when the
clergyman had stopped her in the churchyard, not only to ask after all
her children, but to praise them according to their respective deserts.
On that occasion, nurse had gone straight to the schoolmaster, and asked
him to give her a seat beside his desk, while she told him what she
wished to express to Owen. Then, how had her maternal modesty raised the
blush on her cheek while she made the effort to repeat the clergyman’s
words! and how, while she looked round on the blazing fire, the superior
lamp, the sanded floor, and neat shelf of books, did she assure herself
that her old narrow cottage, with its brick floor, was just as happy a
place to so favoured a mother as herself! She now wrote under different
circumstances, as her letter will show.
“My dear Son,
“This letter does not come out of the school-room you know so well, as
the last did; though your old teacher is so good as to be still the
writer. I have asked him to come home with me, though mine is but a
poor place compared with his. One reason is, that I did not wish
anybody to overhear what I am going to tell you; and there is no fear
of being overheard at home, as I am mostly alone of an evening. And
now I feel the disadvantage of not being able to write myself,—that I
am obliged to get another to write what I have to say against my own
children. Yet not against them, neither: for that seems a hard word to
say: but I mean I should have been loth anybody should know that we
are not altogether so happy as we once were, if I could have let you
know it in any other way than this. The short of the matter is, Owen,
that Ambrose is in such a way that I cannot tell what to say to him
next. He and Mr. Waugh have been quarrelling sadly. It is not for me
to say which is right; and, to be sure, many of Mr. Waugh’s other
workpeople have been doing the same thing: but all I know is that
there were no such troubles before Ambrose joined the Lodge, as they
call it; and Mr. Waugh gives the same wages as before, and living is
cheaper. I can only say now that Ambrose is tramping about, here and
there, when work is over, and at times when he used to be at home; and
that he is grown fond of show; attending a brother’s funeral, as he
called it, yesterday, and thinking more of the blue ribbons and the
procession, I am afraid, than that a fellow-mortal was gone to his
account. Indeed, he said in the middle of it that there is nothing
like ceremony after all; which is not just what the Lord would have us
think when he calls a brother away. I lay it all to the newspaper that
Mr. Ryan brought; and the more that Mr. Ryan was taken up for selling
it, and is now in prison on that account. I little thought that a
child of mine would ever have to do with what was unlawful; and I
never would have looked at the pictures in this paper if I had guessed
what the justices would think: but Ambrose was pleased with what Ryan
did when he was taken up; though folks suppose he will not be let out
the sooner for it. He made a great flourish in the street, and cried
out, ‘Englishmen, will you suffer this?’ It made my heart turn within
me to think that one that I have known as an honest man for so many
years should carry his grey hairs into a prison; and I never would
have believed that Ryan would do any thing wrong. Ambrose says he has
not, and is getting up a rejoicing against he comes out of prison: but
the justices say he has; and so what is one to think? But I wish your
brother would be persuaded to give up thinking of making a triumph
against the justices, when Ryan comes out. I tell him that it is no
triumph, after all, considering that Ryan will then have been in
prison all the time that it was thought fit he should be there. But
the time is past when anything is minded that I say; though I ought
not to complain, and do not; being aware, as I always was, that I say
little that is worth minding. Yet I never had to say this of you; and
I am much mistaken if Ambrose be wiser than you. You will be asking
whether I comfort myself with Mildred. My dear, I can only say now
that Mildred is no comfort to me; and if you ask me why, I can no more
tell you what has come over her than if I lived at L——. Sometimes I
think, God help me! that the poor girl hates me,—for never a word does
she speak to me now, when she can manage to hold her tongue; and, as
sure as ever any neighbour goes out and leaves us together, she is off
like a shot, and I see no more of her till some third person is here
again, even if that does not happen till morning. I should be truly
thankful if any one would find out the reason of such a change, for it
is more than I can well bear, if it is not a sin to say so. I try to
comfort myself, my dear boy, with thinking of you who are nothing but
a blessing to me. I try to be thankful, as in duty bound: but it so
happens, while you are so far away, and the others just before my
eyes, or expected home every moment and not coming, I cannot be
comforted as it is my duty to be. It is another trouble to find the
neighbours not what they were to me. Farmer Mason would not let me go
and nurse his wife yesterday, ill as she is, and with nobody to watch
her properly of a night. He said his cattle had pined of late, and he
had lost all his fowls; looking at me, just as if I could have helped
his losses, when there is nobody more sorry than I am that such
mishaps should have followed the fire that well nigh ruined him, so
long ago. And so it seems with others who do not look friendly upon me
as they did. Everything appears to be going wrong with everybody; and
we do not seem able to comfort one another as we used to do. This is a
sad saying to end with; so I just add that Kate Jeffery is the same
good girl, whatever changes come over others; and I depend on her
going on in her own right way. You will be glad to hear this; and I
hope you will not make yourself too uneasy about the rest: but I could
not help opening my mind to you, having always done so before, and
never with so much occasion. And now I shall wish to know if you have
anything to say upon this. He that holds the pen promises to read me
whatever you may write, very exactly, and to keep all a secret, we so
desiring. So no more now, except that Mrs. Dowley has got another boy,
and poor widow Wilks’s eldest has had the measles very bad, but is now
better,” &c. &c.
Owen had not the least doubt of his old teacher’s accuracy in reading
the letter now requested, or of his discretion about its contents; but
Owen had no intention of committing to paper what he had to say. He must
go down to Arneside, without delay, and see whether anything could be
done to make the people there happier than they seemed to be at present.
He obtained leave to go down, the next afternoon; and, in the meantime,
got no sleep for thinking of his mother’s sorrows, and of the hours that
must pass before he could do anything to relieve them.