THE POOR MAN'S HOME.
Standing a little aloof from the other cottages, as if conscious of its
poor appearance, was a shed; it could hardly be called any thing else,
for it appeared originally to have been nothing more than an out-house
belonging to another building, and such in fact it had been. The roof
was decayed in many places, and covered partly with rank moss. It was
situated in a hollow, and the marshy soil around bore evident proof that
it was subject to be overflowed in rainy weather. Four or five squalid,
ragged children, with pinched features and thin limbs, sat huddled in a
heap on the muddy ground, watching the road with anxious eyes--eyes so
bright with hunger that they seemed like those of so many rats. The
youngest--it was not two years old, cried--the elder beat it. Start not,
reader, it is human nature. The little creature hid her wizen face in
her withered little hands and sobbed. A man rode by just then. It was
the agent on his way to the castle, for this was the morning of Curly
Tom's escape. Instinctively the children drew closer together and
shuddered. They did not know why, but they knew their father feared him.
He passed on, and the little faces seemed to brighten for a moment; the
eldest was but seven. Long ere the dawn their father had started for the
market town, some five miles off, in the vain hope that an old friend
there would help him. Ah, poor children! there they sat from the first
ray of daylight, and the bright sun was now glittering high above their
heads, shining upon their desolation and upon the castle turrets,
wherein dwelt in luxury their oppressor. The events we have described as
taking place at the castle were still in progress, when a female was
seen slowly coming along the road, bearing a basket on her arm that
seemed too heavy for her.
'That is Mary Walters,' said the eldest, 'and she will give us something
to eat--I am sure she will. Jenny, dear, don't cry,' and the urchin
wiped the little face she had struck before, and tenderly took her in
her own spare little arms. The child was not much weight. Gentle Mary
Waters! who that gazed upon thy placid face, as thou earnest on thine
errand of mercy--who that saw thee as thou ministered to the necessities
of those poor desolate children, would not have loved thee--who that had
seen thee in the first blush of thy beauty, when thy foot was as elastic
as the fawn's, and thy countenance radiant with joy and life's young
morning hope--who, who could dream that there existed one who had seen
all this, who had known the tie that bound thee to earth and its
promised happiness, the innocent love that abounded in thy heart--yet
ruthlessly snapped that tie asunder, and buried the love nought could
eradicate, deep in her bosom--a shattered wreck amid the memories of the
past. Gentle Mary Walters! alas for thy experience!
What avails it to describe her--perished as we know that fair form to
be, withered in its bloom. Yet she was handsome. It was not in any
particular feature; it was in the whole expression of her face and form.
Her auburn hair, in its plain quiet braid--her neat and scrupulously
plain attire, her mild blue eye, the air of placid resignation about her
presence, seemed so lovely, for she bore no outward token of the grief
within; she had never wailed or cried her sorrow away; but though her
gay smile had passed away forever, she had not become the gloomy
misanthrope or the fretful querulous invalid. She had complained to no
one. Her old grandfather knew her griefs, but he also knew that it was a
subject he could not offer her consolation upon. To aid the suffering as
far as her slender means would allow, to tend the couch of sickness, to
cheer the desponding heart in its hour of darkness, these were the
occupations with which she strove, not to forget her sorrows--that could
never be--but to afford an outlet for that love for her fellow creatures
which no selfish grief could lessen. And she could smile and speak in
cheering tones to others in their hour of woe, shedding over their
darkened paths the light of hope, while deep in the fountains of her own
heart that sweet flame was extinguished forever on earth, and dust and
ashes alone remained.
But over that lovely countenance, so serene and beautiful, the shadow of
death had already fallen;--that dread disease that beautifies ere it
kills its victims, had placed its fell stamp upon her. Daily her figure
became thinner and sharper, her breath grew shorter and a hacking cough
commenced, while a hectic flush sometimes came over her pallid
cheek--but too plainly warning those who looked upon her, that
consumption had marked her for its victim.
Hastily giving the children some victuals she had brought for them, she
entered the hovel, furniture there was none;--a chest of tools and a
heap of straw was all its contents. The grate had evidently been
unconscious of a fire for weeks past,--but it was summer. She shuddered
as she looked around. This was the home for which the proud lord of
those domains exacted a rent of £10 per year. She was not one, however,
to give way to idle speculation when there was good to be done: she
opened the shutters, swept the floor, and threw a quilt she had brought
with her over the heap of straw, then made the children wash themselves,
and proceeded to dress them in some hastily made clothes, which her
basket contained. Then taking the little one in her lap, and making the
others lay down on the bed--for hunger had awoke them far before they
had their needful rest, she sat down upon the tool-chest lulling the
child to sleep, and patiently awaiting the arrival of the father. A step
approached, it was not the man, however, but the landlady's wayward
nephew:--he, too, carried a basket, and seemed pleased, but not at all
surprised at seeing Mary.
'I knew I should find you here,' said he, sitting beside her, (he was
much more companionable with her than with any other person,) 'I knew as
soon as you came back and heard how badly off these poor creatures were,
you would come to relieve them. It's like you, Mary, you seem the only
Angel amongst a race of fiends.'
'It is our duty to help the poor and needy, Edward: I only grieve I was
absent from the village. Things ought never to have come to this pass.
Why did not the neighbors help them?'
'Why, Mary, in the first place you know poor Johnson was no favorite of
theirs--he was better educated than any of them, you know he was not
bred a carpenter, but intended for a minister,--so he has often told me
himself, for he has been my schoolmaster, it's because we are both
lonely, I suppose, that he talked to me, but he kept aloof from the
others, and they all said pride would have a fall, and so would not come
near him in his trouble. My aunt and he had quarrelled, but she would
gladly help him for all that if he would only accept of it, but his
pride sticks in the way. I knew he was away, or I would not have brought
this with me; however, you can say you brought it.'
'I can never tell an untruth, Edward, but you can leave it, perhaps he
will ask no questions.'
'I'm not quite sure of that, Mary; but I've played him one trick this
morning for his own good, and if you won't help me to play another, e'en
let it alone--all have their weak side,--that abstract idea of truth you
worship, Mary, is yours.'
'And do you not love the truth too, Edward?'
'I never tell a wilful lie, Mary, you know. I'd scorn it, and I never
break my word,--but still, look at truth's reward,--here! the home of an
honest man, and there!' he pointed towards the castle. 'Ah! forgive me,
Mary, stupid dolt, that I am.'
'You have not hurt me, Edward, but must never think honesty and truth
has no reward even on earth; a good conscience is a blessing none can
take away from us, and there is hope in Heaven.'
'There had need be, Mary,--I won't contradict you, though I don't know
much about it. The Bible says so, and I suppose it's true: but poor
Johnson, I'm thinking will be more glad of the five pounds I tricked him
into accepting this morning than a dozen good consciences.'
'How was that done, Edward?'
'Why, my aunt wanted to help him, but did not know how,--but I was up at
grey dawn this morning, and saw him pass in the direction of Elverton. I
knew he was gone on a fool's errand to appeal to an old friend; he had,
it seems, bowed his proud heart to that. True, he had saved this man's
life: more, he had saved him from dishonor and disgrace, but I felt none
the less certain he would get no aid there. So I took £5 from Aunt
Ally's cash-box, and putting them inside a blank letter, I directed it
in a feigned hand, only adding the words, "from one who sympathises with
learning and ability in distress," for he's proud of his learning, and
rode like mad over the hills to get there before him; there I watched
for him, and got a footmail to give him the letter, and came back as
fast as I went.'
'Now, God bless you for it, Edward, you are a wild boy, but you have a
good heart.'
'Boy! Man, you mean, Mary. I'm eighteen this summer.'
'I should not have thought you so old.'
'Aye, aye, you judge like the rest, because my carcase is not as big as
Lumping Dick's the butcher boy's, and because you have known me as a
child when you were a grown woman, you think I am to remain a child
always.' And he petulantly shook back the masses of long dark hair that
shadowed his wild but handsome countenance.
At this moment Johnson entered the room. His step was feeble and slow,
but his countenance no longer bore the look of deep dejection that had
in the morning characterized it. His eye brightened still more when he
saw Mary.
'Now God bless you, Miss Waters, for thinking of my poor lambs,' said
he. 'I scarcely dared to hope for them. I have brought food for
them--see!' he added. 'I little dreamed anyone would have been here
before me.'
'Sit down,' said Mary, rising; 'you are fatigued and weak. I must go
now, as my grandfather will need me, but we will send you something to
make your house more comfortable.'
'I shall not require it, Miss Mary: I have nearly five pounds here.'
'Why, how is that?'
'It was handed me this morning by a strange footman in Elverton, after
the door was shut in my face of the only man I ever tamed my spirit to
ask aid from: yes, the cowardly hypocrite that dared not deny me to my
face, sent his lacquey to tell me he was unwell, and could not be
disturbed by beggars. May the curse--'
'Stay!' said Mary, 'curse him not, leave his punishment to his Maker;
but did not the agent take the five pounds for the rent?'
'No; he said there was a warrant and costs of suit that made it fourteen
pounds more, and was going to send the bailiffs to turn me out this very
evening; but a strange old seaman came forward and paid the amount. I
should have been here sooner, but I went round to the village shop to
buy food for the little ones.'
'You must allow me to have my way, Johnson,' said Mary. 'Sit down now
and eat; then rest. You will need the little money you have, and more
too, to recruit your health, for you must not dream of working again
until you are strong. I will send what is necessary, and some one to
mind the children; Edward, will you walk home with me?' and before the
man could reply, not giving him time to utter a word of thanks, she took
the arm of the youth and quitted the cottage. The man knelt down on the
floor, and famishing as he was, prayed for a blessing on her head ere he
touched the food that was there. Another had been a witness to this
interview. Looking through the casement was the visage of the mariner,
no longer stern, but moved with unutterable emotion, and tears, yes,
tears trickling down his weather-beaten cheeks. This soon ceased,
however, and a frown dark and terrible passed over his face; his
powerful frame quivered, then settled down into one look of deep,
determined, implacable resolve. He entered the hut, and laying the
agent's receipt upon the chest, quitted without a word.