THE flight of the Israelite and Mike. Mirth changed to grief. Killing
by kindness, and saving by neglect. A bright vision, and a supernatural
seánce. The end of the miserly household.
On Twm’s rushing out of the house, he sought his bed in the hay-loft, and
laying himself down, laughed incessantly, at the thought of the scene
just passed; at the same time wondering what had become of his luckless
fellow in mischief, whom he momentarily expected to follow him. Moses,
however, was so confused by his head-drubbings from the broom of Sheeny,
and tail-piercing from the fork of little Gwenny, that failing to see Twm
in his retreat, he ran straight forward, without knowing whither. But
the very legs of Moses without the guidance of his head, seemed to have a
predilection for the favourite road which led to the house of feasting;
as in this instance they bore him without pause, till housed in the hovel
of Mike, the mat-man.
Poor Mike, he found busied in packing up, and loading his pony with a
cargo of mats, and preparing for immediate departure, fearing that
day-light would send somebody to take cognizance of the share which he
had taken in devouring Morris Greeg’s swine-flesh. Moses related all
that had passed, and entreated that he might become his companion in his
present excursion; assuring him that he had as sweet a voice for crying
mats as he could meet with in a month’s march.
Mike assented, and told him to fortify his stomach with what his hut
afforded, against the dangers of the midnight air, a hint which was
seldom thrown away upon him. The good-natured wife of the mat-man
earnestly requested her husband to divide the head of the pig (the only
part left!) between himself and Moses. That youth seconded the motion;
observing it was dangerous to leave any portion of it behind, as, though
dead, it might tell tales, and be claimed by some of the Greeg family;
feelingly remarking, “if you have any more pork, rather than you should
get into a scrape, I’ll risk it, and take it all myself.—I am not so
selfish as to begrudge to carry it.”
Mike winked at his wife, intimating that he _knew_ his customer. Next
morning our hero called at the mat-man’s house, with the laudable desire
of putting him on his guard, intending to communicate the adventures and
disclosures of the preceding day. But he was doomed to disappointment.
Mike had “cleared out” three hours before, escorted by the Israelite,
whilst the wife had been left behind to “take care of the things,” and to
be the link that should join them to more auspicious times. This breach
of good-fellowship on the part of Moses, in leaving him so abruptly,
piqued and fretted him not a little. With a commendable spirit that
disdained to act the paltry part of a run-away, he entered the house of
Morris Greeg at the usual breakfast hour, and took his meal in silence.
Sheeny kept her bed this morning, overcome by the tumults of the
preceding evening, and Shaan officiated in her place.
The absence of Moses was very slightly commented upon, both father and
daughter declaring it would have been well for them if he had taken
himself off much sooner; yet, under all this feigned indifference, it was
very perceivable to Twm that his loss was much felt by them. Under a
couple of old sacks on the settle by the fire lay the damaged body of
Hukin Heer, where he had been groaning all night. Without the slightest
reference to the past, Twm was told that his first job that morning would
be to take Hukin home in a dung-cart, charging him to put plenty of clean
straw under him, so that he might ride in style and comfort.
Thus Twm had to perform an office for an enemy, who the day before
volunteered to do the same for him,—under different circumstances, that
he was to be pinioned like a felon, bound hand and foot, and escorted to
the county jail, a reversion of the scene which Twm liked rather than
otherwise. It reminded him of the gallows which the scriptural Jew had
made for some one else, but eventually took his position there himself.
On Twm’s return, after depositing Hukin with his wife, whose inquiries he
cut short, by urging his haste, he was surprised to find that although it
was the dinner hour, no food was prepared, nor was any one member of the
family to be seen or heard. This unusual stillness he considered as
strangely contrasting with the bustle and agitation of the previous day,
nor could he in any way account for it. At length the deep silence was
feebly broken by some voices upstairs, in the softened tones of pitying
condolement, succeeded by the heavy sobbing of a female, amidst the
earnest and agonized prayer of a gruff broken voice, which he at once
knew to be that of Morris.
At length he recognized the well-known voice of Sheeny, amidst the loud
wailing of her daughters, passionately exclaiming, “It is—O God, it
is—that murderous disorder, the white-plague pest!” Such was the
expressive name by which that awful visitor since known by the name of
small-pox, was announced to be in the house. An indescribable vague
feeling of terror thrilled through his whole frame, as the dreadful fact
became known to him. As in those days scarcely any one knew how to treat
this remorseless enemy of the race of man, its very existence in the
neighbourhood was deemed a certain messenger of doom, and even in those
rare cases where the life of the infected was spared, the envious demon
stamped fearful foulness on the face of beauty, and hideously scarified
the smoothest cheek, so that the parent knew not the features of his
child.
The first hasty thought that crossed our hero’s mind, was to fly, and
escape while yet clear of the contagion; but in an instant his nobler
though mistaken feelings abjured the thought, bad as they had been to
him, of deserting this afflicted family in the dark day of their heavy
visitation. However, his presence was no more noticed than his absence
would have been. Day after day, things remained in a similar state; at
length the lower part of the house was absolutely deserted, or inhabited
by him alone. Even the fire was extinguished, and the house might have
been uninhabited for anything to be seen to the contrary. There were no
sounds, except the occasional groans of Morris, and the cries of the
frightened females. The family assembled together upstairs, almost
courting infection by their presence, and Twm was therefore left to
provide for his own wants.
Rarely could he meet with any one to enquire, as his feelings prompted,
who were the sufferers, and how they fared. The third day since the
commencement of the sickness, as he sat lonely and languidly, from the
disordered state of his stomach, unable to partake of the dry food before
him, a shriek of women announced some fatality to have taken place.
Morris came down, with streaming eyes and agitated face, and for the
first time in his life grasping his hand in friendly wise, emphatically
proved how suffering had subdued his selfishness, and humanized his hard
heart. At length, with broken voice, he said, “She is gone—my youngest
girl is gone,—and I fear my little Gwen will follow soon.”
Even while commiserating with Morris, Twm complained of a head-ache, and
a loathing sickness, with a feverish burning of the whole frame, that was
overwhelming him. Morris immediately saw that he was infected, and told
him to go and lie down; informing his family of the feeling evinced by
him for their suffering, and that he was decidedly in the disorder. Then
taking his staff he hurried to the different cottages that were thinly
scattered among the lonely mountain cwms or dingles, with the hope that
either kindness or considerations of interest would induce an elderly
female or two to engage with him as nurses, to watch and attend the sick.
Accordingly, two that had gone through the ordeal of the _frech wen_, or
the white pest, as the small-pox was called, accompanied him home. They
commenced their office by making a regular, roasting fire, and feasting
themselves in the best manner the house afforded, attending to number one
first, as it behoved all nurses to do, their patients for the time being
of course quite a secondary consideration. Feasting to inaugurate their
arrival, they averred was an ancient custom, and must be adhered to. He
knew not whether it was an ancient one; but that it is a _convenient_
one, none could deny. Twm soon found himself at the height of the
malady. Well for him was it, that the fever and other accompaniments of
this fearful disorder removed from him all desire for food—for none was
brought to him; none called to offer their kindly offices, nor to inquire
how he fared; and he had to feel in the acutest degree the abandoned lot
of that “no man’s child,” the sick and suffering parish apprentice. His
bed in the hay-loft was an old hop-sack, half filled with the chaff of
oats; and his covering an old tattered blanket, and a musty rug that had
served several offices for horses.
Thus, with the whistling of the wind through the numerous crevices of the
crazy walls, and the rain dripping on him at times, through the imperfect
rotten thatch, he remained hours, days, and dreary nights, groaning away
his time, impatiently longing for death, or speedy recovery. When
daylight dawned, his mind wearied by aches and pains of the body, and by
a complete absence of the power of thought, would seek some occupation
and amusement in speculation on the formation of the dark heavy folds of
the numerous cob-webs that waved to and fro over his head, from the
mouldy beams and rafters, like the triumphant flags of squalid penury;
while the squeaking of mice, that ran in troops about him, became the
miserable music that served to vary the monotony of his heavy hours.
One night, while doubly darkened, both by the deep shades of midnight,
and his eyes scaled by the glutinous adhesion of the putrid “pest,”
lonely and uncared for, he was cheered and comforted in a manner as
mysterious as it was delightful. In after years, when referring to the
circumstances about to be detailed, marvellous and incredible as it may
appear, he always protested with a solemnity that he deemed the subject
called for, that he was neither absorbed in slumber at its occurrence,
nor under the influence of the slightest delirium, but wakeful and
sensible as ever he was during his healthful mid-day avocations.
Turning upon his humble bed, wearied by the long and continued gloom,
weakened by continual aches and pains, a chorus of sweet voices broke
upon his ear, ravishing from the beauty of its strains. In an instant
afterwards, the wretched gloom was dispersed by a brilliant light which
burst into the loft, and made all the old familiar objects radiant with a
most unearthly brilliance. Simultaneously with the sight and sound,
pleasant sensations sprang within his breast, and every pain had
vanished. While striving with the efforts of reason to account for what
he had felt and mentally beheld, to his unutterable wonder, a tall female
form appeared beside his lowly bed, in full glow of youth and beauty,
arrayed in costly attire.
She had nothing about her allied to what he called the supernatural—all
seemed perfect reality—and although exceedingly lovely, and benevolent in
aspect, she was nothing more nor less than a living “lady of the land,”
in widow’s weeds of the costly habiliments of the present time. As he
sank abashed from her fixed and smiling gaze, she extended one of the
finest hands he had ever beheld, and pointed to two marriage rings, one
above the other, on the third finger of the left hand. He gazed
steadfastly on the rings, and, as he thought, he saw a third one above
the others, of a much paler hue; but on viewing it closer, it appeared
simply a white narrow silken ribbon, tied in that peculiar fashion,
called a true-lover’s knot. Twice he looked from the finger to the face,
struggling to give utterance to the question that was trembling on his
lips, as to the meaning indicated, when a shriek from the house thrilled
through his heart; the glorious vision with the heavenly accompaniments
of light and music, were in an instant gone.
The lovely picture vanished, leaving poor Twm more chagrined than ever
was Tantalus. Like the mirage, it vanished and faded away, leaving the
weary gazer disappointed and dispirited. But still the heart of Twm was
comforted with high, though baseless hopes, that fortune had some
precious gift in store for him, which time would yet bring forth.
The pleasurable sensations excited in the breast of our worthy, by what
he ever after called his “glorious vision,” in healing the mind, had the
auspicious effect in cicatrizing his body. But as he recovered his
sight, and found the fever abandoning him, his appetite increased, and he
became at length tremendously hungry, with apparently nothing within his
reach to appease his inward cravings; and he was yet too weak to quit his
loft in search of any food.
At times, indeed, somewhat nerved, or rather maddened by his rage for
food, his weak hands would rustle in the pea-straw that was heaped
between his bed and the wall; and occasionally, after a long search, to
his great joy, he would discover an unbroken pea-shell that had escaped
the searching of the flail, while in the act of thrashing in the barn.
He had heard tales of shipwreck and disaster, when lots had been cast
between the mariners as to which should be killed to furnish food for the
rest. He could believe them all now, whatever doubt he might have had
before. If he could now discover a neglected pea-shell, in spite of the
soreness of his hands and mouth, he would open it and devour it with the
utmost avidity. Just as this wretched resource was failing him, one day,
after a vain and heart-aching search for another pea-pod, a sudden rustle
in the straw startled him, and in great alarm he drew back his hand, in
the dread of coming in contact with a rat.
From this feeling he was agreeably relieved by the clucking of a hen,
that in the same moment descended through a hole in the floor of the loft
into the stable below. This homely “household fowl” now became his “bird
of good omen,” which in after years he adopted as his crest; for after a
short search he discovered no less than three of her eggs. This was
indeed “manna in the wilderness” to his declining hopes. A spring in the
desert to the parched pilgrim; a port and safety to the shipwrecked
mariner; wealth unexpected to the victim of poverty. Not one of those
electrifying “God-sends” was ever welcome with greater heartfelt
thankfulness, than the humble prize presented to our hero. But this
assistance, however welcome at the time,—and wildly welcome it most truly
was,—proved after all but temporary.
Thus, although recovering fast from the horrors of the small-pox, he was
in the perilous jeopardy of becoming a victim to starvation. Yet hope
was strong within him, and wild, young, and thoughtless as he was, he was
no stranger to the comfort to be derived from a dependence on Providence.
While the cravings of hunger assailed the poor parish apprentice with
unrelenting wolfishness, very different was the treatment of the
suffering children of the house. The neglect visited upon the poor
parish apprentice, was avenged by the attention paid to the children of
Morris. Twm’s neglect proved his salvation, while the unremitting
kindness (mistaken though it was), shown to the farmer’s offspring,
proved their destruction, for Morris literally _killed them with
kindness_. Without judgment, or advice, except from those
self-interested conceited nurses, who were more ignorant than herself;
Sheeny Greeg sought every delicacy to coax the waned and pampered
appetites of her afflicted ones.
Every breath of pure air studiously excluded from their room, they were
almost suffocated by the quantity of clothes in which they were wrapped.
She gave them the most delicate cakes that the homely hands of her
assistants could contrive, with spiced and sugared ale, and even wine; so
thoroughly was the accumulating spirit of avarice swallowed up by the
nobler and more powerful passion of affection for their perishing young
ones; a feeling after all, more eulogized than it really merits, as it is
but another mortification of human selfishness.
Three victims had already succumbed to the ravages of the disease, and
their fourth child now lay at the door of death. Lamentations and groans
were continual, but no proper means for the recovery of the patients were
adopted. A poor hedge carpenter came from the distant village of Mawn
Dee, and brought with him the last covering of the victims of disease,
placing them, with assistance, in the slight alder coffins; the parents
took their heart-rent final look, and sank insensible with excessive
grief;—and yet the nurses feasted. They continued to roast and boil,
piously hoping their valuable services would be long wanted; and although
none of the family could partake of their cookery, yet, the nurses
feasted! These good ladies, however, were rather disturbed at this time
in their comfortable doings, as some of the Mawn Dee women, like the
vulture which smells the warfield and the human gore afar off, followed
in the wake of the carpenter, hoping by a little canting condolement with
the family, to be engaged; but finding the field occupied, they were
guilty, as their opponents said, of the heinous offence of offering their
services gratis, to sit up in their turn and watch the sick.
This, it must be said, was ever a welcome office to persons of this
description, especially at a substantial house; as on such occasions as
watching the sick, and laying out the dead, feasting is as prevalent as
at weddings. As the paid nurses who assumed the consequence of regulars,
failed to eject the volunteers, who were more numerous, they revenged
themselves by giving them all the work to do except what appertained to
swilling and mastication; their own veteran talents bearing the full
brunt of that important piece of service, which was not to be trusted to
mere mercenary recruits.
Superstition was rampant amongst these old hen-wives. All sorts of
intimations concerning future events were made out of very simple
occurrences. No one must go under a ladder, if they would enter the
matrimonial noose. Salt was a very unfortunate article of diet, whilst
candlewicks were made a medium for the discovery of a coming death. Some
of these old grannies dilated upon corpse candles seen by them previous
to the deaths of the young women of the house; others dilated on the
awfulness of a spectral burial, where shadows of the living supported the
bier of the departed towards the church-yard.
One night, between twelve and one, while the three coffins and their
contents presented a woeful sight, lying side by side on the oak table,
Morris, afflicted as he was, assisted his wife in supporting by the
fireside his fourth daughter, whose death they also deeply dreaded, as an
old cottage woman, while she basted a loin of mutton roasting before the
fire, dwelt much on the certainty of supernatural appearances,
illustrating her convictions by instances of her own experience. All at
once, the current of her discourse was arrested by a shudder that
overcame and struck her dumb, on hearing a rumbling and irregular noise,
as of falling furniture, which also terrified the group about the fire.
The noise increased, and at last seemed as if somebody was stumbling in
his way in the dark.
Some shrieked, some rose and ran to remote corners, covering their head
with their aprons, while others sat breathless, as if nailed to the
bench, and dissolved in streams of perspiration, their eyes starting from
their sockets—when a figure with the air and rush of a maniac darted in,
tore the roasting meat from the string, and disappeared with it, uttering
in a dismal hollow tone,
“O God, I am famished by these wretches!” The consciences of the farmer
and his wife were dreadfully wrung, as they recollected the poor
apprentice Twm, whom they had left in the depth of the malady which had
deprived them of three of their children, to live or to die, as he might;
nor would Morris allow anybody to rescue the meat, but snatching a loaf
from the shelf, he entreated Twm to come in and eat his fill at the fire.
But the youngster having secured the bread, re-entered his hay-loft, and
with the ravenousness of a starved hound devoured his precious prey in
darkness. That was the sweetest meal ever eaten by our hero.
In narrating this event in after life, he used to say that the theft of
this joint saved his life. He was then as ravenous as a wolf, and was
only endowed with supernatural strength for the moment, to effect his
purpose. While yet the farmer, with tears of real penitence, was calling
out to him, a loud scream from his wife convinced him that his fourth
child was also dead.
With wild and insupportable agony, Morris fell upon his knees, and with
interrupting sobs exclaimed, “I see the hand of Heaven in this, and a
heavy judgment has befallen us for our cruelty to the poor boy; but he
will live! he! the lad whom we treated fouler than the beast! he will
outlive this pest, while I and mine perish.”
The suffering of the unhappy man was pitiable and heart-rending to
witness; and on the very day of his children’s burial, with loud cries of
remorse and sorrow, he expired.
Twm recovered, according to the farmer’s prediction, which was further
verified, inasmuch as the remainder of his children did not live to see
the end of the year; and his wife, losing her senses, was ever after a
wretched moping idiot.