When Patty came within half a mile of the cottage in which her father
lived, she met Hannah, the faithful servant, who had never deserted the
family in their misfortunes; she had been watching all the morning on
the road for the first sight of Patty, but when she saw her, and came
quite close up to her, she had no power to speak; and Patty was so much
terrified that she could not ask her a single question. She walked her
horse a slow pace, and kept silence.
“Won’t you go on, ma’am?” said Hannah at last, forcing herself to speak.
“Won’t you go on a bit faster? He’s almost wild to see you.”
“He is alive then!” cried Patty. The horse was in full gallop directly,
and she was soon at her father’s door. James and Frank were there
watching for her: they lifted her from the horse; and feeling that
she trembled so much as to be scarcely able to stand, they would have
detained her a little while in the air; but she passed or rather rushed
into the room where her brother lay. He took no notice of her when she
came in, for he was insensible. Fanny was supporting his head; she held
out her hand to Patty, who went on tiptoe to the side of the bed. “Is he
asleep?” whispered she.
“Not asleep, but--He’ll come to himself presently,” continued Fanny,
“and he will be very, very glad you are come; and so will my father.”
“Where is my father?” said Patty; “I don’t see him.”
Fanny pointed to the farthest end of the room, where he was kneeling at
his devotion. The shutters being half closed, she could but just see
the faint beam which shone upon his grey hairs. He rose, came to his
daughter Patty, with an air of resigned grief, and taking her hand
between both of his, said, “My love--we must lose him--God’s will be
done!”
“Oh! there is hope, there is hope still!” said Patty. “See! the colour
is coming back to his lips again; his eyes open! Oh! George, dear
George, dear brother! It is your own sister Patty: don’t you know
Patty?”
“Patty!--Yes. Why does she not come to me? I would go to her if I
could,” said the sufferer, without knowing what he talked of. “Is not
she come yet? Send another horse, Frank. Why, it is only six miles. Six
miles in three hours, that is--how many miles an hour? ten miles, is it?
Don’t hurry her--don’t tell her I’m so bad; nor my father--don’t let him
see me, nor James, nor Frank, nor pretty Fanny, nor any body--they are
all too good to me: I only wished to see poor Patty once before I die;
but don’t frighten her--I shall be very well, tell her--quite well, by
the time she comes.”
After running on in this manner for some time, his eyes closed again,
and he lay in a state of stupor. He continued in this condition for some
time: at last his sisters, who were watching beside the bed, heard
a knocking at the door. It was Frank and James: they had gone for a
clergyman, whom George, before he became delirious, had desired to
see. The clergyman was come, and with him a benevolent physician, who
happened to be at his house, and who insisted upon accompanying him.
As soon as the physician saw the poor young man, and felt his pulse, he
perceived that the ignorant apothecary, who had been first employed, had
entirely mistaken George’s disease, and had treated him improperly. His
disease was a putrid fever, and the apothecary had bled him repeatedly.
The physician thought he could certainly have saved his life, if he had
seen him two days sooner; but now it was a hopeless case. All that could
be done for him he tried.
Towards evening, the disease seemed to take a favourable turn. George
came to his senses, knew his father, his brothers, and Fanny, and spoke
to each with his customary kindness, as they stood round his bed: he
then asked whether poor Patty was come? When he saw her, he thanked her
tenderly for coming to him, but could not recollect he had any thing
particular to say to her.
“I only wished to see you all together, to thank you for your
good-nature to me ever since I was born, and to take leave of you before
I die; for I feel that I am dying. Nay, do not cry so! My father! Oh! my
father is most to be pitied; but he will have James and Frank left.”
Seeing his father’s affliction, which the good old man struggled in vain
to subdue, George broke off here: he put his hand to his head, as if
fearing it was again growing confused.
“Let me see our good clergyman, now that I am well enough to see him,”
said he. He then took a hand of each of his brothers and sisters, joined
them together, and pressed them to his lips, looking from them to
his father, whose back was now turned. “You understand me,” whispered
George: “he can never come to want, while you are left to work and
comfort him. If I should not see you again in this world, farewell! Ask
my father to give me his blessing!”
“God bless you, my son! God bless you, my dear good son! God will surely
bless so good a son!” said the agonized father, laying his hand upon his
son’s forehead, which even now was cold with the damp of death.
“What a comfort it is to have a father’s blessing!” said George. “May
you all have it when you are as I am now!”
“I shall be out of this world long, long before that time, I hope,” said
the poor old man, as he left the room. “But God’s will be done! Send the
clergyman to my boy!”
The clergyman remained in the room but a short time: when he returned to
the family, they saw by his looks that all was over!
There was a solemn silence.
“Be comforted,” said the good clergyman. “Never man left this world
with a clearer conscience, or had happier hope of a life to come. Be
comforted. Alas! at such a time as this you cannot be comforted by any
thing that the tongue of man can say.”
All the family attended the funeral. It was on a Sunday, just before
morning prayers; and as soon as George was interred, his father,
brothers, and sisters, left the churchyard, to avoid being seen by the
gay people who were coming to their devotion. As they went home, they
passed through the field in which George used to work: there they saw
his heap of docks, and his spade upright in the ground beside it, just
as he had left it, the last time that he had ever worked.
The whole family stayed for a few days with their poor father. Late one
evening, as they were all walking out together in the fields, a heavy
dew began to fall; and James urged his father to make haste home, lest
he should catch cold, and should have another fit of the rheumatism.
They were then at some distance from their cottage; and Frank, who
thought he knew a short way home, took them by a new road, which
unluckily led them far out of their way; it brought them unexpectedly
within sight of their old farm, and of the new house which Mr.
Bettesworth had built upon it.
“Oh! my dear father, I am sorry I brought you this way,” cried Frank.
“Let us turn back.”
“No, my son, why should we turn back?” said his father mildly; “we
can pass by these fields, and this house, I hope, without coveting our
neighbour’s goods.”
As they came near the house, he stopped at the gate to look at it. “It
is a good house,” said he; “but I have no need to envy any man a good
house; I, that have so much better things--good children!”
Just as he uttered these words, Mr. Bettesworth’s house door opened, and
three or four men appeared on the stone steps, quarrelling and fighting.
The loud voices of Bullying Bob and Wild Will were heard too plainly.
“We have no business here,” said old Frankland, turning to his children:
“let us go.”
The combatants pursued each other with such furious rapidity that they
were near to the gate in a few instants.
“Lock the gate, you without there, whoever you are! Lock the gate! or
I’ll knock you down when I come up, whoever you are;” cried Bullying
Bob, who was hindmost in the race.
Wild Will was foremost; he kicked open the gate, but his foot slipped as
he was going through: his brother overtook him, and, seizing him by the
collar, cried, “Give me back the bank-notes, you rascal! they are mine,
and I’ll have ‘em in spite of you.”
“They are mine, and I’ll keep ‘em in spite of you,” retorted Will, who
was much intoxicated.
“Oh! what a sight! brothers fighting! Oh! part them, part them! Hold!
hold! for Heaven’s sake!” cried old Frankland to them.
Frank and James held them asunder, though they continued to abuse one
another in the grossest terms. Their father, by this time, came up: he
wrung his hands, and wept bitterly.
“Oh! shame, shame to me in my old age!” cried he, “can’t you two let me
live the few years I have to live in peace? Ah, neighbour Frankland, you
are better off! My heart will break soon! These children of mine will be
the ruin and the death of me!”
At these words the sons interrupted their father with loud complaints
of the manner in which he had treated them. They had quarrelled with
one another, and with their father, about money. The father charged them
with profligate extravagance; and they accused him of sordid avarice.
Mr. Frankland, much shocked at this scene, besought them at least to
return to their house, and not to expose themselves in this manner,
especially now that they were in _the station of gentlemen_. Their
passions were too loud and brutal to listen to this appeal to their
pride; their being raised to the rank of gentlemen could not give them
principles or manners; that can only be done by education. Despairing
to effect any good, Mr. Frankland retired from this scene, and made the
best of his way home to his peaceful cottage.
“My children,” said he to his family, as they sat down to their frugal
meal, “we are poor, but we are happy in one another. Was not I right
to say I need not envy neighbour Bettesworth his fine house? Whatever
misfortunes befall me, I have the blessing of good children. It is a
blessing I would not exchange for any this world affords. God preserve
them in health!”
He sighed, and soon added, “It is a bitter thing to think of a good son,
who is dead; but it is worse, perhaps, to think of a bad son, who is
alive. That is a misfortune I can never know. But, my dear boys and
girls,” continued he, changing his tone, “this idle way of life of ours
must not last for ever. You are too poor to be idle; and so much the
better for you. To-morrow you must all away to your own business.”
“But, father,” cried they all at once, “which of us may stay with you?”
“None of you, my good children. You are all going on well in the world;
and I will not take you from your good masters and mistresses.”
Patty now urged that she had the strongest right to remain with her
father, because Mrs. Crumpe would certainly refuse to receive her into
her service again, after what had passed at their parting: but nothing
could prevail upon Frankland; he positively refused to let any of his
children stay with him. At last Frank cried, “How can you possibly
manage this farm without help? You must let either James or me stay
with you, father. Suppose you should be seized with another fit of the
rheumatism?”
Frankland paused for a moment, and then answered, “Poor Hannah will
nurse me if I fall sick. I am able still to pay her just wages. I will
not be a burden to my children. As to this farm, I am going to give it
up; for, indeed,” said the old man, smiling, “I should not be well able
to manage it with the rheumatism in my spade-arm. My landlord, farmer
Hewit, is a good-natured friendly man; and he will give me my own time
for the rent: nay, he tells me he would let me live in this cottage for
nothing: but I cannot do that.” “Then what will you do, dear father?”
said his sons.
“The clergyman, who was here yesterday, has made interest for a house
for me which will cost me nothing, nor him either; and I shall be very
near you both, boys.”
“But, father,” interrupted Frank, “I know, by your way of speaking,
there is something about this house which you do not like.”
“That is true,” said old Frankland: “but that is the fault of my pride,
and of my old prejudices; which are hard to conquer at my time of
life. It is certain, I do not much like the thoughts of going into an
almshouse.”
“An almshouse!” cried all his children at once, in a tone of horror.
“Oh! father, you must not, indeed you must not, go into an almshouse!”
The pride which renders the English yeoman averse to live upon public
charity is highly advantageous to the industry and virtue of the nation.
Even where it is instilled early into families as a prejudice, it is
useful, and ought to be respected.
Frankland’s children, shocked at the idea of their father’s going
into an almshouse, eagerly offered to join together the money they had
earned, and to pay the rent of the cottage in which he now lived;
but Frankland knew that, if he took this money, his children would
themselves be in distress. He answered with tears in his eyes,
“My dear children, I thank you all for your goodness; but I cannot
accept of your offer. Since I am no longer able to support myself, I
will not, from false pride, be the ruin of my children. I will not be a
burden to them; and I prefer living upon public charity to accepting
of the ostentatious liberality of any one rich man. I am come to a
resolution, which nothing shall induce me to break. I am determined to
live in the Monmouth almshouse--nay, hear me, my children, patiently--to
live in the Monmouth almshouse for one year; and during that time I will
not see any of you, unless I am sick. I lay my commands upon you not to
attempt to see me till this day twelvemonth. If at that time you are all
together able to maintain me, without hurting yourselves, I will most
willingly accept of your bounty for the rest of my days.”
His children assured him they should be able to earn money sufficient to
maintain him, without injury to themselves, long before the end of the
year; and they besought him to permit them to do so as soon as it was
in their power; but he continued firm in his resolution, and made them
solemnly promise they would obey his commands, and not even attempt to
see him during the ensuing year. He then took leave of them in a most
affectionate manner, saying, “I know, my dearest children, I have now
given you the strongest possible motive for industry and good conduct.
This day twelvemonth we shall meet again; and I hope it will be as
joyful a meeting as this is a sorrowful parting.” His children, with
some difficulty, obtained permission to accompany him to his new abode.
The almshouses at Monmouth are far superior to common institutions of
this kind; they are remarkably neat and comfortable little dwellings,
and form a row of pretty cottages, behind each of which there is
a garden full of gooseberries, currants, and a variety of useful
vegetables. These the old men cultivate themselves. The houses are
fitted up conveniently; and each individual is provided with every thing
that he wants in his own habitation: so that there is no opportunity or
temptation for those petty disputes about property which often occur in
charitable institutions that are not prudently conducted. Poor people
who have their goods in common must necessarily become quarrelsome.
“You see,” said old Frankland, pointing to the shining row of pewter on
the clean shelf over the fire-place in his little kitchen; “you see I
want for nothing here. I am not much to be pitied.”
His children stood silent and dejected, whilst he dressed himself in the
uniform belonging to the almshouse. Before they parted, they all agreed
to meet at this place that day twelvemonth, and to bring with them the
earnings of the year; they had hopes that thus, by their united efforts,
a sum might be obtained sufficient to place their father once more in a
state of independence. With these hopes they separated, and returned to
their masters and mistresses.