When Dr. Carter opened his door next morning, he found his mother's
room empty, and it seemed almost as if the events of the night before
had been a bad dream; only the basket of apples, and the bandbox,
still tied up in the spotted handkerchief, confirmed his
recollections; and when he went down, the pattens, still on his
writing-table, added their testimony. But where was his mother? All
the servants could tell him was that they had found her bedroom door
open when they came down in the morning, and the front door unbarred
and unbolted, and that was all.
"She has gone back to Sunnybrook," he said to himself, with a very
sore heart. "She saw what a miserable, base-hearted cur of a son she
had, who grudged a welcome and a shelter to her who would have given
her right hand to keep my little finger from aching. God forgive me
for wounding the brave old heart! I will go and bring her back. She
will be ready to forgive me nearly before I speak."
He looked at the train paper, and found there was an early, slow
train by which his mother must have gone, and an express that would
start in about an hour, and reach Martel only a quarter of an hour
after the slower one. This just gave him time to make arrangements
for his engagements, and write a line to Violet, saying he was
unexpectedly called away from London, but that he would come to her
immediately on his return, for he had much to tell and explain. The
cab was at the door to take him to the station, and everything was
ready, and he was giving his last directions to Mr. Hyder.
"I shall be back to-morrow, Hyder, without fail, and I shall bring my
mother with me." He brought out the word even now with an effort,
and hated himself for the flush that came up into his face; but he
went on firmly, "That was my mother who was here last night, and no
man ever had a better."
I don't know how it happened, but everything seemed topsy-turvey that
morning; for all at once Dr. Carter found himself shaking hands with
Hyder before he knew what he was about; and the deferential, polite
Hyder, whose respect had always been slightly tinged with contempt,
was saying, with tears in his eyes, "Indeed, sir, I see that all
along; and I don't think none the worse of you, but a deal the
better, for saying it out like a man; and me and cook and the gals
will do our best to make the old lady comfortable, that we will!"
Dr. Carter felt a strange, dream-like feeling as he got into the cab.
Every one and everything seemed changed, and he could not make it
out; even Hyder seemed something more than an excellent servant. It
was quite a relief to his mind, on his return next day, to find Hyder
the same imperturbable person as before, and the little episode of
hand-shaking and expressed sympathy not become a confirmed habit. It
was a trifling relief even in the midst of his anxiety and
disappointment; for he did not find his mother at Sunnybrook, nor did
she arrive by either of the trains that followed the one he came by,
though he waited the arrival of several at Martel. So he came back
to London, feeling that he had gone on the wrong tack, but comforting
himself with the thought that he would soon be able to trace her out
wherever she had gone. But it was not so easy as he expected; the
most artful and experienced criminal, escaping from justice, could
not have gone to work more skilfully than the old woman did quite
unconsciously. All his inquires were fruitless; she had not been
seen or noticed at Paddington, none of the houses or shops about had
been open or astir at that early morning hour. Once he thought he
had a clew, but it came to nothing; and, tired and dispirited, he was
obliged, very unwillingly, to put the matter into the hands of the
police, who undertook with great confidence to find the old woman
before another day was past.
It was with a very haggard, anxious face that he came into the pretty
drawing-room in Harley Street, where Violet sprang up from her low
chair by the fire to meet him. How pretty she was! how sweet! how
elegant and graceful every movement and look, every detail of her
dress! His eyes took in every beauty lovingly, as one who looks his
last on something dearer than life, and then lost all consciousness
of any other beauty, in the surpassing beauty of the love for him in
her eyes. She stretched out both her soft hands to him, with the
ring he had given her the only ornament on them, and said, "Tell me
about it."
Do not you know some voices that have a caress in every word and a
comfort in every tone? Violet Meredith's was such a voice.
"I have come for that," he said; and he would not trust himself to
take those hands in his, or to look any longer into her face; but he
went to the fire and looked into the red caves among the glowing
coals. "I have come to tell you about my mother. I have deceived
you shamefully."
And then he told her of his mother, describing her as plainly and
carefully as he could, trying to set aside everything fanciful and
picturesque, and yet do justice to the kind, simple, old heart,
trying to make Violet see the great difference between the old
countrywoman and herself. And then he told of her having come to
him, to end her days under her son's roof. "I could not ask you to
live with her," he ended sadly.
She had clasped her hands round his arm shyly, for it was only a few
days since she had had to hide away her love, like a stolen treasure,
out of sight.
"It is too late to think of that," she said, with a little coaxing
laugh; "too late, for you asked me to be your wife a week ago. Yes,
John,"--the name came still with a little hesitation,--"a whole week
ago, and I will not let you off. And then I have no mother of my
own; she died before I can remember; and it will be so nice to have
one, for she will like me for your sake, won't she? And what does it
matter what she is like, you silly old John?--she is your mother, and
that is quite enough for me. And don't you think I love you more
ridiculously than ever because you are so good and noble and true to
your old mother, and not ashamed of her because she is not just
exactly like other people?" and she laid her soft cheek against his
sleeve, by her clasped hands, as she spoke.
But he drew away with almost a shudder. "Love me less, then, Violet;
hate me, for I was ashamed of her; I was base and cowardly and
untrue, and I wanted to get her out of the way so that no one should
know, not even you, and I hurt and wounded her,--her who would have
done anything for her 'Laddie,' as she calls me,--and she went away
disappointed and sad and sorry, and I cannot find her."
He had sunk down into Violet's low chair and covered up his face with
his hands, and through the fingers forced their way the hot, burning
tears, while he told of his ineffectual efforts to find her, and his
shame and regret.
She stood listening, too pitiful and sorry for words, longing to
comfort him; and at last she knelt down and pulled his hands gently
away from his face, and whispered very softly, as if he might not
like to hear her use his mother's name, "We will find her, never
fear; your mother and mine, Laddie." And so she comforted him.
What an awful place London is. I do not mean awful in the sense in
which the word is used by fashionable young ladies, or schoolboys, by
whom it is applied indiscriminately to a "lark" or a "bore," into
which two classes most events in life may, according to them, be
divided, and considered equally descriptive of sudden death or a new
bonnet. I use it in its real meaning, full of awe, inspiring fear
and reverence, as Jacob said, "How dreadful is this place,"--this
great London, with its millions of souls, with its strange contrasts
of riches and poverty, business and pleasure, learning and ignorance,
and the sin everywhere. Awful indeed! and the thought would be
overwhelming in its awfulness if we could not say also as Jacob did,
"Surely the Lord is in this place, and I knew it not;" if we did not
know that there is the ladder set up, reaching to heaven, and the
angels of God ever ascending and descending; if we did not believe
that the Lord stands above it. It seemed a very terrible place to
the old countrywoman as she wandered about its streets and squares,
its parks and alleys, that November day, too dazed and stupefied to
form any plan for herself, only longing to get out of sight, that she
might not shame her boy. She felt no bitterness against him; for it
was not natural when he was a gentleman, and she a poor homely old
body?
In the early morning, when the streets were empty except for
policemen or late revellers hurrying home, or market carts coming in
from the country, with frosty moisture on the heaps of cabbages, she
got on pretty well. She had a cup of coffee at an early coffee
stall, and no one took any notice of her; some of those that passed
were country people too; and at that early hour people are used to
see odd, out-of-the-way figures, that would be stared at in the
height of noon. But as the day went on the streets filled with
hurrying people, and the shops opened, and omnibuses and cabs began
to run, and she got into more bustling, noisy thoroughfares, and was
hustled and pushed about and looked at, the terrors of the situation
came heavily upon her. She tried to encourage herself with the
thought that before long she should get out of London and reach the
country, little knowing, poor old soul, how many miles of streets and
houses and pavements lay between her and the nearest pretence to real
country. And then, too, in that maze of streets where one seemed
exactly like another, her course was of a most devious character,
often describing a circle and bringing her back through the same
streets without the old woman knowing that she was retracing her
steps; sometimes a difficult crossing, with an apparently endless
succession of omnibuses and carts, turned her from her way; sometimes
a quieter looking street, with the trees of a square showing at the
end, enticed her aside. Once she actually went up North Crediton
street, unconsciously and unnoticed. She reached one of the parks at
last, and sat down very thankfully on a seat, though it was clammy
and damp, and the fog was lurking under the gaunt black trees, and
hanging over the thin, coarse grass, which was being nibbled by
dirty, desolate sheep, who looked to the old woman's eyes like some
new kind of London animal, not to be recognized as belonging to the
same species as the soft, fleecy white flocks on the hillsides and
meadows of Sunnybrook. She sat here a long time, resting, dozing,
and trying to think. "I don't want to trouble no one, or shame no
one, I only want just to get out of the way." She was faint and
tired, and she thought perhaps she might be going to die. "It's a
bit unked to die all alone, and I'd liefer have died in my bed
comfortable-like; but there! it don't much matter, it'll soon be all
over and an end to it all." But, no, that would not do either; and
the old woman roused herself and shook off the faintness. "Whatever
would folks say if Laddie's mother was found dead like any tramp in
the road? He'd die of shame, pretty near, to hear it in every one's
mouth." Poor old soul! she little knew how people can starve, and
break their hearts, and die for want of food or love in London, and
no one be the wiser or the sadder. It was just then she found out
that her pocket had been picked, or rather that her purse was gone;
for she did not wonder where or how it went, and, indeed, she did not
feel the loss very acutely, though, at home in the old days, she had
turned the house upside down and hunted high and low and spared no
pains to find a missing halfpenny. It did not contain all her money,
for with good, old-fashioned caution, she had some notes sewed up in
her stays; but still it was a serious loss, and one she would have
made a great moan over in old times. She did not know that the sight
of her worn old netted purse, with the rusty steel rings, had touched
a soft spot in a heart that for years had seemed too dry and hard for
any feeling. It had lain in the hand of an expert London pickpocket;
it was mere child's play taking it; it did not require any skill.
There was a bit of lavender stuck into the rings, and he smelt and
looked at it, and then the old woman turned and looked at him with
her country eyes; and then all at once, almost in spite of himself,
he held out the purse to her. "Don't you see as you've dropped your
purse?" he said in a surly, angry tone, and finished with an oath
that made the old woman tremble and turn pale; and he flung away,
setting his teeth, and calling himself a fool. That man was not all
bad--who is?--and his poor act of restitution is surely put to his
credit in the ledger of life, and will stand there when the books
shall be opened. The old woman got little good from it, however, for
the purse was soon taken by a less scrupulous thief.
How cold it was! The old woman shivered and drew her damp shawl
round her, and longed, oh, how bitterly, for the old fireside, and
the settle, worn and polished by generations of shoulders; for the
arm-chair with its patchwork cushions; longed, ah, how wearily, for
the grave by the churchyard wall, where the master rests free of all
his troubles, and where "there's plenty of room for I;" and longed,
too, quite as simply and pathetically, for a cup of tea out of the
cracked brown teapot. But why should I dwell on the feelings of a
foolish, insignificant old woman? There are hundreds and thousands
about us whose lives are more interesting, whose thoughts are more
worth recording. "Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing?" and
yet, "doth not God take thought for sparrows?" Then surely, so may
we. Does He indeed despise not the desires of such as be
sorrowful,--even though the sorrowful one be only an old country
woman, and her desire a cup of tea? Then why should we call that
common and uninteresting which He pitifully beholds? And we shall
find no life that is not full of interest, tender feeling, noble
poetry, deep tragedy, just as there is nobody without the elaborate
system of nerves and muscles and veins with which we are fearfully
and wonderfully made.
The early November dusk was coming on before she set out on her
pilgrimage again, the darkness coming all the earlier for the fog and
the London smoke and then, hardly caring which way she went, she
turned her face eastward, not knowing that she was making for the
very heart of London. The streets were even more crowded and
confusing than they had been in the morning; and the gas and the
lighted shops, and the noise, and her own weariness combined to
increase her bewilderment.
Once, as she passed round the corner of a quieter street, some one
ran up against her, and nearly threw her down,--a lady, the old woman
would have described her, smartly, even handsomely, dressed, with a
bright color on her cheeks, and glowing, restless, unhappy eyes, and
dry, feverish lips. She spoke a hasty word of apology, and then, all
at once, gave a sharp, sudden cry, and put her hands on the old
woman's shoulders and looked eagerly into her face. Then she pushed
her away with a painful little laugh. "I thought you were my
mother," she said.
"No; I never had no gals."
"You're in luck, then," the girl said; "thank Heaven for it."
"Was your mother, maybe, from the country?"
"Yes; she lived in Somersetshire. But I don't even know that she's
alive, and I think she must be dead. I hope she is--I hope it!"
There was something in the girl's voice that told of more bitter
despair than words, and the old woman put out her hand and laid it on
the girl's velvet sleeve.
"My dear," she said, "maybe I could help you."
"Help!" was the answer. "I'm past that. There, good night! Don't
trouble your kind head about me."
And then the old woman went on again, getting into narrow, darker
streets, with fewer shops, and people of a rougher, poorer class.
But it would overtax your patience and my powers to describe the old
woman's wanderings in the maze of London. Enough to say, that when,
an hour or two later, footsore and ready to drop, she stumbled along
a little street near Soho Square, a woman, with a baby in her arms,
uttered a loud cry of pleased recognition, and darted out to stop her.
"Why, it ain't never you! Whoever would have thought of seeing you
so soon; and however did you find me out? This is the house. Why,
there, there! Dontee cry, sure! dontee, now! You're tired out.
Come in and have a cup of tea. I've got the kettle boiling all
ready, for my Harry'll be in soon."
It was the young woman she travelled with the day before,--only the
day before, though it seemed months to look back to; only her face
was bright and happy now, in spite of the fog and dirt about her; for
had not her Harry a home and welcome for her, in spite of all her
fears and people's evil prophecies; and was not this enough to make
sunshine through the rainiest day?
Very improbable, you will say, perhaps, that these two waifs, these
floating straws, should have drifted together on the great ocean of
London life. Yes, very improbable, well-nigh impossible, I agree, if
it is mere chance that guides our way; but stranger, more improbable
things happen every day; and, if we mean anything by Providence, it
is no longer difficult to understand, for we can see the Hand
leading, guiding, arranging, weaving the tangled, confused threads of
human life into the grand, clear, noble pattern of divine purpose.