Chapter 4

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.