"A truly edifying tale," said the Earl sneering, "you must be Chaplain to the fleet, doubtless. The bad boy got whipped and the good boys went scot free, just as it should be. And now, good folks, you have had your amus.e.m.e.nt, and had best seek your homes, and Old Boreas here may go to his ship or the Devil. I care not." With this parting benediction the Earl quitted the apartment, and the crowd soon dispersed. The agent remained, and a few of the tenantry who had business with him. The mariner with a grave, quiet look, remained seated on one of the benches.
There was a slight bustle at the door, as of repelling some intruder, who, however, succeeded in gaining an entrance, and a man whose garments bespoke extreme poverty, entered and approached the man of business.
Mr. Lambert lifted up his head and looked coldly at him. "What is it you want now?" he asked.
"If you please--" began the man.
"Oh! It"s all of no use, unless you have brought the money. My Lord can"t wait any longer, and I have a warrant out now."
"But I have the money," said the man, and he laid five one pound notes on the table.
"This is not sufficient," said Lambert, "the costs of the summons, warrant of distress, etc., amount to 14 more."
"My G.o.d!" said he, "what am I to do?"
"I can take this on account, and stop further proceedings, if you can procure security to pay the remainder within a month."
"I cannot. Great G.o.d! have you no mercy? I have not tasted food these three days, and I am weak with fever. I cannot work yet; wait till I am better."
This man"s attenuated form, his bony hands and cadaverous cheeks--eyes staring with hunger, told a tale too common, alas, of fearful suffering; but no marble was colder than the agent.
"I am not your physician, Mr. Johnson, and therefore cannot say any thing about your fitness for work. One thing I have to say, that is, you cannot sit rent free in my lord"s cottage; the money must be paid or out you pack. I have an attachment on your tools, so you cannot remove them.
You have had the usual legal notice, and my offer just now was liberal--very liberal."
"And my children--"
"There are inst.i.tutions provided by the laws, Mr. Johnson, for the reception of paupers. But we are wasting time. Do you accept my proposition or not?"
"I cannot do it; give me time."
"Too much has been already wasted. Take back your money. You doubtless can obtain more in the same manner you did this. It looks very suspicious, I must say."
"And this is called a Christian land!" said the poor fellow, holding his wasted hands up to heaven. "O G.o.d, that these things should be! The earth is covered with food for sustaining life, and hundreds, aye, thousands, like myself, are perishing at home. Oh, where is Christian charity?"
"Charity begins at home," said the seaman, "and seldom casts anchor in any other port. If you"ll take my advice, you will stow your cargo and make sail, and hark ye--" He whispered a word in the man"s ear; the other clasped his hands together, and with a tear in his eye, left the apartment.
"Woe! woe! doomed!" cried the mysterious voice.
Lambert shook like a leaf--the seaman seemed to enjoy his terror.
"How much does Mr. Johnson owe?" said he,
"5 rent, and 14 costs and taxes."
"Write a receipt."
The mariner paid the sum, and asked how he came so low.
"The usual story, captain."
"Williams is my name."
"The usual story, Captain Williams--sick wife, large family, broke a leg, wife died, behind-hand in his rent, steady man, but not punctual in paying his bills."
"Why how the thunder could he? Couldn"t his lordship wait till the poor fellow was a little recovered?"
"Business, captain, must be conducted in a business-like manner."
"You thought otherwise once."
"When was that, pray?"
"When the father of that man, whom your relentless cruelty pursues with such vindictive malice, took you, a friendless boy, fed and clothed you, educated you along with his own son--the very man whose misery you insult--when his father saved _you_ from the "charitable inst.i.tution"
you would send his children to, and finally paid the fee for articling you to the attorney at Canterbury, where you learned your present devotion to business."
The agent stared in speechless astonishment--the low musical laugh again rang through the room.
"Listen!" said the mariner. "The creatures of the air, the beings of another world denounce you; the victims of your l.u.s.t for gold, though buried fathoms deep in the grave, still find a voice to chill the marrow in your bones: the dead shall rise from their graves and confront you--the hidden perfidy of years shall be disclosed, base tool of a baser master--all your machinations against the wronged and the humble shall fail, and recoil upon yourselves. Repent ere it will be too late; you will never more be warned by me."
So saying, the stout seaman left the astonished agent and wended his way towards the cottage of the poor man Johnson, whither we shall precede him. It is needless to remind the reader that the way was perfectly familiar to him.
Dark are the shadows that cross the poor man"s path, and few and far between are the glimpses of hope that come to lighten them. The Eternal in his wisdom has ordained that such should be--but Oh! woe! woe! ten thousand times ten thousand woes, does he deserve who oppresses where he should relieve, who becomes the destroyer where he should have been the comforter; and yet there exist ten thousand such who thrive and roll in luxury, while human hearts are bursting in their agony.
CHAPTER IV.
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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s.
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."