A LONELY LIFE.
R. VALENTINE SHIPTON was one of the wealthiest farmers in Dilbury; and yet every one pitied him. He did not ask them to do so, but they could not help it, he seemed so lonely and forlorn in the world. Nobody loved him, unless it might be the big cat which slept by his fireside; and even she did not care very much about him, so that she was left undisturbed in the possession of her own corner. Every day Mr. Shipton walked out and took a survey of his premises, gave directions to his men, and then returned to his large, old-fashioned, dreary-looking parlour, and smoked his pipe over the fire in the winter, or in his front porch in summer. Every Sunday he took down his best hat from its peg, and his large red Prayer Book from the shelf, and walked to the village church; but he never spoke to any one either going or returning, and even the little children shrunk away from him as he passed them.
No one ever came across the threshold of Dilbury Farm, except the tenants to pay their rent to him, or his men to receive their wages; and Mr. Shipton never went away except to the neighbouring fairs, and then he always returned in the evening, looking more moody than ever.
Picture then the astonishment of the old woman called Betty, who cooked his dinner, when her master, one evening in December, suddenly came into the kitchen, and taking his pipe from his mouth, said,—"Betty, I'm going to London to-morrow, and most likely I shall be away for a fortnight!"
"To London, master! why, that be many miles off!"
"I know it is, Betty; and mind you lock up the house every evening at six o'clock, and never allow any one across the door-step."
Betty was too much astonished to make any answer, she only smoothed down her apron very vigorously, and gazed at her master as if he were slightly demented. Then a sudden idea occurred to her, and she gasped out, "Then, master, you'll want your best shirts put up; and I must see to it, and get the ruffles done up quick."
Farmer Shipton gave her no answer, but turned round and left the room.
"Sure it's some mistake," said old Betty musingly, as she put her irons in the fire; "he'll change again before to-morrow."
But Mr. Shipton did not change; and the next morning early his gig was at the door, his old-fashioned portmanteau was put into it, and presently the old man himself got in and drove off as fast as the old mare was disposed to go. This part of the journey was all very well, and the farmer felt in better spirits than usual; the sky was bright and clear above him, and the gig went on smoothly enough over the well-made road to the station. But the train was an invention which Mr. Shipton utterly despised, and when he found himself seated in the railway carriage, and in quicker motion than he had ever experienced before, he felt inclined to stop at the first station and go back to Dilbury at a more reasonable pace. However, he had a motive for going to London, and so he resisted his inclination, and was whirled on until he arrived at the great metropolis. After a most confusing search for his portmanteau, he discovered it being whisked off by another man; but having succeeded at last in obtaining possession of it, and taking his place in an omnibus, he was soon rattling away over the paved streets in the direction of Islington. The omnibus deposited him at the corner of a street, and there he found a boy who was willing to carry his luggage to a small and retired row of houses which was his destination.
"Which house?" said the lad when they had reached Crown Row. Farmer Shipton stopped, drew his spectacles from out of their hiding-place under his waistcoat, placed them on his nose, and then felt in his pocket for a leather pocket-book, which generally lived there. When he had opened it, he turned over the papers one by one—receipts for money, farm accounts, bills, &c.—until he came to two letters tied together. These he drew out. One of them was written in a trembling, almost illegible hand, and the other had a deep black edge to it—it was to this one he referred, and then folding it up again and replacing them both in the pocket-book, he turned to the boy and said,—
"No. Five, boy—but stay, I want a lodging first; I must leave my box somewhere before I go out visiting."
"No. Five—and here be lodgings to let," said the boy with a grin.
"The very thing," said the old farmer, rubbing his hands; and then he added to himself, "Now I can watch the state of things quietly, without saying anything to anybody; I'll see what these folks are made of."
He knocked at the door and it was opened by a tidy little girl, whose face would have been pretty if the fresh air of the country had brought the roses into it; at least so Farmer Shipton thought, as she dropped a courtesy to him.
"Lodgings to let here?" he inquired in his own gruff, surly tone.
"Yes, sir."
"Got a room that would do me?"
"Yes, sir; I think so."
"Mother at home, girl, or your missus?"
"Mother is, sir; will you please to walk inside?"
"Put down the box, lad, and here's your sixpence;—shameful charge to make; why, in the part I come from, a bigger lad than you would have got no more for a whole day's work; but it's my belief this London is made up of thieves and fools! Here's a staircase dark as midnight! Why, they say country folks come to town to be enlightened—but it doesn't seem much like it! Thieves and fools—thieves and fools. Thieves to do the fools, and fools to be done by the thieves!" Thus grumbling, he got up the first flight of stairs, and paused at a door which the little girl who guided him opened. And here we must pause for a moment, just to say that Farmer Shipton, for reasons best known to himself, dropped his name outside the door, and entered that room as Mr. Smith.
A middle-aged woman, dressed in rather rusty black, and wearing a widow's cap, stood up as he appeared, and laid down some very fine needlework, which she was engaged upon. A girl about a year younger than the little maiden who had opened the door, was sitting on a low stool by her mother's side, cutting out a paper-pattern; and a boy of about nine years old was stretched on the rag-mat fast asleep. The room was scrupulously neat, but very poorly furnished; and the old farmer looked round keenly as he stood on the threshold. "Hum!" he said to himself, "no extravagance here, most certainly!" but aloud he said, "I want a lodging; are there any to be had?"
"I have got a nice bedroom, sir; I'll show you," said the widow; "and you can have a small sitting-room down-stairs; but I only own the upper flight of this house."
"Hum! one room would do!—can I board with you?"
"Well, sir, our lodgers don't generally do that, but—"
"Can't take the room unless I do," he interrupted; "I've not come to London to squander my cash, I can tell you."
There was a struggle in the widow's mind; she sorely wanted money, and she might not have another chance of letting the room. This grumpy old man might prove pleasanter on further acquaintance; at any rate he might not be so disagreeable as many another; and with one glance at her little sick boy upon the rug, the mother made up her mind and decided to take her lodger as a boarder.
Mr. Smith was quite satisfied with his room, and though he pretended to grumble at the price asked for it, he really thought it moderate; so he unpacked his portmanteau, laid the shirts which Betty had done up so speedily and well in a drawer, and then sat down once more to read the letters which he had consulted before knocking at the door of No. 5. Shall we read them, too? it may, perhaps, give us some clue to the old man's secret.
The first, as we said before, was written in a trembling hand, and hardly legible:—
"My Dear Father,—If I had strength and health to do it, I would come to you, and never leave off asking your pardon until you had given it. Father, I am dying, and these few words are the prayer of a dying man. It was wrong to leave you, even though I didn't like the country, and longed for the great city—it was wrong to leave you all alone in your sorrow. If Val had lived he would have been a better son to you than me—may God forgive me. You will get this, father, when perhaps it is too late; but if you have any pity, any love left for your boy, come to me once more—once more, father! I am leaving my wife and four children quite unprovided for; will you be a father to them? I do not ask it for my sake, but for their helplessness—the fatherless and the widow—"
Here the trembling hand had failed, and a blot of ink showed that the pen had fallen from the writer's hand; it was taken up to add,—
"Come to me, dear father, and forgive your dying son.
"Alan Shipton."
The father had not gone, and the next letter was from the widow:—
"Dear Sir,—My husband is dead—almost his last words were, 'Will father come in time?'—he longed to see you once more. He suffered very much at the last, but he was very happy, and I look forward to meeting him again in the land where there is no more parting. I have moved to smaller rooms with my children, at No. 5 Crown Row, Islington, where I have taken the top flight in the house, and hope to find a lodger to take the one room which we shall not occupy. I shall be able to earn sufficient money, I hope, by dressmaking to support myself and my three youngest children—my eldest boy Alan has gone to sea. I wish I could think that my dear husband had your entire forgiveness.—I remain, sir, yours dutifully,
"Ellen Shipton."
The date of this letter was a year old, and the farmer had written underneath it, "Hypocrites! I know town folks better than they think!"
Why then was he reading it over? Why was he in this house under the name of Mr. Smith? Why had he after so many months come to seek out these unknown relations? It was because the old man's heart was lonely—because underneath his gruff exterior he had a kindly heart—because he longed to have some one who would care for him and comfort his old age. This was why he had left his country home to come up to the great city. He had determined to find out his son's family, with the purpose of adopting one of the children, if he found that the faults which he believed to be inherent in all children of the town were such as he could get rid of without much trouble to himself; but he thought it would be easier to watch them if they did not know who he was; for, as he said to himself, "they are quite cunning enough to deceive me—town children always are." And now having given you this little insight into the old man's mind, let us return to the widow's room and make acquaintance with her and her children.
"Mother," whispered Ellen, the little girl who had opened the door to the stranger, "is he really to be with us all day? How horrid it will be!"
"Hush, my dear; don't let us think of that, let us think of the money we shall get, and all the good it will do our little Maurice. Poor child! how pale he looks there on the rug!"
"He looks like father did," said Janet, the second daughter, who was cutting out the pattern by her mother's side. A shudder passed through Mrs. Shipton's frame, and for one moment she raised her hand to her face with an expression of pain.
"Janet, don't say that," whispered Ellen. "It hurts mother."
Janet looked up. "Mother, dear, I didn't mean it. I didn't mean so bad. Maurice is better than he was, isn't he? He had quite a colour this morning, and was not so tired as he was yesterday; and by the time Alan comes home, I expect he will be quite well."
Her mother put her work down for a minute, and laid her hand upon Janet's fair hair—
"My good little girl, I didn't think you meant to pain me, and I know how you love your little brother. You both help me beautifully in taking care of him, and if it's God's will I think he will get quite well—but he sadly wants care. If your dear grandmother was alive, I'd send him into the country to her for a little bit, to my old home. I know that fresh air would soon make him well again."
"Mother, I'd like to see your home. The house with the roses growing over it, and the school where grandmother taught, and the church, and the green fields, and the hills, and the—"
"Hush, Janet; here's the old gentleman."
Mr. Smith came in and sat down. First he cleared his throat, then settled his stiff cravat, crossed his legs, and looked round on the little party.
"Girls go to school, Mrs.—what's your name?"
"Shipton, sir, Mrs. Shipton. No, sir, my little girls stop at home and help me."
"Help, hum! not much help in them, never is in town girls—think of nothing but lark and fine dresses. Do they earn anything?"
"No, sir, not yet; they will by-and-by, but I think they do quite enough now in helping me."
"Hum! got any more children, Mrs. Shipton?"
"One boy at sea, sir."
"At sea!—ran away?"
"No!" burst indignantly from Janet and Ellen; "he went because he got a good chance; and he didn't like going, but he said he wouldn't stop and burden mother."
"He's a good son, sir—my boy Alan!" said the mother proudly.
"Alan!" said the old man, lingering on the name; "why do you call him that?"
"It was his father's name, sir," said the widow, as she bent her head lower over her work.
Ellen noticed that the old gentleman bit his lip and looked down on the ground, and she thought he must be rather kind, because he did not ask any more questions, and did not look at her mother's sad face.
At this moment Maurice roused himself from his heavy sleep, and looked round in stupid, slumbering wonder upon the stranger who seemed to have made himself so much at home.
Janet ran to his side, and eagerly whispered the news, while Maurice rubbed his eyes and took a good look at the new-comer.
"Hum! not much stuff in that little chap," said Mr. Smith.
"He has been very ill," replied the mother, looking anxiously at her youngest child.
"Doctor's bill to pay, I suppose?"
"Yes," she answered hastily.
"Make haste, boy, and get well—sick boys are expensive things."
"What a queer man," said little Maurice.
"Come, Maury, come to mother's room, and I'll put you neat," said Ellen kindly, as she took his little thin hand and led him away.
Then Mr. Smith put on his spectacles and drew the paper from his pocket, and spoke no more until tea-time.
After that meal was over, the mother went out to deliver her parcel of work, and the two little girls sat down with their sewing.
Suddenly their lodger spoke: "Do you like stories, children?"
"Yes, oh yes!" they answered eagerly, while a look of pleasure came over Maurice's pale, shy face.
"What shall it be about?"
"Do you know much about the country, sir?" said Janet.
"Yes, my girl, more than most folks."
"Please, then, tell us about that," said Ellen.
The old man looked satisfied, and began a long description of the country delights of his boyhood. The children listened attentively to them; it was like some fairy tale, or a story of enchanted ground.
"Father used to tell us things like that," said little Janet.
"Did he?" said the old man quickly. "Did your father love the country?"
"Yes; but he ran away and left it, because he thought he would like the town better," replied Ellen.
"And did he?" asked the stranger, while he looked keenly into the little girl's face.
"No," she answered thoughtfully. "He said it wasn't right of him, and that he had often wished himself back again there;—but I don't believe father ever did what was wrong."
"Hum!" Mr. Smith suddenly looked away towards the fire and cleared his throat violently; as he did so, his eyes rested on little Maurice, who was sitting on his little stool in the chimney-corner, with the firelight falling on his face. The old man started and muttered low, "Alan, my little lad!" Then gave an impatient pshaw! and turned again to Ellen.
"The river ran right through the fields, and my brother used to bathe in it, and fish—ay, many's the hour we've spent on its banks with a rod and basket—many's the dish we've brought back in pride to our mother."
Suddenly Maurice got up and came to his side. "Did you ever see a boy drowned?"
Mr. Smith looked at the child in silent amazement for a moment, but Maurice repeated his question.
"Did you?"
"Yes," answered the old man in a tremulous voice, while his hands shook as he clasped them together.
"Uncle Val was drowned," Maurice went on, "quite drowned in the water—father said so—he was drowned deep down under the willow-trees."
"Hush, Maury dear; it was very dreadful: father used to sigh when he spoke of Uncle Val, and Maurice is always thinking about him; please, forgive him, sir."
Mr. Smith did not answer, and at this moment the mother came in.
The children received her with delight, telling her, immediately upon her entrance, that Mr. Smith came from the country, and could tell beautiful stories. Mrs. Shipton thanked him gratefully for being so kind to her little ones, and began to feel more comfortable about the expediency of having admitted him into their family circle.
It was soon time for the children to go to bed; but before he left the room, little Maurice knelt down beside his mother and said his evening prayer. Mr. Smith watched the child with curious attention as he prayed, and once or twice with a sudden abruptness he cleared his throat and crossed and uncrossed his legs.
Maurice never raised his head, but went on with the simple words, "Bless dear mother, and Nellie, and Janet; and take care of Alan out on the sea this night, and bring him safe home; and bless grandfather, and take care of him now that he is an old man. For Jesus Christ's sake. Amen."
Why did the lodger start? Why did he so hastily dash his hand across his eyes, then stand up and go to his own room? When there, why did the old man let the bitter scalding tears run down his cheeks? why did those broken, mournful words come from his lips,—
"Alan! Alan! my son; would God I had died for thee, Alan, my son!" He paused, then went on more sorrowfully:—"Why, why did you leave me, if you loved me? Oh, my boy! why did you break my heart, Alan?—Dead! dead! and I am alone now; yet you taught your children to pray for the lonely old man. Bless you, my boy—too late—too late—my blessing would have made you happy in life, but now it can do nothing for you."
Then the old man put his head outside the door, and called to Ellen, who was passing, to say that he was going to bed.
But it was long before sleep came to him, for he lay thinking of the old days, long ago, when children had loved him, when life had been sunny and warm,—why had it grown so chill and cold of late? Ah, Farmer Shipton, there is but one thing which can make life full of warmth and sunshine, and that is the love of God.
