Chapter Twenty Four.
Found.
Four years had passed away since Jacob Poole raised the old knife-grinder from his fall in the street in Bolton. All that time he had made his abode with the old man, traversing the streets of many a town and village far and near, and ever returning with gladness to his new home. His aged friend had never so far recovered from his accident as to be able to resume his work. He would occasionally go out with Jacob, and help him in some odd jobs, but never again took to wheeling out the machine himself. He was brighter, however, than in even more prosperous days, and had come to look upon Jacob as his adopted son. It was understood, also, that Deborah would ere long become the wife of the young knife-grinder. There was one employment in which the old man delighted, and that was the advocating and forwarding, in every way in his power, the cause of Christian total abstinence. For this purpose he would carry suitable tracts with him wherever he went, and would often pause in fine weather, when he accompanied Jacob Poole on his less distant expeditions; and, sitting on a step or bank, as the case might be, while the wheel was going round, would gather about him old and young, and give them a true temperance harangue. Sometimes he met with scoffs and hard words, but he cared little for them; he had his answer ready, or, like his Master, when reviled he opened not his mouth. Some one called him “a canting old hypocrite.”
“Nay, friend,” he replied, “you’re mistaken there. I’m not a hypocrite. A hypocrite’s a man with two faces. Now, you can’t say you have ever seen me with two faces. I’ve seen many a drunkard with two faces—t’one as makes the wife and childer glad, and t’other as makes their hearts ache and jump into their mouths with fear. But you’ve ne’er seen that in a gradely abstainer.”
“You’re a self-righteous old sinner,” said another.
“I’m a sinner, I know,” was Old Crow’s reply; “but I’m not self-righteous, I hope. I don’t despise a poor drunkard; but I cannot respect him. I want to pull him out of the mire, and place him where he can respect hisself.”
But generally he had ready and attentive listeners, and was the means of winning many to the good way; for all who really knew him respected him for his consistency. And Jacob was happy with him, and yet to him there was one thing still wanting. He had never in all his wanderings been able to discover the least trace of those whom he was seeking, and the desire to learn something certain about them increased day by day. At last, one fine July evening, he said to his old companion,—
“Ould Crow, I can’t be content as I am. I must try my luck further off. If you’ve nothing to say against it, I’ll just take the cart with me for a month or six weeks, and see if the Lord’ll give me success. I’ll go right away into Shropshire, and try round there; and through Staffordshire and Derbyshire.”
“Well, my son,” was the reply, “you’ll just do what you know to be right. I won’t say a word against it.”
“And if,” added Jacob, “I can’t find them as I’m seeking, nor hear anything gradely about ’em, I’ll just come back and settle me down content.”
“The Lord go with you,” said the old man; “you’ll not forget me nor poor Deborah.”
“I cannot,” replied Jacob; “my heart’ll be with you all the time.”
“And how shall we know how you’re coming on?”
“Oh, I’ll send you a letter if I ain’t back by the six week end.”
So the next morning Jacob started on his distant journey. Many were the roads he traversed, and many the towns and villages he visited, as he slowly made his way through Cheshire into Shropshire; and many were the disappointments he met with, when he thought he had obtained some clue to guide him in his search.
Three weeks had gone by, when one lovely evening in the early part of August he was pushing the cart before him, wearied with his day’s work and journey, along the high-road leading to a small village in Shropshire. The turnpike-road itself ran through the middle of the village. On a dingy board on the side of the first house as he entered, he read the word “Fairmow.”
“Knives to grind!—scissors to grind!—umbrels to mend!” he cried wearily and mechanically; but no one seemed to need his services. Soon he passed by the public-house—there was clearly no lack of custom there, and yet the sounds that proceeded from it were certainly not those of drunken mirth. He looked up at the sign. No ferocious lion red or black, urged into a rearing posture by unnatural stimulants, was there; nor griffin or dragon, white or green, symbolising the savage tempers kindled by intoxicating drinks; but merely the simple words, “Temperance Inn.” Not a letter was there any where about the place to intimate the sale of wine, beer, or spirits.
Waggons were there, for it was harvest-time, and men young and old were gathered about the door, some quenching their thirst by moderate draughts of beverages which slaked without rekindling it; others taking in solid food with a hearty relish. A pleasant sight it was to Jacob; but he would not pause now, as he wished to push on to the next town before night. So he urged his cart before him along the level road, till he came to a turn on the left hand off the main street. Here a lovely little peep burst upon him. Just a few hundred yards down the turn was a cottage, with a neat green paling before it. The roof was newly thatched, and up the sides grew the rose and jessamine, which mingled their flowers in profusion as they clustered over a snug little latticed porch. The cottage itself was in the old-fashioned black-timbered style, with one larger and one smaller pointed gable. There was a lovely little garden in front, the very picture of neatness, and filled with those homely flowers whose forms, colours, and odours are so sweet because so familiar. Beyond the cottage there were no other houses; but the road sloped down to a brook, crossed by a little rustic bridge on the side of the hedge furthest from the cottage. Beyond the brook the road rose again, and wound among thick hedges and tall stately trees; while to the left was an extensive park, gradually rising till, at the distance of little more than a mile, a noble mansion of white stone shone out brightly from its setting of dark green woods, over which was just visible the waving outline of a dim, shadowy hill. Jacob looked up the road, and gazed on the lovely picture with deep admiration. He could see the deer in the park, and the glorious sunlight just flashing out in a blaze of gold from the windows of the mansion. He sighed as he gazed, though not in discontent; but he was foot-sore and heart-weary, and he longed for rest. He thought he would just take his cart as far as the cottage, more from a desire of having a closer view of it than from much expectation of finding a customer. As he went along he uttered the old cry,—
“Knives to grind—scissors to grind.”
The words attracted the notice of a young man, who came out of the cottage carrying a little child in his arms.
“I’ll thank you to grind a point to this knife,” he said, “and to put a fresh rivet in, if you can; for our Samuel’s took it out of his mother’s drawer when she was out, and he’s done it no good, as you may see.”
Jacob put out his hand for the knife, but started back when he saw it as if it had been a serpent. Then he seized it eagerly, and looked with staring eyes at the handle. There were scratched rudely on it the letters SJ.
“Where, where did you get this?” he cried, turning first deadly pale, and then very red again. The young man looked at him in amazement. “Who, who are you?” stammered Jacob again.
“Who am I?” said the other; “why, my name’s John Walters. I am afraid you’re not quite sober, my friend.”
But just then a young woman came out from the cottage, leading by the hand a boy about five years old. She looked round first at her husband and then at the knife-grinder with a perplexed and startled gaze. The next moment, with a cry of “Betty!” “Sammul!” brother and sister were locked in each other’s arms,—it was even so—the lost were found at last.