CHAPTER THE FIRST.
"Frugality is a virtue which will contribute continually and most essentially to your comfort. Without it, it is impossible that you should do well; and we know not how much, or how soon, it may be needed."
So writes Southey to his son, Cuthbert, just then starting at Oxford.
The proposition might have been expanded from the particular to the universal. Southey might have said, that in no condition of life, from that of her who sitteth upon the throne, to that of the handmaiden who grindeth behind the mill, can frugality—in other words, system and self-denial as regards the expenditure of money—be dispensed with. Self-denial and diligent attention in the management of this great talent are necessary in all.
No one of the gifts of Providence appears to the casual observer to be bestowed with less regard to individual merit than wealth. It would almost seem, as an old divine has written, as if God would mark his contempt of mere material riches by the hands into which he suffers them to fall. Although, fall where they will, and on whom they will, one thing is certain;—that they will prove but a delusive snare to those who know not how to order them;—when to husband, and when to spare; when to spend, or when to bestow.
These reflections arose from a story with which, not long ago, I became acquainted. A common tale enough—one among a thousand illustrations of what Butler affirms to be the indispensable condition upon which it has pleased our Creator that we should hold our being:—that of controlling our own actions; either by prudence to pass our days in ease and quiet; or, by rashness, ungoverned passion, wilfulness, or negligence, to make ourselves miserable.
He is sitting on the bottom stone of a magnificent flight of steps, which lead up to a handsome door, situated in the centre of a large many-windowed house, which, fronted with handsome iron rails round the area, is built of fine brick, and ornamented with abundance of stone-work, in cornices and architraves. This house stands in one of the best streets in the neighborhood of Grosvenor Square.
He is clothed in garments that once were fashionable; but now are discolored with much wear and long exposure to wind and weather; so much so, that, in several places, they are falling into tatters. His face—the features of which are very finely cut, and still bear the traces of a once very remarkable beauty—is wan, attenuated, and begrimed with dust, dirt, and neglect. His eyes are haggard; his hair dusty and dishevelled—his beard ragged and untrimmed.
He is the picture of physical decay, and of the lowest depths of moral degradation. He sits there upon the stone, sometimes watching the street-sweeper—a little tattered boy cheerily whistling over his work—now and then casting up his eyes at the closed windows of the handsome house, upon which the beams of the rising sun are beginning to shine; but to shine in vain at present; for it is only about six o'clock in the morning, and life has not yet begun to stir within the mansion.
His cheek rests upon his thin, withered, and unwashed hand, as he casts his eyes first upwards, then downwards, then slowly, and with a sort of gloomy indifference, around.
He looks upward. Is it towards the sky; where the great lord of earthly light—type of that more Glorious Sun which should arise "with healing on its wings"—is diffusing the cheering effulgence of the dawn, calling forth the fresh and wholesome airs of the morning, and literally chasing away the noisome spirits of the night? Is he looking there?
No; he is no seeker of the light; he feels not its blessed influence; he heeds not the sweet fresh rising of the morning as it breathes over the polluted city, and pours, for a few short moments, its fresh, crisp, cheering airs into the closest and most noisome of her quarters. He cares not for that delicious brightness which gives to the vast town a pure and peculiar clearness for a few half hours, whilst all the world are asleep, and the streets are yet guiltless of sin and sea-coal.
What has light; the pure breath of the morning; the white rays of the early sun; and the soft, quiet, and refreshing stillness of the hour, to do with him? He only lifts up his eyes to examine a house: he only casts them around to observe what goes on in the streets; he is of the earth, earthy,—the sacred odor exists not for him.
Yet, in the deep melancholy, the expression of harrowing regret with which he did look up at that house—even in the very depths of his moral degradation and suffering—the seeds of better things might be germinating. Who shall say? He has sounded the very base-string of misery: he touches ground at last—that may be something.
The sparrows chirped in the rays of the sun, and the little sweeper whistled away. Different figures began sparingly to appear, and one by one crept out; objects of strange aspect who seem to come, one knows not whence;—the old clothes-man, with his low and sullen croak; country carts; milk-men, rattling their cans against area rails; butcher-boys swinging their trays. Presently were heard, immediately below where the man was sitting, the sounds of awakening life;—unlocking of doors, opening of windows, the pert voices of the women servants, and the surly responses of the men; shutters above began to be unfolded, and the eyes of the large house gradually to open. The man watched them—his head resting still upon his hand, and his face turned upwards—until, at length, the hall-door opened, displaying a handsome vestibule, and a staircase gay with painting and guilding. A housemaid issued forth to shake the door-mat.
Then he arose and slowly moved away; every now and then casting a wistful glance backwards at the house, until he turned the corner, and it was lost to his sight.
Thus he left a place which once had been his own.
With his head bent downwards, he walked slowly on; not properly pursuing his way—for he had no way nor object to pursue—but continuing his way, as if he had, like a ball once set in motion, no motive to stand still. He looked neither to the right nor to the left; yet seemed mechanically to direct his footsteps towards the north. At length, he slowly entered one of the larger streets in the neighborhood of Portland Place. His attention was excited by a bustle at the door of one of the houses, and he looked up. There was a funeral at a house which stood in this street a little detached from the others. The plumes were white. It was the funeral of an unmarried person. Why did his heart quiver? Why did he make a sudden pause? Had he never seen a funeral with white plumes before in his life?
Was it by some mysterious sympathy of nature that this reckless, careless, fallen man—who had looked at the effigies of death, and at death itself, hundreds and hundreds of times, with negligent unconcern—shuddered and turned pale, as if smitten to the heart by some unanticipated horror?
I cannot tell. All I know is, that, struck with a sudden invincible terror, impelled by a strange but dreadful curiosity, he staggered, rather than walked forward; supporting himself as he went against the iron rails, and thus reached the steps of the house just as the coffin was being carried down.
Among the many many gifts once possessed, and all misused, was one of the longest, clearest, and quickest sights that I ever remember to have heard of. His forlorn eye glanced upon the coffin; it read:
"Ella Winstanley,
Died June 29, 18..
Aged Twenty-three."
And he staggered. The rails could no longer support him. He sank down upon the flagstones.
The men engaged about the funeral lifted the poor ragged creature up. A mere common beggar, they thought; and they were about to call a policeman, and bid him take charge of him; when a lady, who was standing at the dining-room window of the house, opened it, and asked what was the matter?
"I don't know, Ma'am," said the undertaker's man; "but this here gent has fallen down, as I take it, in a fit, or something of the sort. Policeman, hadn't you best get a stretcher, and carry him to the workhouse or to the hospital?"
"No," said the lady, "better bring him in here. Mr. Pearson is in the house, and can bleed him, or do what is necessary."
Upon which the insensible man was carefully lifted and carried by two or three of the men up the steps. At the door of the hall they were met by the lady who had appeared at the window. She was evidently a gentlewoman by her dress and manners. She was arrayed very simply. Her gray hair was folded smoothly under her bonnet-cap; her black silk cloak still hung upon her shoulders; her bonnet rested upon a pole screen in the dining-room. It seemed by this that she was not a regular inhabitant of the house in which she exercised authority. Nothing could be more gentle and kind than the expression of her calm, but firm countenance; but upon it the lines of sorrow, or of years, were deeply traced. She was, evidently, one who had not passed through the world without her own portion of suffering; but she seemed to have suffered herself, only the more intimately to commiserate the suffering of others.
They laid the stranger upon the sofa in the dining-room; and, at the lady's desire, sent for Mr. Pearson, who was the house apothecary. Whilst waiting for him, she stood with her eyes fixed upon the face of the stranger; and, as she did so, curiosity, wonder, doubt, conviction, and astonishment were painted in succession upon her face.
Very soon Mr. Pearson appeared, and advised the usual remedy of bleeding. The lady walked to the window, and stood there, watching the proceedings of those without, until the arrangements of a very simple funeral were terminated, and the little procession, which attended the young Ella Winstanley to her untimely grave, gradually moved on, and disappeared at the turning of the street.
The countenance of the lady, as she returned to the sofa, showed that she had been very much moved by the sight.
Having been bled, the stranger opened his eyes; which now, as he lay there, extended upon the sofa, displayed a gloomy but remarkable beauty—a beauty, however, arising rather from their form and color, than from their expression, which was more painful than interesting. Again the lady fixed her eyes upon his face, and again she shuddered, and half turned away. Pity, disgust, and regret, were mingled in her gesture.
The stranger's eyes followed her, with a dreamy and unsettled look. He seemed to be as mazed with wonder as she was.
She turned again, as if to satisfy her doubts. His eyes met hers; and, as they did so, recollection seemed to be restored.
"Where am I, and what is it?" he muttered.
"You are where you will be taken good care of until you are able to be removed," said the lady. "Is there any one you would wish to have sent for?"
The man did not speak.
"Any one you would wish to be sent for?" she repeated.
"No," he answered.
"Any thing more you would wish to have done?"
"Nothing."
He lay silent for some time, with his eyes still fixed upon her.
At last he said, "Tell me where I am?"
"Where you are welcome to be until you can gather strength enough to proceed to the place to which you were going when this attack seized you. And that was—?"
"Nowhere. But what house is this?"
"A house only destined for the reception of ladies," she answered.
"Ladies! what ladies?"
"The sick who have no other home."
"A house of charity, then?"
"Partly."
"And that one—that one—that young creature, whose funeral—Do you know her? any thing about her—?"
"Yes," answered the lady, with gravity, approaching to severity, "I do know much about her."
"Why—why did she come here?"
"Because she was friendless and deserted; poor, sick, and miserable. She had given up what little money she had to supply the wants—perhaps—who knows?—the vices of another. Happily there were found those who would befriend her."
"And she accepted the charity; she received the alms?"
"She had learned to submit herself to the will of God."
He shut his teeth together with a something between bitterness and contempt at these last words, and turned his head away.
"You are her father?" said the lady.
"I am—"
"Then you are a very wretched man," she added.
"Yes," he replied, "I am most miserable."
"You are one who have reaped from seeds, which might have produced a rich harvest of happiness, nothing but black and blighted misery."
She spoke with unusual severity, for her soul recoiled at his aspect: she saw nothing in it to soften her feelings of indignation.
"I have lived," he answered.
"How?"
"How! as others of my temper have lived. It was not my fault that I was born with an invincible passion for enjoyment. I did not make myself. If pleasure be but the forerunner of satiety—if life be but a cheat—if delight be but the precursor of misery—a delusion of flattering lies,—I did not arrange the system. Why was virtue made so hard, and self-indulgence so enticing? I did not contrive the scheme."
"Such excuses," the lady replied, "the honest consciousness within us rejects; such as your own inner conscience at the very moment you utter them disclaims. She who is gone—a broken-hearted victim of another's errors—hoped better things when she exhausted almost her last breath in prayers for you."
"Prayers!" in a tone that spoke volumes.
"Yes, prayers."
"What is become of my other daughter?—I want to go to her."
"She died, I believe, about twelve months ago."
"Then I am alone in the world?"
"You have no children now."
"Are you going to turn me out into the street?" he suddenly asked, after a short silence.
"The rules of this house—which is dedicated to the assistance of sick and helpless women—will not admit of your remaining."
"I am going. You will hear of me next as one past recovery; picked up out of some kennel by the police. You would have done better not to have restored me. I should have died quietly."
"But without repentance."
"Repentance!" he said fiercely. "Repent while my whole soul is writhing with agony? Ella! Ella! if I could only have kept my Ella, she would have tended me—she would have soothed me—she would have worked for me."
"Yes," said the lady, "she would have done this, and much more—but God has taken her; has rescued her from your heartless selfishness." To herself she added—for her heart was glowing with indignation—"Even in this supreme moment, he thinks of nothing but of himself."
"She would have been more gentle with me than you are," he said, with a half-reproachful sigh.
"Yes, yes—she would have felt only for you—I happen to feel for her."
"Which I never did."
"Never—"
"You say true," said he, musing.