And here I must say a word, lest I should be misunderstood. Some kindly-hearted readers may suppose that my life and its surrounding circumstances call for pity and commiseration. I declare that they are mistaken, and that I was perfectly happy, contented in the present, hopeful in the future. What more could I desire? Poor as our home was, it was decent and comfortable; the anxieties which invaded it were not, I apprehend, of a more bitter nature than the anxieties which reign in the houses of really well-to-do and wealthy people. Well, I had a home which contented and satisfied me; and dearer, holier, purer, than anything else in life there was shed upon me a love which brightened my days and sweetened my labour. Life was opening out to me its most delightful pages. Already had I learned to love books for the good that was in them; I was also learning to draw, and every hour's leisure was an hour of profitable enjoyment. I began to see things, not with the eyes of a soured and discontented mind, but with the eyes of a mind which had been, almost unconsciously, trained to learn that sorrow and adversity may bring forth much for which we should be truly and sincerely grateful, and which, but for these trials, might be hidden from us. And all this was due to the influence of Home, and of the love which life's hard trials had strengthened. Sweet indeed are the uses of adversity. But for it, the milk of human kindness would taste like brackish water.
[CHAPTER XII.]
A SINGULAR EPISODE IN OUR QUIET LIFE.
At this point I am reminded that I have not described uncle Bryan. A few words will suffice. A tall spare man, strongly built, with no superfluity of flesh about him; iron-gray hair, thick and abundant; eyebrows overlapping most conspicuously, guarding his eyes, as it were, which lurked in their caverns, as animals might in their lairs, on the watch. He wore no hair on his face, his cheeks were furrowed, and his features were large and well formed. He possessed the power of keeping himself perfectly under control; but on rare occasions, a nervous twitching of his lips in one corner of his mouth mastered him. This always occurred when he was in any way stirred to emotion, and I knew perfectly well, although he tried to disguise it from me, that it was one of his greatest annoyances that he could not conquer this physical symptom of mental disturbance. He was not only scrupulously just in his dealings as a tradesman; he exercised this moral sentiment with almost painful preciseness in his intercourse with my mother and me. He had no intimates, and he determinedly rejected all overtures of friendship. His habits were regular, his desires few, his tastes simple. He appeared to be contented with everything, and grateful for nothing. If love resided in his nature, it showed itself in a fondness for flowers; in no other form.
I was nearly eighteen years of age, and the days--garlanded with the sweet pleasures which spring naturally from a mother's love--followed one another calmly and tranquilly. Nothing had occurred to disturb the peaceful current of our lives. Uneventful as the small circumstances of my past life were in the light of surrounding things, each scene in the simple drama which had thus far progressed was distinctly defined, and seemed to have no connection with what preceded it or followed it. The first, which had occurred in the house where I was born, and which ended with my father's death; the second, in which my mother had taken so mournful a part, and which contained so strange a mingling of joy and sorrow; the third, which was now being played, and which up to this period had been the least eventful of all. A certain routine of duties was got through with unvarying regularity. Uncle Bryan's trade yielded, with careful watching, sufficient profit for our wants; but I, also, was earning money now, and it was with an honest feeling of pride that I paid my mother so many shillings a week--I am almost ashamed to say how few--towards the expenses of my living. And so the days rolled on.
But in the web of our lives a thread was woven of which no sign had yet been seen, and chance or destiny was drawing it towards us with firm hand--a thread which, when it was linked to our hearts, was to throw strong light and colour on the tranquil days.
A very pleasant summer had set in, and uncle Bryan's flowers were at their brightest. It had grown into a custom with my mother to come for me two or three times a week during the fine weather, in the evening, when my day's work was done. She would wait at the corner of the street which led to my place of business, and we generally had a pleasant walk, arriving home at about half-past nine o'clock, in time for supper, a favourite meal with uncle Bryan. Now, my mother and I had been for some time casting about for an opportunity to present uncle Bryan with a token of our affection in the shape of a pipe and a tobacco-jar; he was so strange a character that it was absolutely necessary we should have a tangible excuse for the presentation. My mother found the opportunity. With great glee she informed me that she had found out uncle Bryan's birthday, and that the presentation should take the form of a birthday gift. 'It will be an unexpected surprise to him, my dear,' she said, 'and we will say nothing about it beforehand.' On a fine morning in August I rose as usual at half-past five, and made my breakfast in the kitchen; I slept now in the little back-room on a line with the shop and parlour. Eight o'clock was the hour for commencing work, and I generally had a couple of hours' delightful reading in the kitchen before I started. Sometimes, however, when we were busy, I was directed to be at the office an hour or so earlier, and on this morning I was due at seven o'clock. I always wished my mother good-bye before I went to work. Treading very softly, so as not to disturb uncle Bryan, and with my dinner and tea under my arm--invariably prepared the last thing at night, and packed in a handkerchief by my mother's careful hands--I crept upstairs to her room. She called me in, and I sat by her bedside, chatting for a few minutes. This was the anniversary of uncle Bryan's birthday, and our purchases were to be made in the evening.
'I must be off, mother,' I said, starting up; 'I shall have to run for it.'
'Good-morning, dear child,' she said; 'I shall come for you exactly at eight o'clock.'
I kissed her, and ran off to work. My mother was punctual in the evening, and we set off at once on a pilgrimage to tobacconists' windows. Any person observing us as we stood at the windows, debating on the shape of this pipe and the pattern of that tobacco-jar, would at once have recognised the importance of our proceedings. At length, after much anxious deliberation, our purchases were made, and we walked home to Paradise-row. My mother had suggested that I should present uncle Bryan with the birthday gifts, and in a vainful moment I had consented, and had mentally rehearsed a fine little speech, which I prided myself was perfect in its way. But, as is usual with the amateur, and sometimes with the over-confident, on such occasions, my fine little speech flew clean out of my head when the critical moment arrived, and resolved itself into about a dozen stammering and perfectly incomprehensible words. Covered with confusion, I pushed the pipe and tobacco-pouch towards uncle Bryan in a most ungraceful manner. My mother saw my difficulty.