“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,—