So saying, the stout seaman left the astonished agent and wended his way towards the cottage of the poor man Johnson, whither we shall precede him. It is needless to remind the reader that the way was perfectly familiar to him.
Dark are the shadows that cross the poor man's path, and few and far between are the glimpses of hope that come to lighten them. The Eternal in his wisdom has ordained that such should be—but Oh! woe! woe! ten thousand times ten thousand woes, does he deserve who oppresses where he should relieve, who becomes the destroyer where he should have been the comforter; and yet there exist ten thousand such who thrive and roll in luxury, while human hearts are bursting in their agony.
CHAPTER IV.
THE POOR MAN'S HOME.
Standing a little aloof from the other cottages, as if conscious of its poor appearance, was a shed; it could hardly be called any thing else, for it appeared originally to have been nothing more than an out-house belonging to another building, and such in fact it had been. The roof was decayed in many places, and covered partly with rank moss. It was situated in a hollow, and the marshy soil around bore evident proof that it was subject to be overflowed in rainy weather. Four or five squalid, ragged children, with pinched features and thin limbs, sat huddled in a heap on the muddy ground, watching the road with anxious eyes—eyes so bright with hunger that they seemed like those of so many rats. The youngest—it was not two years old, cried—the elder beat it. Start not, reader, it is human nature. The little creature hid her wizen face in her withered little hands and sobbed. A man rode by just then. It was the agent on his way to the castle, for this was the morning of Curly Tom's escape. Instinctively the children drew closer together and shuddered. They did not know why, but they knew their father feared him. He passed on, and the little faces seemed to brighten for a moment; the eldest was but seven. Long ere the dawn their father had started for the market town, some five miles off, in the vain hope that an old friend there would help him. Ah, poor children! there they sat from the first ray of daylight, and the bright sun was now glittering high above their heads, shining upon their desolation and upon the castle turrets, wherein dwelt in luxury their oppressor. The events we have described as taking place at the castle were still in progress, when a female was seen slowly coming along the road, bearing a basket on her arm that seemed too heavy for her.
'That is Mary Walters,' said the eldest, 'and she will give us something to eat—I am sure she will. Jenny, dear, don't cry,' and the urchin wiped the little face she had struck before, and tenderly took her in her own spare little arms. The child was not much weight. Gentle Mary Waters! who that gazed upon thy placid face, as thou earnest on thine errand of mercy—who that saw thee as thou ministered to the necessities of those poor desolate children, would not have loved thee—who that had seen thee in the first blush of thy beauty, when thy foot was as elastic as the fawn's, and thy countenance radiant with joy and life's young morning hope—who, who could dream that there existed one who had seen all this, who had known the tie that bound thee to earth and its promised happiness, the innocent love that abounded in thy heart—yet ruthlessly snapped that tie asunder, and buried the love nought could eradicate, deep in her bosom—a shattered wreck amid the memories of the past. Gentle Mary Walters! alas for thy experience!
What avails it to describe her—perished as we know that fair form to be, withered in its bloom. Yet she was handsome. It was not in any particular feature; it was in the whole expression of her face and form. Her auburn hair, in its plain quiet braid—her neat and scrupulously plain attire, her mild blue eye, the air of placid resignation about her presence, seemed so lovely, for she bore no outward token of the grief within; she had never wailed or cried her sorrow away; but though her gay smile had passed away forever, she had not become the gloomy misanthrope or the fretful querulous invalid. She had complained to no one. Her old grandfather knew her griefs, but he also knew that it was a subject he could not offer her consolation upon. To aid the suffering as far as her slender means would allow, to tend the couch of sickness, to cheer the desponding heart in its hour of darkness, these were the occupations with which she strove, not to forget her sorrows—that could never be—but to afford an outlet for that love for her fellow creatures which no selfish grief could lessen. And she could smile and speak in cheering tones to others in their hour of woe, shedding over their darkened paths the light of hope, while deep in the fountains of her own heart that sweet flame was extinguished forever on earth, and dust and ashes alone remained.
But over that lovely countenance, so serene and beautiful, the shadow of death had already fallen;—that dread disease that beautifies ere it kills its victims, had placed its fell stamp upon her. Daily her figure became thinner and sharper, her breath grew shorter and a hacking cough commenced, while a hectic flush sometimes came over her pallid cheek—but too plainly warning those who looked upon her, that consumption had marked her for its victim.
Hastily giving the children some victuals she had brought for them, she entered the hovel, furniture there was none;—a chest of tools and a heap of straw was all its contents. The grate had evidently been unconscious of a fire for weeks past,—but it was summer. She shuddered as she looked around. This was the home for which the proud lord of those domains exacted a rent of £10 per year. She was not one, however, to give way to idle speculation when there was good to be done: she opened the shutters, swept the floor, and threw a quilt she had brought with her over the heap of straw, then made the children wash themselves, and proceeded to dress them in some hastily made clothes, which her basket contained. Then taking the little one in her lap, and making the others lay down on the bed—for hunger had awoke them far before they had their needful rest, she sat down upon the tool-chest lulling the child to sleep, and patiently awaiting the arrival of the father. A step approached, it was not the man, however, but the landlady's wayward nephew:—he, too, carried a basket, and seemed pleased, but not at all surprised at seeing Mary.