My wanderings are almost over. Exposure and misery have nearly finished their work. I feel my strength ebbing from day to day, and I know that I must soon die, and die, it may be, with the purpose which has sustained me all these years unattained. Knowing this, I have determined to write in this book the story of my life, hoping that when I am dead—“found dead,” it may be, like a tramp or vagabond—some pitying eye may fall upon these words and give me decent burial, for something in me rebels at being thrown like a dog into an outcast’s grave. Here is the story as I have repeated it over and over to myself hundreds of times during the weary years that have passed:
I was accounted a quiet, good-natured fellow in the little town in England where I was born and lived before I came to this country. I was slow of speech, but I had received a fair education, and had a turn for reading, and for scribbling down my thoughts. I was a printer by trade, like my father before me. He died when I was a lad of sixteen, leaving me to care for the mother, and for Barbara. She was the daughter of our nearest neighbor, and from the time she could walk we were always together. When she was still very young her parents died, and their children were scattered, and Barbara came to us. I was the only child left of many, and my mother gladly welcomed her as a daughter. We lived together for years as brother and sister, but I was not long in finding out that my love for Barbara passed that of any brother, and when she was fifteen we became engaged.
From that day I had but one ambition in life—to put myself into circumstances where I could make her my wife, for I had vowed in my heart not to do so until I could offer her something more than the hard lot of a common mechanic’s wife. It seemed to me she was born for something better. She was a real English beauty, with chestnut hair falling far below her waist, and a skin like milk and roses. A gay, bright creature she was, fond of music and dancing and company; fond of me too, as I believe still, though I was slow and silent and awkward; trusting in me, leaning upon me, and confiding in me every thought of her innocent heart.
I did not care for gay scenes myself, but I often went with Barbara to such entertainments as the place afforded, and enjoyed seeing her happy, and admired, and courted.
When Barbara was about eighteen years old a young man came to our place. I will not write his name here—there is no need. He was London-born and bred, and, though a printer like myself, far cleverer, and full of ambitious schemes of which I never dreamed. He was a handsome, dashing fellow, with finer ways than we were used to. He could do a little of everything, and very well too. He sang, and played the guitar, and danced like a Frenchman, and in no time had won his way with every one. The women folks, of course, were carried away with him.
The first time he saw Barbara was at a dance where I had taken her. He pointed her out to me, and asked her name. I may have betrayed something of my love and pride as I answered, for he gave me a quick, curious look, and a moment later asked for an introduction to her. After that they danced together a good deal, and every one was saying what a handsome couple they made.
Soon after this the mother became ailing and fretted at being left alone of evenings, so I often stayed with her while Barbara danced at some neighbor’s house or public assembly with the new-comer.
I never had a thought of jealousy, not even when the fellows in the shop began chaffing me for letting my sweetheart run about with another man, for I trusted Barbara, and was not he my friend? Unlike as we were, had he not singled me out from all the others, and made me his confidant and companion on all occasions?