She lifts the latch—the wicket moves-
And now the world is all before her.”
Rogers.
I was born in a village on the coast of Sussex. My father, after five-and-twenty years’ service, had retired from the army on a pension, with a small sum of money he had saved while acting in the West Indies as a quarter-master; and settling in his native village, he married the orphan daughter of a clergyman. The union was happy; and the evening of an adventurous life promised to wear quietly way. But, like all mortal expectations, my father’s dream of happiness proved unreal, for my mother died in giving birth to me, leaving another child behind her, a boy, two years older than myself. My parents were warmly attached to each other, and the old soldier felt his bereavement acutely; but he bore up against his visitation like a man, and endeavoured by a devoted attachment to the living, to show how fondly he regarded the memory of the dead.
Indeed, it was little wonder that in my brother and myself, the widower should centre his affections. No relative of my mother was alive; and the only kinsman of my father was a half-brother, a dozen years older than himself; a man in every way unamiable.
Josiah Rawlings was the village lawyer; a being without a heart, or such a heart as is untouched by the widow’s agony, unmoved by the orphan’s tears. He was mean, sordid, and vindictive; had realized much wealth; but on that ill-acquired money, the bitter curses of many a ruined family were entailed.
Josiah’s appearance was very remarkable. As for as respected height, he was tall enough for a grenadier, and in his fleshy proportions, light enough for a jockey. His hollow cheek and small grey eyes were in good keeping with his gaunt and bony figure; and at a look the stranger would set him down a knave, a miser, or a union of both.
Never were two persons more opposite in disposition than the brothers. The lawyer listened without emotion to a tale of sorrow—human suffering was a matter of indifference to him; while the soldier’s heart was as open as his honest countenance, and his purse answered the appeal of poverty to the fullest extent of his means. Unrelieved, no beggar left his door; and when a comrade eame that way, then indeed the fatted calf was killed,—for with him my father would have shared his last flask, ay, and his last shilling.
Years passed away. My sixteenth summer came. My father still remained a widower: and no home from which its chief comfort had been taken, could be happier than our cottage was. Time had softened the sorrow which my mother’s death had caused; and while the old soldier often alluded to his loss, he blessed Heaven that my brother and myself had been spared to be the stay and comfort of life’s winter. Alas! he little dreamed that by both he would be deserted; and tinder circumstances whieh would render his bereavement additionally distressing.
It was late in October. The few visitors who, during the bathing season, made the village a temporary abode, had taken their departure. The hamlet was left to its retirement—and our quiet course of life was unvaried, except by incidents of the humblest character. The soldier’s kind and charitable disposition had long endeared him to the neighbourhood; and where he went, the prayer of the poor man followed. With the lawyer, avarice and years kept pace—“none cried, God bless him;” for on a simple community a more detested individual never was inflicted, than my evil relative, Josiah Rawlings.