Christmas gold, p.645
Christmas Gold, page 645
It was no time, however, for giving way to grief, and, by a strong effort, she almost immediately roused herself. Understanding that there might be some difficulty in getting her husband up the narrow winding staircase, she set to work, with the assistance of Hannah Reeves, to bring the matress on which she slept into a little back room, the floor of which was boarded. She made it as comfortable as she could, and had hardly completed her preparations, when the heavy tread of a number of men was heard approaching the door. Mary was unable to speak, but silently assisted in placing her unhappy husband on the bed, that she had got ready for him. The rough weather-beaten countenances of the men who had brought him, were softened to an expression of mournful sympathy; the eyes of several of them were filled with tears. As soon as they found they could be of no farther use, they quietly withdrew.
Waldron had hardly shewn any signs of life, excepting by uttering now and then a deep and heavy groan: but when the men were gone, he contrived to raise himself a little in the bed; and taking the hand of his wife, who was hanging over him in speechless agony, said in a voice, almost inarticulate from weakness and emotion, "Oh! Mary, why did I not listen to your advice! I might have earned my bread in an honest way, and been happy with you and the children; but I listened to the persuasion of evil men, and now, smuggling has brought me to this." He would have said more, but the effort which he had made was too much for him—he sank down on the bed, and after one or two deep but feeble groans, expired.
Mary did not immediately perceive what had happened; but when the dreadful reality burst upon her, the shock was too powerful for her frame, exhausted as it was by anxiety and grief. While there was an immediate call for exertion—while there was any thing to be done for her husband—the exertion had roused and supported her. That support was now at an end, and she fell senseless on the floor.
Hannah Reeves was up stairs with the children, one of them having begun to cry, and she had succeeded in quieting and lulling it asleep. Upon returning to the back room, she found Mary Waldron extended motionless by the side of her husband. Gently raising her up, she endeavoured to restore her to herself by throwing cold water in her face, applying burnt feathers to her nostrils, and making use of such other remedies, as either she, or two or three neighbours, who had come in to her assistance, could think of. For a long time their endeavours were ineffectual. At length a slight convulsive tremor seemed to pass over her. Her lips, which had been deadly pale, began to assume something of their natural colour, and after one or two deep and long drawn sighs, she appeared to breathe with some degree of freedom. The first care of her kind attentive neighbours was, to remove her from the sad object which was stretched out by her side. With difficulty they got her up stairs, and undressing her, laid her in the same bed with her children.
Hannah Reeves was anxiously watching over her, when she opened her eyes, and said in a faint voice, "What, is it you, Hannah? What brings you here so early in the morning? But I suppose it is time for me to think of getting up.—Oh! Hannah, I have had such a dreadful dream! But it is all over now, I am so glad that you woke me." And then after a little pause, added, "How soon do you think James will be home again? He told me that he should come back before night." Poor Hannah turned away her head, and seemed to busy herself in another part of the room, and Mary again fell into an unquiet slumber.
Henry Stanwick had been landed near the castle at Sandgate, supported by one of his men, he was slowly ascending the beach, when he was met by the Admiral muffled up in a sea cloak. He had heard of the engagement with the smugglers, and of his nephew's wounds. "Come along, Harry, with me," said he, "we must nurse you at my house. I have no doubt that you would be taken very good care of here: but still there are some little comforts, which perhaps can be furnished better at a private house; and we must allow that the women understand these matters better than we do." Henry yielded to his uncle's persuasions. He found his two cousins ready to receive him, with looks expressive of tender affection, mixed with deep anxiety. They had been busily occupied in preparing his room. As the surgeon was expected every moment, they were fearful of altering the position of the wounded arm until his arrival.
In the interval Lieutenant Stanwick, though suffering a good deal of pain, shortly mentioned a few particulars of the conflict; adding, "I cannot help longing to hear what becomes of the poor fellow, that we brought away in our boat. He wished to be carried to Folkestone, and "—"To Folkestone!" exclaimed Emily, "I hope it is not poor Mary's husband!" "He did not mention his name," said Henry; "indeed he could hardly speak at all, but he was a remarkably well-made active looking fellow, and I was vexed to my heart at his having engaged in such a service." The sisters could not help having some misgivings, but they had a nearer cause for anxiety in the severe wound of a relation so deservedly dear to them.
When the surgeon arrived, he found the bone of the arm so much injured, that immediate amputation was necessary. The operation was successfully performed, but was followed by a considerable degree of fever, during which the two sisters nursed him with unremitting assiduity.
The fourth day after the amputation Henry seemed much better, and both he and the Admiral begged them not to continue to keep themselves such close prisoners, but to resume their usual exercise. They were the more ready to comply, as they were very anxious to go themselves to Folkestone, to enquire after Mary Waldron. They found out the house; but upon approaching it, observed a degree of bustle, and saw several men in sailors' jackets—most of them with some symbol of mourning about their dress—issuing from the door. Presently the coffin was brought out; the men raised it on their shoulders; the black pall was thrown over it; and with measured steps they moved towards the church-yard, while the solemn toll of the bell, being heard at shorter intervals, announced the near approach of the corpse to its last mansion.
The sisters waited at some little distance, till the melancholy procession had passed on; and then going up to the door of one of the neighbouring cottages, enquired with feelings of deep interest after poor Mary.
She, they found, was perfectly insensible to all that was passing. The morning after her husband had been brought home, she for sometime appeared to retain no trace of what had happened. The circumstance of her being not in her own bed, and the manner of Hannah Reeves, who was unable to control her feelings, by degrees brought back to her recollection the dreadful calamity which had befallen her. She uttered one piercing cry of woe, and then a deadly stupor took possession of her whole frame. From this she had at last been roused, but it was succeeded by a wild delirium, and a burning fever, which no skill or attention had been able in the slightest degree to mitigate.
The sisters went to this house of mourning. The children had been removed to the cottage of a neighbour, but Hannah Reeves came down to them. She had hardly ever quitted the bedside of the sufferer, and attended her with that watchful kindness, which the poor so often shew to each other when in distress. The Miss Mowbrays begged Hannah to let nothing be omitted which might contribute to the recovery of poor Mary, at the same time mentioning their intention to take every expense upon themselves. They did not know Hannah, but there was something in her manner which told them that any hint of remuneration to her would be misplaced.
Upon their return to Sandgate they found sitting with the Admiral the captain of the troop of dragoons, which had come to the assistance of the seamen. From him they understood, that of the two smugglers who had been taken, one was a Folkestone man of the name of Spraggon, a man of notoriously bad character, and who had behaved in the engagement with the king's men with a boldness bordering on ferocity. The other prisoner was a labourer belonging to a village just above the marsh, who had long been in the practice of assisting in running smuggled goods. He received high pay—five, eight, ten shillings a night—sometimes even more. Money obtained by breaking the laws seldom does a man any good. And, in fact, when he came to deduct the sum which he might have earned by more creditable work—for a man who had been out all night could not work the day following—and also the money which went in drink and other expenses—it was generally found that little came home to his family. His earnings of all descriptions, however, were now put an end to. He and Spraggon were convicted at the next assizes of the murder of the seaman; and two days after were executed.
It was long before Mary Waldron shewed any signs of returning health. The fever, however, gradually gave way, but it left her in a state of the most deplorable weakness. Emily and Caroline called at the house very frequently during the whole progress of her illness, supplying abundantly whatever they thought likely to contribute to her recovery, or to her comfort in her present state of suffering. But from the time that her reason and recollection began to return, their walks to Folkestone became almost daily. In the gentlest and kindest manner they said and did all they could, to comfort her, and to assist in directing her thoughts to the only unfailing source of consolation—to that Being, who invites the widow to trust in him, and promises to protect and provide for the fatherless children.
From such considerations as these, and from that aid which was granted from above in answer to her humble and fervent supplication, Mary recovered a degree of calm composure almost sooner than the sisters had anticipated.
Once, when speaking of her future means of subsistence, they hinted the idea of making up, with the assistance of their friends, an annual sum, which would be sufficient to keep her from want. But Mary would not hear of this. "If it please God," said she, "to restore me to health, I have no doubt, but that by taking in washing and needle work, I shall be able to get bread for myself and my poor children; and as long as I am able to work for myself, I could not bear to be a burden to any one." "But it would be no burden to us at all," said Emily. "Of that," replied Mary, "I am well assured, from the kindness, which you have already shewn me; but I feel that I could not be so happy if I depended for my livelihood, under Providence, upon any one but myself."
In their walks to Folkestone they were often accompanied by their cousin Harry, who in consequence of his wound had been relieved from the painful service in which he had been employed, and appointed first lieutenant to a frigate, which was destined to the Mediterranean, but was not to sail for some months.
One day, as they were approaching Mary's house, the two little children came running out, with much glee and animation in their eyes, to thank them for their nice new frocks. The sisters knew not what they meant. Upon entering the house, Mary expressed her acknowledgments for what they had sent the children, as well as for the gown and other clothing which she had received herself. They looked surprised, and said that they had sent nothing. The colour of Henry's face soon told Mary who had been her benefactor.
In their walk they had passed by Mrs. Hawker's shop, and found the windows shut up. They asked Mary the meaning of this. She told them, that some time before, the officers had made a large seizure of smuggled goods in her house, and had sued her for the penalties, which amounted to so large a sum, that she was utterly ruined.
It is hardly necessary to say, that the Miss Mowbrays had never visited her house since their purchase of the silks. The many crimes and calamities which a single day had witnessed, had given them a sufficient lesson upon the evils of engaging in illicit traffic; and neither the stump of Henry Stanwick's arm, nor the sight of the widowed Mary and her fatherless children, were needed to make them resolve, that they would never again be guilty of smuggling.
Good-Nature, or Parish Matters
Table of Contents
Mr. Stanley had just reached the last stile in the footpath leading to Inglewood parsonage, when his progress was for a moment interrupted by two persons, who were talking so earnestly, that they did not see him.
One of them was a short fat man, in the dress of a farmer. His round and rosy face seemed to be full of good cheer and good humour; but bore no great signs of intelligence. He was speaking to an untidy looking woman, whose manner was expressive of a sort of low familiarity, not however unmixed with symptoms of servility and cringing.
"Never mind, Nanny," said the farmer, "never mind—neighbour Oldacre is, I must needs say, a little hard upon the poor—but never mind; I shall take to the books in a fortnight's time, and then things will be better." "But you know, master," said the woman, "if you could but manage that little job for us, we should hardly trouble the parish at all." "Well, I'll do what I can," answered the farmer; "my being a parish-officer, will help." The woman was going to reply, but happening to see Mr. Stanley, she drew back from the stile, and allowed him to pass on.
Trifling as the occurrence was, Mr. Stanley happened to mention it to his friend at the parsonage, as they were sitting together after dinner. Upon his describing the figure and face of the farmer, "Yes," said Mr. Hooker, with a smile, "that must have been my parishioner, Farmer Barton. He is, as you describe him, a good-humoured looking fellow, and it has always been the height of his ambition to be reckoned a good-natured man."
"I cannot much blame him for that," replied Stanley; "good-nature is a most amiable quality, and I heartily wish there was more of it in the world than there is."
"In that wish I cordially agree with you," said Mr. Hooker; "if by good-nature you mean a genuine spirit of kindness or Christian benevolence, which prompts a man to do whatever good he can to the bodies and souls of all within his reach. The good-nature, however, of Farmer Barton is not exactly of this description. It springs from a love of low popularity, from a wish to gain by whatever means the good will and good word of all descriptions of people. This wish leads him to assent to whatever is said, and to accede to almost every request, unless it immediately touches his pocket. To that indeed his good-nature does not always extend. In his fear of being thought ill-natured, he very often loses sight of duty, and his dread of offending or of contradicting those who happen to be present, makes him not unfrequently forget what is due to those who are absent."
The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the servant, who came to tell his master that Farmer Barton wished to speak with him. "Pray shew him in," said Mr. Hooker; "but I am unable to guess what his business can be."
The farmer came in, and, upon Mr. Hooker's asking him what he wanted, replied, "Why, it is only to get you to put your hand to this bit of paper." "Let us look at it," said Mr. Hooker; and then casting his eye over it, added, "This I see is an application to the magistrates, to set up a new public house in the village, and a recommendation of Robert Fowler as a fit man to keep it." "Yes, Sir," replied the farmer; "poor Bob since he got the hurt in his arm has never been able to do the work of another man, and he and Nanny have begged me and some of the neighbours to help him to set up a public house, as a means of keeping him off the parish."
"And do you, Farmer Barton, honestly think," said Mr. Hooker, "that we want a public house here? You know that there is hardly any thoroughfare through the village; and even if there was, we are but two miles from a market town, where there are inns and ale-houses in abundance."
"Why I can't say there is any particular want of it," said Barton. "But Fowler's family is likely to be a heavy burden to the parish."
"The parish, I am satisfied," rejoined Mr. Hooker, "would be no gainer in the end. Don't you suppose that many of the labouring men would often, after their day's work, go to the ale-house, instead of going home; and spend there, some part of the money which ought to find food and clothes for their wives and families? A country ale-house is too often found to be attended with raggedness and hunger in the women and children; and I know that this is the opinion of the poor women themselves. Besides, don't you remember, what drunkenness and quarrelling we used to have before Tomkins's house was put down?"
"Why, I must say, that the men have been more quiet and sober of late."
"As clergyman of this parish," said Mr. Hooker, "I shall never assist in setting forward a measure, which I think would be hurtful to my parishioners: and I must own, that I am surprised to see that so many sensible and respectable men have signed their names to this recommendation."
"Why a man don't like to seem ill-natured," said the farmer.
"We must not," replied Mr. Hooker, "for the sake of assisting one man or one family, do that which would be prejudicial to the whole parish. And besides, I thought that Fowler was one of the most drunken, idle fellows in the village."
"Why to be sure," said the farmer, "he does like drink better than work."
"And yet you and your brother farmers are here ready to certify that he is of good fame, sober life and conversation, and a fit and proper person to be intrusted with a licence! Do you not see that you have all set your hands to a direct falsehood?"
Barton looked foolish, but added, "Why one don't like to refuse such a thing—and when others do it, it would look so ill-natured."
"And so, for fear of being thought ill-natured, you can not only set your name to a lie, but give a helping hand to a measure, which by your own acknowledgment would be likely to increase the poverty as well as the immorality of many of your poor neighbours. Indeed, indeed, Mr. Barton, an English farmer ought to have had more manliness of character than this comes to."
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