CHAPTER VIII.
A POSTMAN'S KNOCK.
It seemed to me as if I had closed my eyes and opened them with scarcely a moment's interval; and yet I was at home in our own little room, and my mother was bending over me tenderly. I could not immediately realise the change. The busy streets, and the glare in them, and my fear of the man who had accused me of being a thief, were still present to my mind. I clung closer to my mother.
'What is my darling frightened of?' she said soothingly. 'He is at home, and safe in his mother's arms.'
'At home!' I looked around apprehensively. 'Where's the man?'
'What man, dear child? The man who carried you home?'
I had no remembrance of being carried home.
'The man who carried me home!' I exclaimed; and repeated wonderingly, 'Carried me home! No, I don't know him.'
'There is no one here, dear child, but you and I. Taste this.'
She held a cup of tea to my lips, and I drank gratefully; and ate a slice of bread-and-butter she gave me.
'There, my dear! My darling feels better, does he not?'
'Yes.' As I looked at her, the scene I had witnessed, of which she had been the principal figure, dawned upon me. I could not check my sobs; I felt as if my heart would burst. 'O mother! mother!' I cried. 'I remember now; I remember now!'
She held me in her arms, and caressed me, and pressed me to her heart. My tears flowed upon her faithful breast.
'How did you find me, dear child? Unkind mother that I am to leave my darling hungry and alone all the day!'
'Don't say that, mother. You mustn't; you mustn't! If anybody else said it, I would kill him!'
'Hush, dear child! You must not excite yourself. Come, you shall go to bed; and you shall tell me all in the morning, please God.'
'No, I want to tell you now; I want to talk to you now. I want to lie here, and talk quietly, quietly! Oh, but I am so sorry! so sorry!'
'For what, dear child?'
Through my sobs I murmured, 'That you should have to stand in the cold, and beg for me!' My arms were round her, and I felt her shrink and tremble within them. 'Now I know what the poor woman in the forest did when she went to look for food for her bird. If any one saw you that knew you, would you not be ashamed? Would you not run away?'
Sadly and tearfully she replied, 'No, my own darling, I do not think I should. Who would be so cruel as to say I ought to be ashamed of doing what I do?'
'But, mother, you stand with your head down, as if you wanted to hide your face!'
The blood rose to her face and forehead pitifully.
'I cannot help it, dearest,' she said with trembling lips; it comes natural to me to stand so. I do not think of it at the time. And O, Chris! don't despise your poor mother now that you have found out her secret!'
She would have fallen at my feet if I had not kept my arms tightly around her. In the brief pause that ensued before she spoke again, I closed my eyes, and leant my head upon her shoulder, the better to think of her goodness to me. I saw all the details of the picture which now occupied my mind. I saw my mother approach the spot where she had decided to stand, to solicit charity for me; I saw her hesitate, and tremble, and look around warily and timidly, as though she were about to commit a crime; and then I saw her glide swiftly into the road and take her station there, with her dear head drooping on her breast from shame. Yes, from shame. And it was for me she did this!
'If I could get work to do,' she presently said, in low meek tones, such as one who was crushed and who despaired might use if wrongfully accused, 'I would not beg. Heaven knows I have tried hard enough; I have implored, have almost gone on my knees for it, in vain. What was I to do? We could not starve, and I would not go to the parish; I would not bring that shame upon my darling's life, until everything else in the world had failed. I did not intend my child to know. I tried to keep the knowledge from him--I tried, I tried! O, my dear boy! my heart is fit to break!'
I listened in awe, and could say no word to comfort her.
'It is no shame to me to do as I have done,' she said half appealingly, half defiantly. 'It is for bread for my dear child's life. I should stand with my face open to the people, if I had the courage. But I am a coward--a coward! and I shrink and tremble, as if I were a thief, with terror in my heart!'
She a coward! Dear heart! Brave soul! Her voice grew softer.
'And O, Chris, my child! since I have stood there I have learnt so much that I did not know before. It has made me better--humbler. Never again, never again can I doubt the goodness of God! What good there is in the world of which we are ignorant, until sorrow brings us to the knowledge of it! When I first stood there, the world seemed to pass away from me, so dreadful a feeling took possession of me. In my fancy, harsh voices clamoured at me, cruel faces mocked me from all sides; I did not dare raise my head. But in the midst of my soul's agony, soft fingers touched mine, and the sweet voice of a child brought comfort to my heart. And then poor women gave, and I was ashamed to take. I held it out to them again, begging them with my eyes to take it back again; and they ran away, some of them.'
The floodgates of my mother's heart were open, and she was talking now as much to herself as to me, recalling what had touched her most deeply.
'Two weeks ago a young woman came and stood before me. God knows what she was thinking of as she stood there in a way it made my heart ache to see. She was very, very pretty; very, very young. She stood looking at me so long in silence that I began almost to be afraid. I dared not speak to her first. I have never yet spoken unbidden in that place; I seem to myself to have no right to speak. But, seeking to soften any hard thought she may have had in her mind for me or for herself, I returned her look, kindly I hope, and pityingly too. "I thought I'd make you look at me," she said in a hard voice that I felt was not natural to her; "beggars like you haven't much to be proud of, I should say. Thank the Lord I haven't come to that yet!" I tried to shape an answer, but the words wouldn't leave my lips, and I could only look at her appealingly. Poor girl! she seemed to resent this, and tossed her head, and went away singing. But there was no singing in her heart. I followed her with my eyes, and saw her stop at a public-house; but she hesitated at the door, and did not enter. No; she came back, and stood before me again. "What do you come here for?" she asked, after a little pause. "For food," I answered. She sneered at my answer, and I waited in sorrow for her next words. "Have you got a husband?" "No," I said, wondering why she asked. "No more have I," she said. My thoughts wandered to a happier time, and pictures of brighter days which seem to have passed away for ever came to my mind; but the girl soon brought me back to reality. "Are you a mother?" she asked. "Oh, yes!" I answered, with a sob of thankfulness, for the dear Lord has made my boy a blessing to me. "So am I," she said, with a little laugh that struck me like a knife. "Here--take this; I was going to spend it in drink." And she put sixpence in coppers into my hand, and ran away. But I ran after her, and entreated her to take the money back; but she would not, and grew sullen. I still entreated, and she said, "Very well; give it to me; I'll spend it in gin." What I said to her after this I do not know, I was so grieved and sorry for her; but I told her I would keep the money, and she thanked me for the promise, oh! so humbly and gratefully, and began to cry so piteously and passionately, that my own sorrows seemed light compared with hers. I drew her away to a quiet street, and kissed her and soothed her, and although we had never met before, she clung to me, and blessed me with broken words and sobs. Then, when she was quieter, I asked her where her little one was, and might I go with her and see it? She took me to her room, and I saw her baby--such a pretty little thing!--and I nursed it till it fell asleep, and then tidied up the room, and put the bed straight. Ah, my darling! I could not repeat all that the poor girl said. I went out and spent fourpence of the sixpence she gave me in food for the baby, and she was not angry with me for it. I have been to see her and her baby twice since that night, and my heart has ached often when I have thought of them. If I were not as poor as I am, I would try to be a friend to them. But, alas! what can I do? Yet there is not a night I have stood in that place that I have not lifted my heart to God for the goodness that has been shown to me. How good a thing it is for the poor to help the poor as they do! God sweeten their lives for them!'
We were silent for a long time after this. I broke the silence by whispering,
'Mother, I didn't spend the halfpenny; it is on the mantelshelf now.'
'Dear child! I am sorry and glad. It is the first halfpenny I ever received in charity, and it was given to me by a little child.'
'Let me look at it, mother.'
She took it from the mantelshelf, and placed it in my hands.
'I can see the angel's face now,' I said. 'It is the fairy in a cotton-print dress.'
My mother nodded with a sweet smile.
'And the fairy is a little girl?'
'Yes, dear.'
'And she came every Saturday night afterwards, with a basket on her arm, and gave you a halfpenny?'
'Yes, dear. How do you know?'
'I saw her to-night, and I guessed the rest. I am so glad you kissed her! Mother, we will never, never spend this halfpenny!'
'Very well, my darling; but you haven't told me yet how it was you found me out.'
I had barely finished my recital when a knock came at our door. On opening it, our landlady was discovered, puffing and blowing. A great basket was hanging from her hand. Benignant confidence in her lodger reigned in her face; curiosity dwelt in her eye. As she entered, the air became spirituously perfumed.
'O, them stairs!' she panted. They ketch me in the side! If you'll excuse me, my dear!' And she sat down, still retaining her hold of the basket. She went through many stages before she quite recovered herself, gazing at us the while with that imploring look peculiar to women who are liable to be 'ketched in the side.' Then she brightened up, and spoke again. 'I thought I'd bring it up myself,' she said; the stairs ain't been long cleaned, and the boy's boots are that muddy that I told him to wait in the passage for the basket. If you'll empty it, I'll take it down to him. Oh,' she continued, seeing that my mother was in doubt, I don't mind the trouble the least bit in the world! If all lodgers was as regular with their rent as you, my dear, I shouldn't be put upon as I am!'
Still my mother hesitated; she did not understand it. I saw that the basket was well filled, for the lid bulged up. The landlady, declaring that it was very heavy, placed it on the table, and was about to lift the lid, when my mother's hand restrained her.
'There is some mistake; these things are not for me.'
'Why, my dear creature!' exclaimed the landlady, growing exceedingly confidential, 'didn't you order 'em?'
'No, I haven't marketed yet. My poor boy has been ill, and I haven't been able to go out.'
'Well, but there can't be any mistake, my dear;' and the landlady, scenting a mystery, became very inquisitive indeed; here's your name on a bit of paper.'
The writing was plain enough, certainly: 'For Mrs. Carey. Paid for. Basket to be returned.'
'Do you know the boy who brought them?' asked my mother.
'To be sure I do, my dear creature! He belongs to Mrs. Strangeways, the greengrocer round the corner.'
'I should like to speak to him. May he come up?'
'Certainly, my dear soul!'
And the landlady, in her eagerness to get at the heart of the mystery, disregarded the effect of muddy boots on clean stairs, and called the boy up. But he could throw no light upon the matter. All that he knew was that his mistress directed him to bring the things round to Mrs. Carey's, and to make haste back with the basket. 'And please, will you look sharp about it?' he adjured in a tone of injured innocence, digging his knuckles into his eyes, and working them round so forcibly that it almost seemed as though he were trying to gouge out his eyeballs; if you keep me here much longer, missis'll swear when I get back that I've been stopping on the road playing pitch and toss.'
The landlady, whose curiosity had now reached the highest point, protested that it would be flying in the face of Providence to hesitate another moment, and whipped open the basket.
'Half a pound of salt butter,' she said, calling out the things as she placed them on the table; half a pound of tea; sixpennorth of eggs--they're Mrs. Chizlett's eggs, my dear, sixteen a shilling--I know 'em by the bag; a pound of brown sugar; a cabbage; taters--seven pound for tuppence, my dear; and a lovely shoulder of mutton--none of your scrag! There!'
My eyes glistened as I saw the good things, and my mother was gratefully puzzled. The garrulous landlady stopped in the room for a quarter of an hour, placing all kinds of possible constructions upon the mystery, and inviting, in the most insinuating manner, the confidence of my mother, whom she evidently regarded as a very artful creature. It was sufficient for me that the food was lawfully ours, and I blessed the generous donor in my heart. On the following day my mother took me for a walk in the Park, and we arrived home in time to get the baked dish from the baker's, which my mother had prepared. We had a grand dinner, and we fared tolerably well during the week. On the Saturday, however, our cupboard and treasury were bare, and my mother was once more racked by those pin-and-needle anxieties which, insignificant as they seem by the side of matters of public interest, form the sum of the lives of hundreds of thousands of our fellow creatures. My mother watched me very nervously. I knew what was in her mind. She was striving to gather courage to bid me stop at home while she went out to beg. My heart was very full as, watching her furtively, I saw her put on her bonnet and shawl. Then she stood irresolutely by the mantelshelf. I crept to her side.
'Mother?'
'My child!'
'Let me go with you,' I implored.
'No, no, dear child! No, no!' she cried, and she knelt before me, and twined her arms around my neck. She was entreating me in the tenderest manner to stop at home, when the simplest thing in the world changed the current of our lives. A postman's knock was heard at the street-door, and a minute afterwards the landlady came running upstairs, almost breathless. My mother started to her feet. In one hand the landlady held a letter by the corner of her apron; the other hand was pressed to her side; and she panted as if her last moments had arrived.
'O them stairs!' she exclaimed. 'They'll be the death of me! For you, my dear.' And she held the letter towards my mother.
the receipt of a letter threw us all into a state of excitement. It was certainly an event in my life. My mother was very agitated as she looked at the address, and the landlady took a seat, and waited in the expectation of hearing the news. But the letter was not opened until that worthy woman had retired, which she did in a very dignified, not to say offended, manner, as a proof that she had not the slightest wish--not she! to pry into our private concerns.
'There's no mistake, mother,' I said.
'No, my dear; it is addressed to me.'
Then, with great care, she opened the letter, and read aloud:
'14 Paradise-row, Windmill-street.
'Emma Carey,--Personally you will have not the slightest knowledge of me, for I do not think you ever set eyes on me; but you will know my name. I was not aware until a few days ago that your husband was dead. I am poor, but not as poor as you are. I offer you and your boy a home. You can both come and live with me if you like. If you decide to come, you must not expect much. I am not a pleasant character, and my disposition is not amiable. But the probability is, if you accept my offer, that you and your boy will have regular meals, such as they are. I keep a shop; you can help me in it. You can come at once if you like--this very day. I don't suppose it will take you long to pack up.
'Bryan Carey.'
I started when I heard the name, for it was our own.
'It is from your uncle Bryan,' said my mother; 'your dear father's elder brother, who disappeared many years ago.'
'I thought he was dead, mother.'
'We all supposed so, never having heard from him.'
'Was he nice, mother?'
'I have no idea, child; I never saw him. But he says that he is neither amiable nor pleasant.'
Two words in the letter had especially attracted my attention.
'Regular meals,' I murmured, somewhat timidly.
My mother rose instantly. Unless she accepted the offer, there was but one alternative before her; and no one knew better than I how her sensitive nature shrank from it. It was the bitterest necessity only that had driven her to beg.
'I will go at once and see your uncle, my dear. I don't know where Paradise-row is, but I shall be able to find it out. I will be back as soon as possible. Keep indoors, there's a dear child!'
She was absent for nearly three hours.
'Well, mother?' I said, running to the door as I heard her step on the stairs.
She drew me into the room, and sat down, with her arms round my neck.
'We will go, dear,' she said, and my heart beat joyfully at the words. 'it will be a home for us. Situated as we are, what would become of my dear child if I were to fall really ill? And I have been afraid of it many times. Yes, we will go. Your uncle Bryan keeps a grocer's shop. I told him I should have to give a week's warning here, and he gave me the money to pay the rent, so that we might go to him at once.'
My mother looked about her regretfully. It belonged to her nature to become attached to everything with which she was associated, and she could not help having a tender feeling even for our one little room in which we had seen so much trouble.
'Now, Chris, We will pack up.'
As uncle Bryan predicted in his letter, it did not take us long. Everything we possessed went into one small trunk, and there was room for more when everything was in. The smoke-dried monkey of a man in stone--the precious relic I had inherited from my grandmother--had been carefully taken care of, and now lay at the bottom of the trunk. It had not brought us much luck, and I regarded it with something like aversion.
From the inscrutable eye of a landlady living in the house nothing can be concealed, and our landlady hovered in the passage, divining (with that peculiar inspiration with which all of her class are gifted) that something important was taking place. My mother called her in, and paid her the week's rent in lieu of a week's notice. She was deeply moved, after the fashion of landladies (living in the house), when lodgers who have paid regularly take their departure. The fear of another lodger not so punctual in paying as the last harrows their souls. As my mother did not enter into particulars, not even mentioning to the landlady where we were moving to, the inquisitive creature invited confidence by producing from a mysterious recess in her flannel petticoat a bottle of gin and a glass. My mother, however, declined to be bribed, much to the landlady's chagrin; after this she evidently regarded us with less favour.
'Uncle Bryan sent a boy with a wheelbarrow, Chris,' said my mother, 'to wheel your trunk home. He's waiting at the door now.'
'With the wheelbarrow?' I asked gaily. I was in high spirits at the better prospect which lay before us.
'Yes, dear. With the wheelbarrow.'
I could not help laughing, it seemed to me such a comical idea. My mother cast an affectionate look at the humble room we were leaving for ever, and then we carried the trunk down to the street door, the landlady not assisting. There stood the boy with the wheelbarrow. The trunk was lifted in, and we marched away, the boy trundling the barrow, we holding on in front, for fear the trunk should fall into the road. All the neighbours rushed into the street to look at the procession.
CHAPTER IX.
UNCLE BRYAN INTRODUCES HIMSELF.
The boy took no notice of the neighbours, but wheeled straight through them, regardless of their legs. Neither did he take any notice of us, except by whistling in our faces. But he trundled the wheelbarrow cheerfully, and with an airy independence most delightful to witness. It was a long journey to Paradise-row, and it occupied a long time; but the boy never flagged, never stopped to rest, although in the course of the journey he performed some eccentric antics. He was not as old as I, but he was much more strongly built. I envied him his strong limbs and broad shoulders. It was a cold day, and he was insufficiently clad; his toes peeped out of his boots, and his hair straggled through a hole in his cap, and a glimpse of his bare chest could now and then be seen through a rent in his waistcoat, which was made to serve the purpose of a jacket by being pinned at the throat; but the boy was not in the slightest degree affected by these disadvantages. The wind, which made me shiver, seemed to warm him, and he took it to his bosom literally with great contentment. His eyes were dark and bright, his nose was a most ostensible pug, and the curves of his large well-shaped mouth and lips spoke of saucy enjoyment. Indeed, he was full of life, noting with eager curiosity everything about him, and his dirty face sparkled with intelligence. As he drove the barrow before him, he whistled and sang without the slightest regard to nerves, and if any street lad accosted him jocosely or derisively, he returned the salutation with spirited interest. He appeared to be disposed to pause near the first organ-grinder we approached; but he resisted the inclination, and after a short but severe mental struggle, he compromised matters by trundling the barrow three times round the unfortunate Italian, making a wider sweep each time. My mother remonstrated with him; but the boy, with the reins of command in his hand, paid no other attention to her remonstrance than was expressed in a knowing cock of his eye, implying that it was all right, and that he knew what he was about. For the safety of our trunk we were compelled to accompany him in his circular wanderings, and I felt particularly foolish as we swept round and round. But the third circle completed, the boy drove straight along again contentedly, whistling the last air the organ-grinder had played with such force and expression as to cause some of the passers-by to put their fingers to their ears. This man[oe]uvre the boy conscientiously repeated with every organ-grinder we met on the road; repeated it also, very slowly and lingeringly, at a Punch-and-Judy show, afterwards conveying to the British public discordant reminiscences through his nose of the interview between Punch and the Devil; and with supreme audacity repeated it when we came to a band of negro minstrels, proving himself quite a match for them when they threatened him with dreadful consequences if he did not immediately put a stop to his circular performance. Indeed, when one of the band advanced towards him with menacing gestures, he ran the wheelbarrow against the opposing force with such an unmistakable intention, that to save his legs the nigger had to fly. In this manner we came at length to the end of our journey.
I found Windmill-street to be a mere slit in a busy and bustling neighbourhood, and Paradise-row, where uncle Bryan lived, a distinct libel upon heaven, being, I fervently hope, as little like a thoroughfare in Paradise as can well be imagined. Uncle Bryan's shop was at the corner of Windmill-street and Paradise-row, and uncle Bryan himself stood at his street-door, seemingly awaiting our arrival.
'Been loitering, eh?' was uncle Bryan's first salutation; sharply spoken, not to us, but to the boy.
'Never stopped wheelin', so 'elp me!' returned the boy, in a tone as sharp as my uncle's, yet with a doubtful look at my mother. 'Never stopped to take a breathful of air from the blessed minute we started. Arks 'er!'
My mother, being appealed to by uncle Bryan, confirmed the boy's statement, which was strictly correct, and, to his manifest astonishment, made no reproachful reference to his circular flights. His astonishment, however, almost immediately assumed the form of a satisfied leer.
'How much was it to be?' asked uncle Bryan, not at all satisfied with my mother's assurance.
'Thrums,' replied the boy, readily. By which he meant threepence.
Uncle Bryan regarded him sourly.
'Say that again, and I'll take off a penny.'
'Well, tuppence, then. I got to pay a ha'penny for the barrer. What's a brown, more or less?'
The question was not addressed to any of us in particular, so none of us answered it. Uncle Bryan paid him twopence; and the boy, with never a 'thank you,' spun the coins in the air, and caught them deftly; then, with a wink at my mother as a trustworthy conspirator, he walked away with his empty barrow, whistling with all his wind at mankind in general.
Now, when uncle Bryan first spoke, I started. I thought it was not the first time I had heard his voice. It sounded to me like the voice of the man with whom I had had the adventure on the previous Saturday night. The boy being out of sight, uncle Bryan turned to me.
'Why did you start just now?'
'I thought I knew your voice, sir,' I said.
'Call me uncle Bryan. Knew my voice! It isn't possible, as you've never set eyes on me, nor I on you, till this moment.'
This was intended to settle the doubt, and I never again referred to it, although it remained with me for a long while afterwards. The trunk had been left on the doorstep, and uncle Bryan assisted us to carry it upstairs to the bedroom allotted to us. A little bed for me--uncle Bryan made it over to me in three words--was placed behind a screen.
'I thought,' he said to my mother, 'you would like your boy to sleep in the same room as yourself. The house is a small one, but we can find another place for him if you wish.'
'Thank you, Bryan,' replied my mother simply, 'I would like to have him with me.'
Uncle Bryan was evidently no waster of words, and my mother entered readily into his humour.
'You must be tired,' he said, as he was about to leave the room; 'rest yourself a bit. But the sooner you come downstairs, the better I shall be pleased.'
My mother laid her hand on his arm, and detained him.
'Let me say a word to you, Bryan.'
'You will never repeat it!' he exclaimed, with a quick apprehension of what she wished to say.
'Never, without a strong necessity, Bryan.'
He laughed; but it was more like a dry husky cough than a laugh.
'When a man locks the street-door,' he said, 'trust a woman to see that the yard-door's on the latch.'
'I want to thank you, Bryan, for the home you have offered me and my boy.'
'Perhaps it won't suit you.'
'It will suit us, Bryan, if it will suit you to allow us to remain.'
He seemed to chew the words, 'allow us to remain,' silently, as if their flavour were unpleasant to him; but he said aloud:
'Wait and see, then.' And although my mother wished to continue the conversation, he turned his back to us, and abruptly left the room.
My mother sank into a chair; she must have been very tired, for she had walked not less than twelve miles that day.
'You must be tired too, my dear,' she said, drawing me to her side.
'Not so tired as you, mother.'
'I don't feel very, very tired, my dear!'
I knew why she said so; hope dwelt in her heart.
'I think your uncle Bryan is a good man,' she said.
I did not express dissent; but I must have looked it.
'My dear,' she said, answering my look, 'you will find in your course through life that many sweet things have their home in the roughest shells. Uncle Bryan has a strange rough manner, but I think--nay, I am sure--he is a good man. Do you know, Chris, I believe those things that came home for us last Saturday night were sent by him. No, my dear, we will not ask him, or even speak of it. He will be better pleased if it is not referred to. And yet I wonder how he found us out!'
The room which was assigned to us was a back-room, small, and commonly but cleanly furnished. Immediately beneath the window was the water-butt, and beyond it were numbers of small back-yards--so many, indeed, that I wondered where the houses could be that belonged to them. The general prospect from this window, as I very soon learned, was composed of sheets, shirts, stockings, and the usual articles of male and female attire in the process of drying: of some other things also--of washing-tubs, and women and little girls wringing and washing and up to their arm-pits in soap-suds. Occasionally I saw men also thus engaged. A variation in the prospect was sometimes afforded by small children being brought into the yards to be slapped and then set upon the stones to cool, and by other small children blowing soap-bubbles out of father's pipes. The peculiarity of the scene was that the clothes never appeared to be dried. They were eternally hanging on the lines, which intersected each other like a Chinese puzzle, or were being skewered to them in a damp condition. I can safely assert that existence, as seen from our bedroom window, was one interminable washing-day.
When we went downstairs uncle Bryan was in the shop, weighing up his wares and attending to occasional customers. Attached to the shop were a parlour, in which the meals were taken and which served as a general sitting-room, and a smaller apartment in the rear. My mother called me into the smaller room. Do you see, Chris?' she said, pointing to some flowers on the window-sill. There were two or three pots also, in which seeds had evidently been newly planted. In my mother's eyes, these were a strong proof of my uncle's goodness. A rickety flight of steps led to the basement of the house, in which there was a gloomy kitchen (very blackbeetle-y), which could not have been used for a considerable time. The cobwebs were thick in the corners, and a prosperous spider, a very alderman in its proportions, peeped out of its stronghold, with an air of 'What is all this about?' The appearance of a woman in that deserted retreat did not please my gentleman; it was a sign of progress. In the basement were also two or three other gloomy recesses.
Our brief inspection ended, we ascended to the parlour. The fire was burning brightly, and the kettle was on the hob. My mother went to the door which led to the shop.
'At what time do you generally have tea, Bryan?' she inquired.
'At half-past five,' he replied.
It was a quarter-past five by an American clock which stood in the centre of the mantelshelf. The clock was a common wooden one, with a glass door in front, on which was engraved a figure of Father Time with a crack down his back. One of his eyes was damaged, and his scythe also was mutilated; taking him altogether, as he was there represented, damaged and with cracks in him, old Father Time seemed by his disconsolate appearance to be of the opinion that it was high time an end was made of him. Without more ado, my mother opened the cupboard, and finding everything there she wanted, laid the table, and prepared the meal. Exactly at half-past five uncle Bryan came in, and we had tea. He did not express the slightest approval of my mother's quickness, nor did she ask for it; and when tea was over, he went into the shop again, and my mother cleared up the things. She asked him about to-morrow's dinner, and took me with her to market with the money he gave her. While we were looking about us we came across the boy who had fetched our trunk in the wheelbarrow. He was standing with others listening to a hymn which was being sung by two men and a woman. One of the men was blind, and he played on a harmonium, while his companions sang. He joined in also, having a powerful voice, and I thought the performance a very fine one.
The boy saw us; approached my mother, and said in a tone of strong approval:
'You're a brick. I say, we sold old Bryan, didn't us?'
My mother could not help smiling, which heightened the favourable opinion he had of her.
'What are you going to do?' he asked.
My mother explained that she was going to market.
'I'll show you the shops,' he said; and his offer was accepted.
He proved useful, and took us to the best and cheapest shops, and gave his candid opinion (generally unfavourable) of the articles my mother purchased. When the marketing was finished, he volunteered to carry the basket, and did not leave us until we were within a yard or two of uncle Bryan's shop. He enlivened the walk with many quaint and original observations, and when he had nothing to say he whistled. He took his departure with good-humoured winks and nods. Upon my mother counting out her purchases to uncle Bryan, and returning him the few coppers that were left, he said,
'We'll settle things on Monday, Emma. You'll have to take the entire charge of the house, and to keep the expenses down, and we'll arrange a certain sum, which must not be exceeded. If anything is saved out of it, you can put it by in this box,' pointing to a stone money-box shaped like an urn, which was on a shelf. You can do anything you like to the place, but don't disturb my flower-pots.'
'What have you planted in the new pots, Bryan?'
'Some of the new Japan lilies; they'll not flower till summer. Don't touch them; you don't understand them.'
My mother was very busy that night, dusting and cleaning, and I think I never saw her in a happier mood. Now and then she went into the shop, and stood quietly behind the counter, noting how uncle Bryan attended to his business. He took not the slightest notice of her; did not address a single word to her. Once she came bustling back, with an air of importance. 'I've served a customer, Chris,' she said gleefully.
Uncle Bryan's shop was stocked with small supplies of everything in the grocery line, and in addition to these, he sold a few simple medicines for clearing the blood--some of them, I afterwards learned, of his own concoction and mixing. Friday was the day fixed for the preparation and making-up of these medicines, for Saturday was the great night for the sale of the mixtures to working people, who purchased them in halfpenny and penny doses. I discovered that uncle Bryan's pills were famous in the neighbourhood. I calculated that on this Saturday night he must have served at least fifty customers with his medicines. The little parlour presented quite a different appearance when my mother had finished cleaning and dusting. I looked for some expression of approval in uncle Bryan's face when he came in to partake of a bread-and-cheese supper; but I saw none. During the night my thoughts wandered to the little girl who had given the first halfpenny to my mother. I spoke about her.
'Do you think she will be sorry or glad, mother, because she will not see you to-night?'
'Sorry, I think, Chris; she will fancy I am ill.'
'But this is a great deal better, mother.'
'Infinitely better, dear child: and remember, we owe it all to uncle Bryan.'
Neither my mother nor I felt at all strange in our new home, and I slept as soundly as if I had lived in the house for years. Before we went to bed, my mother and I had a delicious ten minutes' chat; the storm in our lives which had lasted so long, and which had threatened to wreck us, had cleared away, and a delightful sense of rest stole into our hearts.
On the Sunday no business was done. After breakfast, uncle Bryan brought his account-book into the parlour, and busied himself with his accounts, adding up the week's takings, and calculating what profit was made. My mother asked him if he was going to church.
'I never go to church,' was his reply.
My mother looked grieved, but she entered into no argument with him.
'You have no objection to our going?' she said timidly.
'What have I to do with it? I dictate to no one. If you think it right to go to church, go.'
'Is there one near, Bryan?'
'Zion Chapel isn't two minutes' walk.'
Uncle Bryan asked no questions when we returned, and the day passed quietly. He devoted the evening to smoking and reading. My mother did not like the smoke at first, but it was not long before she schooled herself to fill uncle Bryan's pipe for him. So, with a pair of horn spectacles on his nose, and his pipe in his mouth, uncle Bryan read and enjoyed his leisure. Occasionally he took his pipe from his mouth, and read a few words aloud. At one time he became deeply engrossed in a book which he took from a shelf in the shop, and he read the following passage aloud:
'That the consciousness of existence is not dependent on the same form or the same matter is demonstrated to our senses in the works of the Creator, as far as our senses are capable of receiving that demonstration. A very numerous part of the animal creation preaches to us, far better than Paul, the belief in a life hereafter. Their little life resembles an earth and a heaven, a present and a future state; and comprises, if it may be so expressed, immortality in miniature.'
'Immortality in miniature!' repeated my mother, in a puzzled tone. 'What is that from, Bryan?'
'The Age of Reason,' he answered.
There was a long pause, broken again by uncle Bryan's voice:
'If we consider the nature of our condition here, we must see there is no occasion for such thing as revealed religion. What is it we want to know? Does not the creation, the universe we behold, preach to us the existence of an Almighty Power, that governs and regulates the whole? And is not the evidence that this creation, holds out to our senses infinitely stronger than anything we can read in a book that any impostor might make and call the word of God? As for morality, the knowledge of it exists in every man's conscience.'
Presently he laid the book aside, and my mother took it up. Uncle Bryan stretched forth his hand with the intention of keeping it from her; but he was too late. He gazed at her furtively from beneath his horn spectacles, as she turned over the pages. After a few minutes' inspection of the book she returned his gaze sadly, and, with a protecting motion, drew me to her side. I had not liked uncle Bryan's laugh, and I liked it less now.
'Chris, my dear child,' said my mother, in a tone of infinite tenderness, 'go upstairs and bring down my Bible.'
I did as she desired, and my mother caressed me close, with her arm round my waist. Uncle Bryan sat on one side of the fireplace, reading the Age of Reason; my mother sat on the other side, reading the Bible.
CHAPTER X.
OUR NEW HOME.
A day or two afterwards I surprised my mother and uncle Bryan in the midst of a conversation which I supposed had reference to myself. My mother was in a very earnest mood, but uncle Bryan, except that he listened attentively to what she was saying, seemed in no way stirred. In all my life's experiences I never met or heard of a man who was more thoroughly attentive to every little detail that passed around him than was uncle Bryan; but although he gave his whole mind to the smallest matter for the time being, he evinced no indication of it, and persons who did not understand his character might reasonably have supposed him to be utterly indifferent to what was going on.
'You will promise me, Bryan,' my mother said.
'I will promise nothing, Emma,' he replied; 'I made a promise once in my life, and I received a promise in return. I know what came of it.' He smiled bitterly, and added, his words seeming to me to be prompted more by inner consciousness than by the signs of distress in my mother's face, 'But you can make your mind easy. It is not in my nature to force my views upon any one. Force! as if it were any matter of mine! What comes to him must come as it has come to me--through the light of experience.'
'Do you not believe, Bryan----'
He interrupted her, almost vehemently. 'I believe in nothing! If that does not content you, I cannot help it.'
'If I could assist you, Bryan--if I could in any way relieve you----'
'You cannot. I am fixed. Life for me is tasteless.'
Something of desolation was in his tone as he said this, but its plaintiveness was not designed by the speaker. Rather did he intend to express defiance, and a renunciation of sympathy.
'But, Bryan,' said my mother, with a tender movement towards him----
'I must stop you,' he said, 'for fear you should say something which would compel an explanation from me. Let matters rest I am but one among hundreds of millions of crawlers. Once I saw other than visible signs--or fancied that I saw them, fool that I was! The time has gone, never to return; the power of comprehension has gone, never to return. You must take me as you find me. There is very little in the world that I like or dislike; but I can heartily despise one thing: insincerity. Have you anything more to say?'
'No, Bryan;' and I could see that my mother was both pained and relieved.
'I have; two or three words. A question first. You can be satisfied to remain here?'
'Yes, Bryan, if it satisfies you. I can do no better.'
A gleam came into his eyes. 'That is sincere,' he said, with a pleasanter smile than the last. 'Very well, then; it does satisfy me. What I want to say now is, that there must be no break. You must not remain, and let me get accustomed to you, and then leave me for a woman's reason.'
'I will not, Bryan.'
With that, the conversation ended. In the night, when my mother and I were alone in our bedroom, I said,
'Do you think uncle Bryan is a good man now, mother?'
'Is it not good of him, Chris, to give us a home?'
'Yes,' I said; but I was not quite satisfied with her answer. 'His shell is very rough, though.'
My mother laughed. I loved to hear her laugh; it was so different from uncle Bryan's. His laughter had no gladness in it.
'We shall find a sweet place here and there, Chris,' she said.
She tried to, I am sure, and she brightened the house with her pleasant ways. One night we were sitting together as usual; I was doing a sum on a slate which uncle Bryan had set for me; he was reading; my mother was mending clothes. We had been sitting quiet for a long time, when my mother commenced to sing one of her simple songs, very softly, as though she were singing to herself. In the midst of her singing she became aware that uncle Bryan was present, and with a rapid apprehensive glance at him she paused. He looked up from his book at once.
'Why do you stop, Emma?' he asked.
'I thought I might disturb you.'
'You do not; I like to hear you.'
The charm, however, was broken for that night, and my mother knew it, and sang but little. Two or three nights afterwards, when uncle Bryan was engrossed in his book, my mother began to sing again over her work. I knew every trick of her features, and I think she was designing enough to watch her opportunity, for there was never a more perfect master than she of the delicate cunning which kindness to rough and cross natures often requires. It was with much curiosity that I quietly observed uncle Bryan's behaviour while my mother sang. He held his book steadily before him, but he did not turn a page; and to my, perhaps, too curious eyes there appeared to be, in the very curve of his shoulders, a grateful recognition of my mother's wish to please him. I could not see his face, but I liked him better at that time than I had ever yet done. Truly, my mother was right; here at least was one sweet place found in the rough shell. She continued her singing in the same soft strains; and often afterwards sang when we three were sitting together of an evening.
Exactly three weeks after we had taken up our quarters with uncle Bryan, my mother and I paid a visit to the neighbourhood in which she had made the acquaintance of the fairy in the cotton-print dress; but although it was Saturday night we saw no trace of the little girl. My mother was much disappointed; and then she went to the house in which the young woman lived who had given her sixpence, and learned that she had moved, the landlady did not know whither. I was glad to get away from the neighbourhood, although I was almost as much disappointed as my mother was at not finding our little fairy.
Our new life, having thus fairly commenced, went on for a long time with but little variation. Uncle Bryan allowed my mother to do exactly as she pleased, and she, without in the slightest way disturbing his regular habits, made the house very different from what it was when she first entered it. Every room in it, down to the basement, where she did the cooking, was always sweet and clean. We also had flowers on the sill of our bedroom window, and their graceful forms and bright colours were a refreshing relief to the dark back wall. It delights me to see the taste for growing flowers cultivated by the poor. Flowers are purifiers; they breed good thoughts. Quite a rivalry was established between uncle Bryan and my mother in the care and attention which they bestowed on their respective window-sills. It went on silently and pleasantly, and my mother was not displeased because uncle Bryan was the victor. He trained some creepers from the window of his little back room to the window of our bedroom, and my mother watched them with intense interest creeping up, and up, until they reached the sill. 'They are like a message of love from your uncle, my dear,' she said. It is by such small precious links as these that heart is bound to heart. Yet the feelings with which uncle Bryan inspired me were by no means of a tender nature. He made no effort to win my affection; as a general rule, his bearing towards me was sufficiently cold to check tender impulse, and the words, 'I believe in nothing!' which I had heard him address sternly to my mother, had impressed me very seriously. I regarded him sometimes with fear and aversion.
I was sent to a cheap school, a very few pence a week being paid for my education. My career in the school is scarcely worthy of record. All that was taught there were reading, writing, and arithmetic; and when these were learned our education was completed. The master never allowed himself to be tripped up by his pupils. Arithmetic was his strong point, and the rule-of-three was his boundary.
In that happy hunting-ground we bought and sold the usual illimitable quantities of eggs, and yards of calico, and firkins of butter; and there we should have wallowed until we were old men, had we remained long enough, without ever reaching another heaven. My principal reminiscences of those days are connected with the bully of the school; who, whenever we met in the streets out of school-hours, compelled me to make three very low and humble bows to him before he would allow me to pass. I have not the satisfaction of being able to record that he met with the usual fate (in fiction) of school bullies--that of being soundly licked, and of being compelled to eat humble pie for ever afterwards. He was a successful tyrant. His position occasionally compelled him to fight two boys at a time--one down, the other come up--but he was never beaten. A tyrant he was, and a tyrant he remained until I lost sight of him. In his career, virtue was never triumphant.