Kitabı oku: «Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. VI, November 1850, Vol. I», sayfa 23

One day, however, they had been without food or firing for nearly twenty-four hours, and the little Cécile was fractious with hunger, incessantly crying, "Du pain! du pain!" Marie rose, and approaching the Virgin, said, "It is wicked to hesitate longer: go, Auguste, and sell it for what you can get."

She seized it hastily, as though afraid of changing her resolution, and with such trepidation, that it slipped through her fingers, and broke in two. Poor Marie sank upon her face at this sight, with a superstitious feeling that she had meditated wrong, and was thus punished. She was weeping bitterly, when her husband almost roughly raised her up, exclaiming in joyful accents, "Marie, Marie, give thanks to God! Now I know why your father pointed when he could not speak! Sorrow no more: we are rich!"

In the body of the statuette were found bills to the amount of fifteen hundred francs – Marie's fortune, in fact, which her father had told the chaplain he had amassed for her. We need not dwell upon the happiness of this excellent couple, or the rapture, mingled with gratitude, in which the remainder of this day was passed. Those who disapprove of castle-building may perhaps blame them; for several castles they constructed, on better foundations, however, than most of those who spend their time in this pleasing but unprofitable occupation. Next day they took a glazier's shop, stocked it, provided themselves with decent clothing and furniture, and commenced their new life with equal frugality and comfort – Marie doing her own work, and serving in the shop when her husband was out engaged in business. But in time he was able to hire an assistant, and she a young girl, to look after the children while she pursued the avocation of a couturière, in which she soon became very expert. The little image was fastened together again, placed upon a white table, similar to that which used to stand in her childhood's home, surrounded with flowers, and made, as of old, the abode of sugar-plums and rewards of good conduct. But alas! there are not many Maries in the world. In spite of her good example and good teaching, her children would at times be naughty. They sometimes quarreled, sometimes were greedy; and what vexed their simple-minded mother more than all the rest, sometimes told stories of one another. Still they were good children, as children go; and when the black screen was superseded by punishments a little more severe, did credit to their training. They were not permitted to play in the street, or to go to or from school alone, or remain there after school-hours. Their father took pains with their deportment, corrected false grammar, and recommended the cultivation of habits more refined than people in his humble although respectable position deem necessary. As their prosperity increased, Marie was surprised to observe her husband devote all his spare time to reading, and not only picture-cleaning and repairing, but painting, in which he was such an adept, that he was employed to paint several signs.

"How did you learn so much?" she said one day. "Did your father teach you?"

"No; I went to school."

"Then he was not so very poor?"

"He was very poor, but he lived in hopes that I might one day possess a fortune."

"It would seem as if he had a foreknowledge of what my little statue contained?"

"No, my love; he looked to it from another source; for a title without a fortune is a misfortune."

"A title! Nay, now you are playing with my simplicity."

"No, Marie; I am the nephew of the Vicomte de – , and for aught I know, may be the possessor of that name at this moment – the legal heir to his estate. My father, ruined by his extravagance, and, I grieve to add, by his crimes, had caused himself to be disowned by all his relations. He fled with me to Paris, where he soon after died, leaving me nothing but his seal and his papers. I wrote to my uncle for assistance; but although being then quite a boy, and incapable of having personally given him offense, he refused it in the most cruel manner; and I was left to my own resources at a time when my name and education were rather a hindrance than a help, and I found no opening for entering into any employment suited to my birth. My uncle had then two fine, healthy, handsome boys; the youngest is dead; and the eldest, I heard accidentally, in such a state of health that recovery is not looked for by the most sanguine of his friends. I never breathed a word of all this to you, because I never expected to survive my cousins, and resolved to make an independent position for myself sooner or later. Do you remember the other day an old gentleman stopping and asking some questions about the coat of arms I was painting?"

"Yes; he asked who had employed you to paint those arms, but I was unable to inform him."

"Well, my dear, he came again this morning to repeat the question to myself; and I am now going to satisfy him, when I expect to bring you some news."

Marie was in a dream. Unlike gardeners' daughters of the present day, she had read no novels or romances, and it appeared to her as impossible that such an event should happen as that the cap on her head should turn into a crown. It did happen, however. The old gentleman, a distant relation and intimate friend of the uncle of Auguste, had come to Paris, at his dying request, to endeavor to find out his nephew and heir; and the proofs Auguste produced were so plain, that he found no difficulty in persuading M. B – de that he was the person he represented himself to be. He very soon after went to Belgium, took legal possession of all his rights, and returned to hail the gentle and long-suffering Marie as Vicomtesse de – , and conduct her and the children to a handsome apartment in the Rue – , dressed in habiliments suitable to her present station, and looking as lady-like as if she had been born to fill it. She lived long and happily, and continued the same pure, humble-minded being she had ever been, whether blooming among the flowers at Bouloinvilliers, or pining for want in a garret in the Faubourg St. Antoine. Two of her daughters are alive now. Her son, after succeeding to his father, died, without children, of the cholera, in 1832; and the son of his eldest sister has taken up the title, under a different name, these matters not being very strictly looked after in France.

[From Dickens's Household Words.]

THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN

Many travelers know the "Rutland Arms" at Bakewell, in the Peak of Derbyshire. It is a fine large inn, belonging to his Grace of Rutland, standing in an airy little market-place of that clean-looking little town, and commanding from its windows pleasant peeps of the green hills and the great Wicksop Woods, which shut out the view of Chatsworth, the Palace of the Peak, which lies behind them. Many travelers who used to traverse this road from the south to Manchester, in the days of long coaches and long wintry drives, know well the "Rutland Arms," and will recall the sound of the guard's bugle, as they whirled up to the door, amid a throng of grooms, waiters, and village idlers, the ladder already taken from its stand by the wall, and placed by the officious Boots in towering position, ready, at the instant of the coach stopping, to clap it under your feet, and facilitate your descent. Many travelers will recall one feature of that accommodating inn, which, uniting aristocratic with commercial entertainment, has two doors; one lordly and large in front, to which all carriages of nobility, prelacy, and gentility naturally draw up; and one at the end, to which all gigs, coaches, mails, and still less dignified conveyances, as naturally are driven. Our travelers will as vividly remember the passage which received them at this entrance, and the room to the left, the Travelers'-room, into which they were ushered. To that corner room, having windows to the market-place in front, and one small peeping window at the side, commanding the turn of the north road, and the interesting arrivals at the secondary entrance, we now introduce our readers.

Here sat a solitary gentleman. He was a man apparently of five-and-thirty; tall, considerably handsome; a face of the oval character, nose a little aquiline, hair dark, eyebrows dark and strong, and a light, clear, self-possessed look, that showed plainly enough that he was a man of active mind, and well to do in the world. You would have thought, from his gentlemanly air, and by no means commercial manner, that he would have found his way in at the great front door, and into one of the private rooms; but he came over night by the mail, and, on being asked, on entering the house, by the waiter, to what sort of room he would be shown, answered, carelessly and abruptly, "any where."

Here he was, seated in the back left-hand corner of the room, a large screen between himself and the door, and before him a table spread with a goodly breakfast apparatus – coffee, eggs, fresh broiled trout from the neighboring Weye, and a large round of corned beef, as a dernier ressort.

It was a morning as desperately and delugingly rainy as any that showery region can send down. In the phrase of the country, it siled down, or run, as if through a sieve. Straight down streamed the plenteous element, thick, incessant, and looking as if it would hold on the whole day through. It thundered on the roof, beat a sonorous tune on porches and projections of door and window, splashed in torrents on window-sills, and streaming panes, and rushed along the streets in rivers. The hills were hidden, the very fowls driven to roost – and not a soul was to be seen out of doors.

Presently there was a sound of hurrying wheels, a spring-cart came up to the side door, with two men in it, in thick great coats, and with sacks over their shoulders; one huge umbrella held over their heads, and they and their horse yet looking three parts drowned. They lost no time in pitching their umbrella to the hostler, who issued from the passage, descending and rushing into the inn. In the next moment the two countrymen, divested of their sacks and great coats, were ushered into this room, the waiter, making a sort of apology, because there was a fire there – it was in the middle of July. The two men, who appeared Peak farmers, with hard hands, which they rubbed at the fire, and tanned and weather-beaten complexions, ordered breakfast – of coffee and broiled ham – which speedily made its appearance, on a table placed directly in front of the before solitary stranger, between the side look-out window and the front one.

They looked, and were soon perceived by our stranger to be, father and son. The old man, of apparently upward of sixty, was a middle-sized man, of no Herculean mould, but well knit together, and with a face thin and wrinkled as with a life-long acquaintance with care and struggle. His complexion was more like brown leather than any thing else, and his hair, which was thin and grizzled, was combed backward from his face, and hung in masses about his ears. The son was much taller than the father, a stooping figure, with flaxen hair, a large nose, light blue eyes, and altogether a very gawky look.

The old man seemed to eat with little appetite, and to be sunk into himself, as if he was oppressed by some heavy trouble. Yet he every now and then roused himself, cast an anxious look at his son, and said, "Joe, lad, thou eats nothing."

"No, fayther," was the constant reply; "I towd you I shouldn't. This reen's enough te tak any body's appetite – and these t'other things," casting a glance at the stranger.

The stranger had, indeed, his eyes fixed curiously upon the two, for he had been watching the consumptive tendency of the son; not in any cough or hectic flush, or peculiar paleness, for he had a positively sunburnt complexion of his own, but by the extraordinary power he possessed of tossing down coffee and ham, with enormous pieces of toast and butter. Under his operations, a large dish of broiled ham rapidly disappeared, and the contents of the coffee-pot were in as active demand. Yet the old man, ever and anon, looked up from his reverie, and repeated his paternal observation:

"Joe, lad, thou eats nothing!"

"No, fayther," was still the reply; "I towd you I shouldn't. It's this reen, and these t'other things" – again glancing at the stranger.

Presently the broiled ham had totally vanished – there had been enough for six ordinary men. And while the son was in the act of holding the coffee-pot upside down, and draining the last drop from it, the old man once more repeated his anxious admonition: "Joe, lad, thou eats nothing!" – and the reply was still, "No, fayther, I towd you I shouldn't. It's this reen, and these t'other things."

This was accompanied by another glance at the stranger, who began to feel himself very much in the way, but was no little relieved by the son rising with his plate in his hand, and coming across the room, saying, "You've a prime round of beef there, sir; might I trouble you for some?"

"By all means," said the stranger, and carved off a slice of thickness and diameter proportioned to what appeared to him the appetite of this native of the Peak. This speedily disappeared; and as the son threw down the knife and fork, the sound once more roused the old man, who added, with an air of increased anxiety, "Joe, lad, thou eats nothing."

"No, fayther," for the last time responded the son. "I towd you I shouldn't. It's this reen, and this t'other matter – but I've done, and so let's go."

The father and son arose and went out. The stranger who had witnessed this extraordinary scene, but without betraying any amusement at it, arose, too, the moment they closed the door after them, and, advancing to the window, gazed fixedly into the street. Presently the father and son, in their great coats, and with their huge drab umbrella hoisted over them, were seen proceeding down the market-place in the midst of the still pouring rain, and the stranger's eyes followed them intently till they disappeared in the winding of the street. He still stood for some time, as if in deep thought, and then turning, rung the bell, ordered the breakfast-things from his table, and producing a writing-case, sat down to write letters. He continued writing, pausing at intervals, and looking steadily before him as in deep thought, for about an hour, when the door opened, and the Peak farmer and his son again entered. They were in their wet and steaming greatcoats. The old man appeared pale and agitated; bade the son see that the horse was put in the cart, rung the bell, and asked what he had to pay. Having discharged his bill, he continued to pace the room, as if unconscious of the stranger, who had suspended his writing, and was gazing earnestly at him. The old man frequently paused, shook his head despairingly, and muttered to himself, "Hard man! – no fellow feeling! – all over! all over!" With a suppressed groan, he again continued his pacing to and fro.

The stranger arose, approached the old man, and said, with a peculiarly sympathizing tone,

"Excuse me, sir, but you seem to have some heavy trouble on your mind; I should be glad if it were any thing that were in my power to alleviate."

The old man stopped suddenly – looked sternly at the stranger – seemed to recollect, himself, and said rather sharply, as if feeling an unauthorized freedom – "Sir!"

"I beg pardon," said the stranger. "I am aware that it must seem strange in me to address you thus; but I can not but perceive that something distresses you, and it might possibly happen that I might be of use to you."

The old man looked at him for some time in silence, and then said,

"I forgot any one was here; but you can be of no manner of use to me. I thank you."

"I am truly sorry for it; pray excuse my freedom," said the stranger with a slight flush; "but I am an American, and we are more accustomed to ask and communicate matters than is consistent with English reserve. I beg you will pardon me."

"You are an American?" asked the old man, looking at him. "You are quite a stranger here?"

"Quite so, sir," replied the stranger, with some little embarrassment. "I was once in this country before, but many years ago."

The old man still looked at him, was silent awhile, and then said, "You can not help me, sir; but I thank you all the same, and heartily. You seem really a very feeling man, and so I don't mind opening my mind to you – I am a ruined man, sir."

"I was sure you were in very deep trouble, sir," replied the stranger. "I will not seek to peer into your affairs; but I deeply feel for you, and would say that many troubles are not so deep as they seem. I would hope yours are not."

"Sir," replied the old man – the tears starting into his eyes, "I tell you I am a ruined man. I am heavily behind with my rent, all my stock will not suffice to pay it; and this morning we have been to entreat the steward to be lenient, but he will not hear us; he vows to sell us up next week."

"That is hard," said the stranger. "But you are hale, your son is young; you can begin the world anew."

"Begin the world anew!" exclaimed the old man, with a distracted air. "Where? – how? when? No, no! sir, there is no beginning anew in this country. Those days are past. That time is past with me. And as for my son: Oh, God! Oh, God! what shall become of him, for he has a wife and family, and knows nothing but about a farm."

"And there are farms still," said the stranger.

"Yes; but at what rentals? and, then, where is the capital?"

The old man grew deadly pale, and groaned.

"In this country," said the stranger, after a deep silence, "I believe these things are hard, but in mine they are not so. Go there, worthy old man; go there, and a new life yet may open to you."

The stranger took the old man's hand tenderly; who, on feeling the stranger's grasp, suddenly, convulsively, caught the hand in both his own, and shedding plentiful tears, exclaimed, "God bless you, sir; God bless you for your kindness! Ah! such kindness is banished from this country, but I feel that it lives in yours – but there! – no, no! – there I shall never go. There are no means."

"The means required," said the stranger, tears, too, glittering in his eyes, "are very small. Your friends would, no doubt – "

"No, no!" interrupted him the old man, deeply agitated; "there are no friends – not here."

"Then why should I not be a friend so far?" said the stranger. "I have means – I know the country. I have somehow conceived a deep interest in your misfortunes."

"You!" said the old man, as if bewildered with astonishment; "you! – but come along with us, sir. Your words, your kindness, comfort me; at least you can counsel with us – and I feel it does me good."

"I will go with all my heart," said the stranger. "You can not live far from here. I will hence to Manchester, and I can, doubtless, make it in my way."

"Exactly in the way!" said the old man, in a tone of deep pleasure, and of much more cheerfulness, "at least, not out of it to signify – though not in the great highway. We can find you plenty of room, if you do not disdain our humble vehicle."

"I have heavy luggage," replied the stranger, ringing the bell. "I will have a post-chaise, and you shall go in it with me. It will suit you better this wet day."

"Oh no! I can not think of it, sir," said the farmer. "I fear no rain. I am used to it, and I am neither sugar nor salt. I shall not melt."

The old man's son approached simultaneously with the waiter, to say that the cart was ready. The stranger ordered a post-chaise to accompany the farmer, at which the son stood with an open-mouthed astonished stare, which would have excited the laughter of most people, but did not move a muscle of the stranger's grave and kindly face.

"This good gentleman will go with us," said the old man.

"Oh, thank you, sir!" said the son, taking off his hat and making a low bow, "you are heartily welcome; but it's a poor place, sir."

"Never mind that," said the old man. "Let us be off and tell Millicent to get some dinner for the gentleman."

But the stranger insisted that the old man should stay and accompany him in the chaise, and so the son walked off to prepare for their coming. Soon the stranger's trunks were placed on the top of the chaise, and the old man and he drove off.

Their way was for some time along the great high-road; then they turned off to the left, and continued their course up a valley till they ascended a very stony road, which wound far over the swell of the hill, and then approached a large gray stone house, backed by a wood that screened it from the north and east. Far around, lay an immense view, chiefly of green, naked, and undulating fields, intersected by stone walls. No other house was near; and villages lying at several miles distant, naked and gray on the uplands, were the only evidences of human life.

The house was large enough for a gentleman's abode, but there were no neatly kept walks; no carefully cultivated shrubberies; no garden lying in exquisite richness around it. There was no use made of the barns and offices. There were no servants about. A troop of little children who were in the field in front, ran into the house and disappeared.

On entering the house, the stranger observed that its ample rooms were very naked and filled only by a visible presence of stern indigence. The woodwork was unpainted. The stone floors were worn, and merely sanded. The room into which he was conducted, and where the table was already laid for dinner, differed only in having the uncarpeted floor marked in figures of alternating ochre and pipe-clay, and was furnished with a meagre amount of humblest chairs and heavy oak tables, a little shelf of books and almanacs, and a yellow-faced clock. A shabby and tired-looking maid-servant was all the domestics seen within or without.

Joe, the simple-looking son, received them, and the only object which seemed to give a cheering impression to the stranger, was Joe's wife, who presented herself with a deep courtesy. The guest was surprised to see in her a very comely, fresh colored, and modestly sensible woman, who received him with a kindly cordiality and native grace, which made him wonder how such a woman could have allied herself to such a man. There were four or five children about her, all evidently washed and put into their best for his arrival, and who were pictures of health and shyness.

Mrs. Warilow took off the old man's great coat with an affectionate attention, and drew his plain elbow chair, with a cushion covered with a large-patterned check on its rush bottom, toward the fire; for there was a fire, and that quite acceptable in this cold region after the heavy rain. Dinner was then hastily brought in; Mrs. Warilow apologizing for its simplicity, from the short notice she had received, and she might have added from the painful news which Joe brought with him; for it was very evident, though she had sought to efface the trace of it, by copious washing, that she had been weeping.

The old man was obviously oppressed by the ill result of his morning's journey to the steward, and the position of his affairs. His daughter-in-law cast occasional looks of affectionate anxiety at him, and endeavored to help him in such a manner as to induce him to eat; but appetite he had little. Joe played his part as valiantly as in the morning; and the old man occasionally rousing from his reverie, again renewed the observation of the breakfast-table.

"Joe, lad, thou eats nothing;" adding too now, "Milly, my dear, thou eats nothing. You eat nothing, sir. None of you have any appetite, and I have none myself. God help me!"

An ordinary stranger would scarcely have resisted a smile – none appeared on the face of the guest.

After dinner they drew to the fire, which consisted of large lumps of coal burning under a huge beamed chimney. There a little table was set with spirits and home-made wine, and the old man and Joe lit their pipes, inviting the stranger to join them, which he did with right good-will. There was little conversation, however; Joe soon said that he must go over the lands to see that the cattle was all right; he did more, and even slept in his chair, and the stranger proposed to Mrs. Warilow a walk in the garden, where the afternoon sun was now shining warmly. In his drive hither in the chaise, he had learned the exact position of the old farmer. He was, as he had observed, so heavily in arrear of rent, that his whole stock would not discharge it. When they had seated themselves in the old arbor, he communicated his proposal to her father-in-law to remove to America; observing, that he had conceived so great a sympathy for him, that he would readily advance him the means of conveying over the whole family.

Mrs. Warilow was naturally much surprised at the disclosure. Such an offer from a casual stranger, when all friends and family connections had turned a deaf ear to all solicitations for aid, was something so improbable that she could not realize it. "How can you, sir, a stranger to us, volunteer so large a sum, which we may never be in a position to repay?"

The stranger assured her that the sum was by no means large. That to him it was of little consequence, and that such was the scope for industry and agricultural skill in America, that in a few years they could readily refund the money. Here, from what the old gentleman had told him of the new augmented rate of rental, there was no chance of recovering a condition of ease and comfort.

Mrs. Warilow seemed to think deeply on the new idea presented to her, and then said, "Surely God has sent Mr. Vandeleur (so the stranger had given his name), for their deliverance. Oh, sir!" added she, "what shall we not owe you if by your means we can ever arrive at freedom from the wretched trouble that now weighs us down. And oh! if my poor father should ever, in that country, meet again his lost son!"

"He has lost a son?" said the stranger, in a tone of deep feeling.

"Ah, it is a sad thing, sir," continued Mrs. Warilow, "but it is that which preys on father's mind. He thinks he did wrong in it, and he believes that the blessing of Heaven has deserted him ever since. Sure enough, nothing has prospered with him, and yet he feels that if the young man lives he has not been blameless. He had not felt and forgiven as a son should. But he can not be living – no, he can not for all these years have borne resentment, and sent no part of his love or his fortune to his family. It is not in the heart of a child to do that, except in a very evil nature, and such was not that of this son."

"Pray go on," said the stranger, "you interest me deeply."

"This thing occurred twenty years ago. Mr. Warilow had two sons. The eldest, Samuel, was a fine active youth, but always with a turn for travel and adventure, which was very trying to his father's mind, who would have his sons settle down in this their native neighborhood, and pursue farming as their ancestors had always done. But his eldest son wished to go to sea, or to America. He read a vast deal about that country, of winter nights, and was always talking of the fine life that might be led there. This was very annoying to his father, and made him very angry, the more so that Joseph, the younger son, was a weakly lad, and had something left upon him by a severe fever, as a boy, that seemed to weaken his limbs and his mind. People thought he would be an idiot, and his father thought that his eldest brother should stay and take care of him, for it was believed that he would never be able to take care of himself. But this did not seem to weigh with Samuel. Youths full of life and spirit don't sufficiently consider such things. And then it was thought that Samuel imagined that his father cared nothing for him, and cared only for the poor weakly son. He might be a little jealous of this, and that feeling once getting into people, makes them see things different to what they otherwise would, and do things that else they would not.

"True enough, the father was always particularly wrapped up in Joseph. He seemed to feel that he needed especial care, and he appeared to watch over him and never have him out of his mind, and he does so to this day. You have no doubt remarked, sir, that my husband is peculiar. He never got over that attack in his boyhood, and he afterward grew very rapidly, and it was thought he would have gone off in a consumption. It is generally believed that he is not quite sharp in all things. I speak freely to you, sir, and as long habit, and knowing before I married Joseph what was thought of him, only could enable me to speak to one who feels so kindly toward us. But it is not so – Joseph is more simple in appearance than in reality. No, sir, he has a deal of sense, and he has a very good heart; and it was because I perceived this that I was willing to marry him, and to be a true help to him, and, sir, though we have been very unfortunate, I have never repented it, and I never shall."

The stranger took Mrs. Warilow's hand, pressed it fervently, and said, "I honor you, Madam – deeply, truly – pray go on. The eldest son left, you say."

"Oh yes, sir! Their mother died when the boys were about fifteen and seventeen. Samuel had always been strongly attached to his mother, and that, no doubt, kept him at home; but after that he was more restless than ever, and begged the father to give him money to carry himself to America. The father refused. They grew mutually angry; and one day, when they had had high words, the father thought Samuel was disrespectful, and struck him. The young man had a proud spirit. That was more than he could bear. He did not utter a word in reply, but turning, walked out of the house, and from that hour has never once been heard of.

"His father was very angry with him, and for many years never spoke of him but with great bitterness and resentment, calling him an unnatural and ungrateful son. But of late years he has softened very much, and I can see that it preys on his mind, and as things have gone against him, he has come to think that it is a judgment on him for his hardness and unreasonableness in not letting the poor boy try his fortune as he so yearned to do.