Chapter II (6)

I fell to reading the biography of voyagers to see how the females of their party bore the perils of the sea, and then I made many inquiries as to their perils on shore, even with the tenderness of a husband to sustain them. Recollect, my friends, that this beloved being was my only tie on earth, and that without her, existence would be a burden. I was not going rashly to decide on her fate and mine; it was therefore but consistent with the love I bore her to weigh well the difficulties on either side. She, too, had thought of every thing, and her mind was made up at once—and that was to go with me. “I have but this to say, dearest husband,” said she at the beginning, and her mind underwent no change, “if we are permitted to go safely, we shall be a comfort to one another throughout the voyage and on shore; but if otherwise—if the sea is to be our grave, then we shall perish together; I could not survive your loss, and you, dearest”—

I never could let her proceed further; as to live without her seemed a thing impossible. At such times I seemed to yield assent, and began to make preparations; but having read an account of the illness and death of a lady on her passage across the Atlantic, I determined at once, if the going was insisted upon, that I would let her remain behind. Then again, if I saw in the papers the death of a young mother, I repented of my former decision; and in this miserable state of mind I was during the whole month of July. August still found me irresolute; but I had only two weeks left to waver, for there would then be but little time left to come within the limits of the bequest. There were but six weeks from that time to the first of October; it therefore became necessary to bring my mind to the painful decision of leaving my wife behind. I wrote to Mr. Porter, entreating him to come immediately, and remain in the house during my absence. I saw an eminent physician, and interested him in such a way that I was sure he would never let a day pass without paying her a visit, whether she were indisposed or not; and I took every precaution, in short, that love and prudence could dictate to make her comfortable and happy.

How she bore with all this nervous, morbid irritability, I cannot tell; but never by word or look did she betray any impatience; her sole object was to sooth me and make light of her own sufferings. She promised to take great care of her health, and Martha exhausted words in her desire to set my mind at rest. Mr. Porter declared she should never be out of his thoughts, and Mr. Blagge promised to take his wife and daughter to her the day after I should sail. But all this was nothing, absolutely nothing, in my estimation, when I considered how much more than all this I could do for her were I near her myself.

The time came at last; Mr. Blagge had taken my passage, and my trunk had gone to the ship. I had been to get some necessary papers of the British consul, and was hastening home—that home where I had enjoyed such exquisite happiness—like a fool I was leaving it—for what?—for an uncertain good—and when I returned, if Providence permitted me to return, might I not find that dear and cherished spot desolate! Whilst I was thus tormenting myself with these fearful fancies, the funeral of a lady passed me; she had been married at the same time with us, and she had died of inflammation of the lungs. I inquired of a person who was acquainted with her, and I found that she had taken cold from sitting in the draft of two doors, and, he added, the room was very small, so that there was no avoiding the exposure—the very situation in which I had left my dear wife only an hour before!

Of course I hastened home with greater speed and opened the door of the little parlour with the dismal feelings that I came too late. But she had removed to the window, and the sash was down. Oh, how I blessed her for this act of prudence. She saw my nervous apprehension and asked what had thus disturbed me, and finding my fears groundless I was ashamed to tell her the cause. She looked earnestly at me and said, “My dear husband, you are wearing yourself out with fears and anxieties; I am well, and with the blessing of Providence I hope so to remain; nay, I am strong enough to encounter the voyage, much more able to bear it than you are with your excited feelings. There are our trunks, Martha’s and mine, ready packed, and we are only hoping and waiting for your assent to go with you; so, dearest, knowing how unhappy you will be to leave me behind, even let me go. I shall not urge you any further, my love, but think of it this evening, and we shall have time in the morning to get ready what little remains to be done. Now throw all care from your mind and let us sit down cheerfully to our supper; depend upon it we shall be sitting here together this day four months laughing and talking over our present anxieties.”

Laugh, indeed, thought I; there never can come a time when I shall laugh at what I am now feeling so keenly. But I cast all selfishness aside, and determined to go alone as the lesser evil of the two, going over and over again the whole argument, and more fully convinced that although it was most painful to leave her, yet it would be cruel and presumptuous to make her encounter the risks of a sea voyage. I had but little sleep this last night; but my dear wife, after vainly endeavouring to prevail on me to court repose, fell asleep like an infant and slept soundly till morning. She suffered as acutely as I did, but her nervous temperament was of a less irritable cast; her sensibilities were more equally balanced. A knowledge of this always gave me comfort.

The dreaded morning came; all was hurry and bustle, and of course but little time for conversation. The trunks still stood in the room; mine had gone the day before, and I cast a look at them, and then on my wife, who, pale as death, was looking at the carriage that was to convey me to the boat. She saw my look and said, “I may go then, dear husband, you consent then that we shall go?” But I shut my eyes, as if to shut out the temptation, and shook my head. “Put the trunks out of the room, Mr. Porter,” said I, “for I shall be tormented with the desire to take her with me, and that I ought not to do; I must not waver any more, or I shall be unable to go at all.” The trunks were removed, and my dear wife seated herself and sighed. “But why do not you and Martha accompany me to the wharf?” said I—“perhaps we shall feel the parting less. There will be no time for any thing there but getting on board. Do you think, Martha, that she can bear it?”

“Oh yes, I dare say she can,” said Martha, “and I am sure it will do her good, and we can keep the carriage for an hour or so and take a little ride, for she has sat too much at her needle lately. Brother, do you get another carriage for us, and let them go together; Mr. Parr will feel the better for having her all to himself. We can return with her, you know.”

I was thankful for being a few minutes longer with my beloved, and I hoped that we might remain at the wharf an hour at least, as it was now only nine o’clock. We thought it best to go, however, as the wind was fair, and the captain might be anxious to sail; so we entered the carriage, leaving Martha to come with her brother. We drove slowly to the wharf, and there the first person we saw was Mr. Blagge, who had kindly come to see me off. My dear wife drew back in the carriage and begged that he might not see her, so I went to him and thanked him for this proof of his friendship, and again entreated him to remember how essential it was to my peace of mind that he should do all in his power to lessen my wife’s anxieties—if I could not ask a favour for myself, I would for this dear one.

Mr. Porter came to us and said that they had better return, as the horses were restless and Mrs. Parr might get frightened. Mr. Blagge thought so too, and blamed me for bringing her down to a scene of so much confusion; so I hastily snatched one kiss, pressed her dear hand as she held it out to me after the door was closed, and she and Martha disappeared from my sight.

What Mr. Blagge said to me I don’t know, but I now and then heard the sounds of new publications, and letters, and manuscripts, but I could only dwell on the grief that my poor wife was now in; it was too much to expect I could listen to him on such uninteresting subjects; why did he not talk of what he knew was the only feeling of my mind?—and to hold me by the arm too, lest I should get away. The steamboat, however, called all hands aboard, and passengers with all their friends jumped on board to go to the ship, which lay in the stream. I made a move to go also, but the captain, coming up at the instant, told me he would give me ten minutes longer, as he had to see a man on business, and that I could go with him in the ship’s boat which lay there ready for him. The steamboat left the wharf, and Mr. Blagge talked on; I never knew him so loquacious before, and he kept jerking me around as if the nervousness under which I was labouring had imparted itself to his arm.

At length the captain returned, and Mr. Blagge, shaking hands with me, promised to look most carefully—and, he added with strong emphasis—most affectionately, after all the concerns I left behind. The oars cut the water, and as soon as we were on board the captain gave orders for sailing. The steamboat was just departing, and on turning my eye towards it I saw poor Mr. Porter. I called out to him that I was safely on board, most thankful that he had seen me, for what would have been the agony of my dear wife if he had returned and reported that the vessel had sailed without me. He entered the boat, thought I, with the intention of seeing me safely to the ship; his consternation must have been great when I was not to be found amongst the passengers. He waved his hat, however, on seeing me as I bent over the side of the vessel, and pressing his hand to his heart he pointed towards the shore—it told me that he intended to fulfil his promise of guarding well the sacred trust I had confided to him.

Through the narrows and out in the broad ocean we soon were; but I stood immovable with my eyes turned to that dear shore where all my hopes were centred. I could not realize it—what! voluntarily to leave the only creature on earth to whom I was attached?—she, too, who had chosen me when poor and unknown. Could I not be content with the independence that my own honest labour procured, but must I show how much more I valued money than the pains to us both of such a bitter separation—a separation that might be for ever! Before the pilot left us I had serious thoughts of returning with him; but the captain was at my elbow, and assuming a kind of authority; I was forced to see him depart without me. The wind blew fresh, and before night there was a heavy gale; yet I cared not, my feelings were too strong even for that to subdue. I could not go down to dinner, nor was I disposed to sit with strangers at the supper table; but the captain showed so much good natured solicitude that I yielded and took my seat beside him.

I do not recollect now how many of the passengers were at supper, but they were not all there, for some were already seasick and in their berths. I only remember that opposite to me sat a young lady who looked at me very frequently, and who could scarcely keep from laughing, although the gentleman next her reprimanded her once or twice for her ill breeding. I could not imagine what had caused her mirth, unless it were the melancholy expression of my countenance. There was not much time, however, to speculate on any thing, for the gale increased and every body on board became anxious and watchful. The captain advised me to go to bed, but I chose rather to remain on deck, hoping that if there were any danger I might be of some use. Just as I was leaving the cabin I heard the laughing lady say to her companion, “I am glad he is going on deck, for I can hardly stand it.”

I had been so unaccustomed to the society of women, and my dear wife and the gentle Martha, in all my various moods of gaiety and melancholy, had always shown so much tenderness and sympathy for me, that the mirth of this young lady excited something like uneasiness in my mind, and I could not help referring to it in the midst of the storm that was raging. Perhaps it was of service to me; but I could not help thinking how indignant my wife would be had she been witness to it; for, as she respected me herself, she could not but suppose that I would be entitled to the same respect from others.

Having never been on the ocean before, the violence of the gale was truly appalling, though the captain assured me there was no danger; it continued unabated for two days and nights, and at every meal, there set the laughing lady. I asked who the young lady was, that seemed so amused when I went to the table. The captain laughed heartily and then begged my pardon. “Indeed, Mr. Parr,” said he, “you must cheer up; why man, we want mirth and not melancholy on shipboard. I cannot find out why you look so very unhappy, for Mr. Blagge tells me that you have a lovely wife, and are in expectation of getting a large fortune. Why you did not bring your lady along with you is more than I can tell; this gale is nothing, the ship is a fast sailer and the voyage will be a short and a pleasant one, no doubt, so you might have enjoyed her society in comfort, if it is the leaving her behind that makes you look so miserable. I am sure I do not wonder that the young lady is amused; why I could hardly keep my own countenance at the breakfast table this morning, you looked so disturbed, and cast such suspicious glances at the harmless young thing who was looking at you.”

But this did not mend the matter, for I was not to become gay merely because others were amused by the expression of sadness in my countenance. That I had willingly parted from my wife was a reality that could not be forgotten, and I told the captain that to avoid giving the tittering lady any further food for her mirth, I should take my seat on the same side of the table with her. He consented that I should, and the dinner passed off very well, for my opposite neighbour was a decrepit old woman whose head was bent low, and who seemed to suffer too much from sickness to care who looked sad or merry.

The gale abated, and by sundown it had died away to a pleasant breeze; the full moon rose beautifully out of the ocean, and my whole soul was filled with wonder and admiration. If my wife had been at my side, what a happiness to enjoy it with her; I sighed heavily, and the good natured captain broke in upon my meditations. “I am more and more sorry Mr. Parr,” said he, “that you did not bring your wife with you; if I had only known how hard you were going to take it, I should have brought her along by main force. You will destroy yourself if you continue thus to grieve, and yet I cannot blame you much neither, for I had pretty nearly the same kind of feelings when I left my wife for the first time. It was different with me, however, I was only mate then, and had not the power to bring her with me, but I warrant you I did so as soon as I became captain.”

“Why, is your wife on board now,” said I, frightened out of my senses lest the laughing lady might be her. “I have not seen her, have I.”

“No, she is quite indisposed,” said he; “in fact she goes this voyage to see whether it may not cure her eyes; she has to wear goggles all the time as the light is so painful; if it were not for that she would be a very pretty woman; one of these evenings I will get her to take them off, and you must come down and see her. Do you play at chess? You do hey; well, I am glad of it, for she plays a good game, and it will keep you both to while away the time, particularly since my wife’s eyes won’t allow her to sew. She has beautiful hair, too, though I say it,” continued the warm-hearted captain, and I liked him all the better for talking so tenderly of his wife. “That old lady that sits opposite to you now, almost bent double, as you see, is a friend of my wife’s, and we are taking her on a visit. Poor old thing she is so near-sighted, that every thing must go close to her eyes, or her eyes be sent close to the object, otherwise she could not see to cut her food even. Excuse me, Mr. Parr, is your wife handsome?”

“I think she is,” said I, “to me she appears beautiful, and I wish she was here to enjoy this delicious evening with me.”

“Why yes, as I said, it would be better to have her here. My wife has a few freckles on her face—is your wife freckled?”

“Freckled!” said I indignantly, “no, why do you ask that question; she has a remarkably clear skin.”

“Oh, I meant no offence; what colour are her eyes? my wife has blue eyes; people say they are handsome, and I think so too.”

Would any one believe me when I say, that to this moment, I could not tell the colour of her eyes. To me they always beamed with intelligence and love; and as to whether they were blue or grey, I never thought. But the persevering captain thinking that it gave me great pleasure in talking of her, went on in this way to question me about her dear face until I got as miserable as possible. “Well, well,” said he, moving off, “you can’t bear more to-night, so I’ll go below and talk to the ladies a little, and tell my wife the good news that you can play chess.”

Good news, indeed, to sit opposite to his goggle-eyed wife, and play at chess, when she that taught me was sitting solitary at home. I thought I should go mad, if I did not try and invent some excuse; for the idea was intolerable, and yet I pitied the poor woman too.

The next morning the captain’s wife was at table; she had taken her seat before I went down, so that I could not see her distinctly, although she was on the opposite side. She wore green spectacles and plenty of curls, which were certainly of a beautiful colour; but the cap she wore hid the back hair entirely; so I thought, after all, it was only a little brag of the captain, for these curls might be artificial. As to the freckles, there they were, sure enough; ugly little yellow things. She did well, I thought, to let the curls cover her face as much as possible, for these freckles were well worth hiding. And then, such great clumsy hands too; and to make them look still larger by wearing gloves. I was at last quite ashamed of myself, for I really felt spiteful towards this poor lady; more particularly as the tittering one opposite to her was now fairly laughing out; and all the rest, but the captain’s wife and the poor old lady opposite to me, laughed along with her. I looked at the captain, and he sat with his handkerchief to his face.

I made a short meal of it; and I determined if this foolery was continued at dinner, that I would eat in the steerage, any where, rather than encounter such incivilities; for I, somehow or other, associated it all with myself; but to my great relief, neither the captain’s wife nor the young lady were at table, so that I ate my dinner without annoyance. But there was no getting rid of the captain’s desire to amuse his poor wife with a game of chess. He set aside every excuse; and at length, fairly told me that he saw through my artifice; but that he knew better than I did, how to make the voyage endurable; and that the sooner I broke through my reserve and shyness the better able I should be to bear up against the separation with my wife.

There were but three gentlemen passengers, so that, in all, there were, besides myself and the captain’s wife, only the laughing lady and the one who sat opposite to me. There were, to be sure, a number in the steerage; but I had not taken any notice of them, nor, in fact, had I exchanged a word with the gentlemen in the cabin. I was, therefore, very much surprised when they all three left the table and went with me on deck, talking with me as familiarly as if I had been the most communicative person in the world. They were in high glee, and said a number of pleasant things, all of which I might have enjoyed at any other moment; but the chess and the captain’s wife crowded out all social feelings; and when the captain came for me, and said the chess board was arranged, and his wife waiting, I went down provoked enough.—Only to think of being placed in such a dilemma—to sit with the captain’s wife, dawdling over the chess men, with a mind so far away. My only hope was, that she would beat me so easily that she would not ask me to play with her again.

When I got in the cabin, the first person I saw was the old lady, who was pulling and jerking at her black hood, and laughing heartily. Surely, thought I, that laugh is familiar to me; but she could not untie the string of her hood, so I offered to help her. Thereat she laughed louder and pushed me away. I then turned to the captain’s wife, and she seemed beside herself too. I never heard of such a cracked set of people in my life; they all seemed bursting with fun. She threw, first one, and then the other, ugly glove, across the floor; and then away went the spectacles, away went the cap, and away went the curls, and I stood amazed and wondering what was coming next, when a voice that sprung fresh and warm to my heart, said, “Patrick, my dear Patrick, do you know me now?” I had no words; not a syllable could my overjoyed heart allow me to utter, as my dear wife lay in my fond arms.

And there she was, and Martha too. The captain and his wife, who was the laughing lady, all were in the plot; and I was for a long time in such agitated bliss that I did not want to hear how it had all happened; but it was a surprise—a most joyful surprise.

“And so, Patrick, dearest,” said she, “you never knew I had freckles, just look at them.” “No, no,” said I, kissing the dear cheek that she held towards me, “nor do I see them now; nor could I tell the colour of these eyes; all I was ever sensible to is their tender expression. And here is dear Martha too; how completely were you both disguised. By and by you must tell me all about it; but now I only want to feel the bliss of being near to you, and to know that this is all reality.”

In half an hour some one tapped at the door, and in came my late tormentor, and in came the captain; and now they laughed heartily; and I smiled in return, for my heart was too full to break out in loud mirth. It seems it was as much as they could all do to restrain the lively lady, fearing that the plot would be discovered before the time. My wife intended to show herself as soon as the pilot left us; but she was so very seasick that she thought I could better bear the pain of thinking her away from me than witness suffering which I could not relieve. The gale came on, and her sickness continued, and she thought it most prudent to wait till it was over. Her plan was to write me a note, and prepare me for it, but the captain and his wife, as well as the gentlemen, begged her to allow of this little artifice, which, as they had taken such an interest in her affairs, she thought it right to indulge them in. Finding me so averse to her going, and knowing that I should so bitterly regret it, she and Martha went in a carriage, one day, and interested Mr. Blagge in her scheme. The captain and his wife were delighted; and whilst he detained me by a sham business, on shore, Mr. Porter saw her and Martha safely on board. She had left the trunks till the last, hoping that I might relent, and thus prevent any necessity of a plot; but as I would not consent, Mr. Porter, who had another carriage in waiting, took them down to the wharf.

What more is to be said? Our voyage was delightful. I had no difficulty, whatever, in identifying myself; and I returned in possession of a large estate, which I trust I shall spend with grateful feelings. Dr. Bently and his amiable niece, Miss Sidney, now Mrs. North, were our fellow-passengers on returning. They little knew what an interest I had in the village of Camperdown, when they so earnestly pressed me to settle in their neighbourhood. My beloved wife was not at all the worse for the three months’ excursion; and two months after our return, we were made still happier, if possible, by the birth of a son. My wife, always mindful of my feelings, has called him Cyrus, after my poor father; and we are, I trust, bringing him up in the love of his Maker, and in the fear of breaking his commandments. Aunt Martha, as you know, lives with us, and Mr. Porter resides altogether in the stone house, where I was born; we could not do without him. Now that you all know my dear wife, you can easily imagine that my love for her can never diminish; and that, to be separated from her, would be the greatest of evils.

You have asked me to write a memoir of my life; but, after all, what is it? It is only a description of my heart and its feelings; of my early sorrows, and of my deep, deep love for one, whom I still continue to think is far too good—too far above me. Of her unworthy uncle I will not speak; she was his sister’s only child, and he could neither appreciate nor love her. All my felicity has arisen from his blindness, and I therefore forgive him. But if there has been nothing remarkable in this memoir, if the events are such as we meet with frequently, surely there is some novelty in the Surprise.

THE SEVEN SHANTIES.

“Jemmy, come here—come quick, will ye,” said a poor, dirty, good-natured looking fellow, to a man as ragged and poor as himself—“step faster, will ye, and help me to raise this wagon.”

They lifted up the overturned light carriage and dragged out of the mud—first, a trunk and carpet bag, then a gun case, and lastly the owner of all this, a middle aged man, apparently, who had been stunned by the fall, although in so soft a spot.

He recovered his senses, however, as soon as the men raised him from the ground, and the next thing was to know what to do with him. One of the men, Jemmy Brady, scratched his head and said, “If I had ever a room but the one in which the wife and childer are, I would take the gentleman there any how, but the noise would be too great for him I’m thinking.”

“Och! but he’ll never mind the childer, God bless them,” said the other. “I dare say his honour has plenty of them—the likes of these jontlemen are always fond of young childer.”

“You are very much mistaken, my friend,” said the stranger, “I do not like children. Is there no cabin or hut about here where I could rest for an hour or two, and change my clothes? I see that the wheel is off the carriage, so I cannot proceed to the tavern.”

“Yes, sure,” said Larry, “plenty of them, barring Jemmy Brady’s and mine. Jemmy has seven childer and I have five,—too much noise for your honour, I’m thinking, and the mud is almost as thick on the floor of my shanty as it is here, your honour—but if you’ll step a bit this way, I’ll take you to Sally M’Curdy’s.”

The gentleman asked if this Sally M’Curdy had any children. Larry said that she had not—that she was a lone woman. “She’s left with one grand-daughter,” said he, “Norah—you’ll may be have heard of little Norie, yer honour, for she is very smart at her latters, and can read and write too, and she’s very quiet and very mindful of her grandmother.”

Both Jemmy and Larry had the instinctive feeling, that this widow’s shanty bade fairer for comfort than any other in the range, and they were hastening forward to show the way and to prepare her for the guest, when he discovered that he had sprained his ancle, and could not move.

“What _now_ is to be done,” said he, impatiently, “I cannot lift my foot from the ground, and the pain is becoming intolerable.”

“Och, hub-bub-boo,” said Larry, “what is better to be done than to carry your honour on our hands, crossed this fashion. I’ve carried a bigger man nor you in this way, in play even.” So he called lazy Jemmy to him, who scratched his head and sighed, to think of the heavy weight they were to carry. He crossed hands with Larry, the stranger seated himself, and in this awkward, singular way, with much vexation of spirit, he was taken to Sally M’Curdy’s shanty.

“Here is a good ould gentleman what’s lame,” said Larry, as they lifted him up a few steps into the neat little room—“he’s broke his foot any how, Mistress M’Curdy, and shall I run for a doctor, your honour, to set the leg?”

“My leg is not broken, my honest friend. If this good lady gives me leave to rest here all night, all that I shall require is, to have the boot cut off and my ancle bathed—it is only a sprain.”

“And is it I that will cut that good boot, your honour, I that am a shoemaker by trade, if the white boys at home would have let me earn a penny at it. Sure I know where the stitches are, and can’t I cut the thread?” So down Larry knelt, and with speed and skill, giving the stranger as little pain as possible, he cut through the seam, and took the boot from the swelled foot. Meantime Mrs. M’Curdy was not idle, she called her little grand-daughter, and immediately began to prepare supper, as the gentle clatter of cups in the next room indicated.

The stranger, whose name was Price, begged Jemmy to take his horse and dearborn to the next inn, and tell the landlord of his accident, and to say where he was to be found. He knew there was nothing better to be done than to put his foot in a tub of warm, salt water, and to remain as quiet as possible. Larry, whose good nature was a strong recommendation, promised to assist him in undressing, so that in half an hour after changing his clothes and keeping his foot in the tepid water, he felt so much easier that he was glad to hear that tea was ready. He was very willing to have the little tea table drawn close to his chair, and partake of the nice supper which his kind hostess had prepared for him.

“Don’t wait—don’t stand up, my good lady,” said he, “have you no young person to assist you; pray sit down and pour out tea for me.”

Mrs. M’Curdy quietly seated herself and made tea, while Larry answered the question about the young person, by pulling in the little shy Norah.

“Oh, Norah, dear,” said Mrs. M’Curdy, “you should not be coming in, child, and the gentleman in such pain—may be children trouble you, sir.”

“I am not over fond of children, that’s certain,” said Mr. Price, “but I should not imagine this nice little girl, who seems so unwilling to intrude, could be noisy or troublesome. Let her go, Larry—I believe that’s your name—let her hand go.”

Off darted the little girl, much to Mr. Price’s gratification; and much to Larry’s joy. After getting the gentleman snugly to bed, he received a dollar for his evening’s services, with a request to call in the morning and assist him to rise.

But the morning found Mr. Price, although able to rise, in so much pain that there was no hope of proceeding on his journey; he, therefore, after securing Larry’s services during those intervals allotted to the labourers at the forge, quietly settled it in his mind that here he must remain until the ankle recovered its strength. Mrs. M’Curdy was gentle, neat and attentive; anticipating his wants, and only wishing that more was to be done. But Mr. Price was neither troublesome nor ungracious, and before the dinner hour approached she wondered how so good-natured a gentleman could dislike children.

“To be sure,” said she, finishing her thoughts aloud, “Larry’s little ones are very noisy, and not over clean, and poor Jemmy’s are still worse than noisy; for they are rude and mischievous. But Norah is not like other children, sir, and she knows a world of stories, your honour, if it is stories out of books would amuse you. Sure will you try and coax the little creature in to sit by you a bit, till I come back from the grocer; and if she tires you, just let her go when Larry comes in.”

“Well, send her in,” said Mr. Price, “and let me hear her little stories. I will promise to get rid of her when she becomes troublesome.”

“Then your honour will want to keep her for ever at your side, for Norah is never troublesome. She is an orphan, your honour, and that, as your honour knows, is a child without father or mother; although in Philadelphia they have found out, it is said, that an orphan means a child with one parent. But little Norah’s mother died broken-hearted because her husband left her and married another woman. She had too much feeling for her little girl to prosecute him; so she bore it all and died. Since that time her husband is dead; but I keep it all to myself, not letting his hard-hearted family know of little Norah. Indeed, I have kept purposely from knowing where they now are; for out of pride, like, they would take her away from me, and put her to some grand boarding-school; for, from what I could learn from him, they are rich.”

The grandmother brought in the blushing little girl, almost by force, to the gentleman’s arm-chair; but on his stroking her hair, and speaking tenderly, she, by degrees, began to look up and cast side glances at him; and, finally, on his asking her to hand him a glass of water, she shook back her curly locks, and, with the movement, threw off part of her fright.

“Well, you are no longer afraid of me, Norah; you have a little chair there, I see; bring it here, and sit by me till your grandmother comes back. How old are you?”

“I am nine years old; but I can remember my mother quite well, for I was five years old when she died. I have not cried about her for a great while, but I feel as if I could cry now.”

“No, don’t cry, Norah, don’t,” said Mr. Price, as the poor little creature burst into a passionate flood of tears—“don’t cry, my dear;” and lifting the child up, he drew her to him, while she sobbed on his bosom. “What makes you cry now?”

“Why, Jemmy Brady came in the room last evening, when grandmother was getting your supper ready, and he said something to me which made me think of my mother, and I have been all the morning thinking of her, and of all that she said and did.”

“Well, what did this Jemmy Brady say to you that has troubled you so much?” But Norah would not tell. She said it was no matter now, she should not cry again; for she was sure he was good-natured.

It was a new thing for Mr. Price to be soothing a crying child—he kept referring to it himself—but Norah advanced in his good graces, and by the time Mrs. M’Curdy returned, he was laughing aloud at some of her childish remarks. Norah too, was very much pleased with Mr. Price; her bright blue eye seemed to watch every motion of his, and at length he really felt a want, a restlessness whenever the child was called out of the room.

A week still found Mr. Price sitting in the widow M’Curdy’s arm chair, and little Norah at his side. A sprained ankle, every one knows, requires time and quiet and an outstretched limb, but above all, a tranquil mind. He had time, for he was rich; and where on earth, thought he, could I be so quiet as in this neat little room. Friction was now necessary, and who could rub his leg so tenderly as the dear little girl; then her prattle was delightful. He had never been much among children; he once had a son, but an indulgent mother ruined him. His child from boy to manhood had been a constant source of disquiet and misery to him, and he had three years before this period, followed him to the grave. He thought that no child could ever again interest him, in fact he had steeled his heart against children, and but for this accident, and the good chance of meeting with Mrs. M’Curdy, the warm and pleasant feelings which the innocence and beauty of childhood always create, had been unknown to him for ever.

Nothing could be cleaner and neater than the old lady; all her ways were tidy. She never ran her forefinger in a tumbler or tea cup, nor washed the tea things in a wash basin, nor dried them on the same towel with which the hands were dried, as many of the poor do. All this Mr. Price saw, and what made his room particularly comfortable was, that there were shutters to his window. His room was facing the road, which Mrs. M’Curdy very much regretted, as the children of the other shanties were for ever in view of the house, keeping up an eternal squalling and noise of some kind or other, frequently amounting to screams and yells. When things arrived at this height, the mothers of the different children would rush out, and by dint of pulling, tugging, beating and scolding, succeed in dragging the delinquent away from “the sick gentleman.”

“Can’t ye be after seeing that your noise disturbs the lame gentleman, ye sinners you,” said Mrs. Brady one fine spring morning, as she was separating her two eldest boys from a fighting frolic—“come away, will ye, and get me the chips, or ye’ll no get your breakfast, let alone your father’s and the baby’s.”

One eye was directed to Mr. Price’s window, while this was screamed out by the woman, a poor, dirty, broken down looking creature; who, although not more than five and thirty, looked at least fifty. She had never had the “luck” to see Mr. Price, a thing she ardently longed for, as every one else at some odd time or other, had taken a peep at him. Larry was loud in his praise, and lazy Jemmy, as he was called by one and all of the women, and by his own wife too, had also testified to the liberality of the lame gentleman.

“Why are not these children made to work,” said he to Mrs. M’Curdy, as he turned from the window in disgust. “Those two boys could be employed in the factories, I should think; they must be at least eight and ten years of age.”

“Yes, they are old enough to work,” said Mrs. M’Curdy, “but it is only in the paper-mills that such young children are wanted; and those who have even worked in a paper-mill know that nothing tires such young children so much as picking and pulling about old rags. If they could be employed at some other thing half the day, I think both the employer and the children could be greatly benefited by it.”

“Well, why can they not? Why can’t they be made to work in a garden all the morning, and at some quiet work in the afternoon? Here you have a population of several thousand persons, and according to your own account throughout the summer you have no fruit nor vegetables, scarcely a potato. You live then on bread and meat. Are not those men who have an eye to the interests of the community aware, that a diet of this kind creates thirst, and they must know that a thirsty man will not always drink water. How do you get along with such a poor diet as bread and meat?”

“Oh, it is far different with us; when your honor is able to leave the room I will show you my little garden, our little garden I should say; for here is Norah, who is sitting on your lap, so helpless like just now, she assists me greatly in the garden. She fetches and carries, helps sow the seeds, and more than helps weed; indeed last summer I had so much sowing to do that there was but little time to weed. And the dear child picked every bean and pea herself, and from a very little patch she got as much as a quart of strawberries every day; and did I not get eighteen pence for every quart, without stirring away from the door to sell them? And how much, dear, did you get from your little row of raspberries?” Norah said it was thirteen shillings. “Well, we made clear money, besides helping ourselves to as much as we wanted for our own eating, just fourteen dollars; it paid our rent and two dollars over; so it was no more than right that Norah, the little dear, should get the two dollars to herself; the very frock and shoes she has on, can show it.”

Mr. Price kissed the little girl, whose sparkling eye showed how deeply she was interested in her grandmother’s story—he asked if all the shanties had gardens attached to them, and whether the children assisted their parents in working them.

“Oh, no, poor things,” said the old lady, “they would work, even lazy Jemmy’s children would work if they were encouraged. But see how it is, your honour. When I came here nine years ago, Norah was just two months’ old—this shanty was knocked up quickly for me; and it had never a floor even till the winter came. There were then no other shanties near, and as I had paid for the building of the house and for the fence around the garden, I by degrees, got very comfortable. Before I built the chimney, sashed the window, and made the floor, it was bad enough; but I had not enough money at the time, and it was only by working early and late, and my poor dear daughter helped too, that I got all these things done, and proud enough I was to show people how much a lone woman could do. There’s many a woman here, your honour, in these shanties, that could do very well if their husbands would let them, but a poor woman has no chance at all. Here is Biddy Brady, my next neighbour, she has seven children, from ten years down to that little wee thing yonder, that has just now been taken out for the first time—there it is, Norah dear, and she’s called it Norah after my grandchild, sir, because Norah has been kind like in her ways to poor Biddy, who is to be sure, a little bit of a scold, and always in a hubbub of some kind or other. My landlord leased me this piece of ground for ten years; but well he may, for I have made this house quite comfortable, you see. There are three rooms, small enough to be sure, but if I have to leave it, and oh, how loath I shall be to go from it, he will get thirty-six dollars for it instead of twelve—only think of that. He is a good man, and I dare say when I ask him to renew my lease, for the sake of the good I have done to his property, he will rent the place to me for thirty dollars.”

“Well, well,” said Mr. Price, who had been musing during this long speech, “don’t think about your rent for the next year, or the year after,—don’t cry, Norah, your grandmother shall have no rent to pay for five years, if you will always be as good a girl as you are now. Who taught you to read, Norah?—come kiss me, my child, and don’t sob so; you are on my lap, and your crying jars my lame foot.”

“Oh, grandmother,” said the little girl, “tell the gentleman why we don’t want to go away from this pleasant house,”—and she pointed to a small enclosure on a rising hill a little way from the road.

“It is a burial ground, your honour,” said Mrs. M’Curdy in a low subdued tone, “and under that old hemlock tree poor Norah’s mother lies buried.”

Mr. Price, whose sympathies had been long pent up; in fact, who had been soured towards all the world; for his disappointment both in his marriage and in his only child, had been severely felt; now suffered himself to be deeply interested in the fate of this innocent family, he pressed the child closer to his bosom, and resolved that he would immediately place her and her grandmother above want. But this sudden thawing of his feelings produced a kindlier interest towards others; he saw a mass of suffering in this little community which he thought could be alleviated without much trouble or expense, and his quick apprehension soon pointed out the way. He put Norah down from his lap, asked for his portfolio, and in a few moments a letter was written and despatched to a gentleman in the neighbourhood.

“Now my good Mrs. M’Curdy, bring your work in this room, and tell me all about your neighbours—tell me exactly how things are; I do not ask out of idle curiosity, but I have a plan in my mind which I think will be of service to them. I have an eye to you, too; I have become interested in you and your little girl, and I should like to leave you in a better neighbourhood. Only don’t call me your honour, but Mr. Price; I hate your honour.”

“Well, sir, here is my work, and I can’t do better than just to say a little more about myself. You see my pride, for I had a good bringing up, would not let me live along so lazily and so miserably as the poor people around me; besides, times in one respect, were better eight years ago than they are now, at least for poor women I mean. The ladies’ societies had not then found us out, and widow women and young girls got plenty of sewing to do, and for a decent price too. I could then earn from three to four shillings a day, and there never was a time, until a month before—Norah, dear, put chips under the pot, will you love, and then set the milk pans in the sun, and be sure and put on your bonnet—I never like to speak of my poor daughter before the tender hearted little thing; for although she was but little more than five years old when her mother died, yet she recollects her perfectly, and all her nice orderly ways, and how she taught her to read and sew and pray. She says the same prayers yet, sir, and indeed no better can be taught her. But as I was saying when I sent Norah out, there never was a time until a month before my daughter died, that she did not, weakly and drooping as she was, earn two shillings a day. Had she lived till now, she would have found an alteration.”

“Why, what has happened to deprive you of work? your town has increased in numbers greatly since that time.”

“I’ll tell you, sir. Then, when ladies of large families had more linen to make up than they or their maids could do, they gave a poor woman a chance; there were then three ladies in this very town, that gave me every year, a set of shirts to make; and my daughter made pincushions, and thread cases, and night caps, and darned silk stockings for gentlemen, and made linen gloves, all so neatly and prettily, that the price she got for them purchased all our little comforts; but as soon as the societies found us out, as I said before, the ladies of the town themselves undertook to make all these things.”

“But if that was a saving to their families, my good friend, it was all perfectly right.”

“Oh, it was not for their families that they met together to sew; sometimes it was for a Dorcas society, sometimes for a Sunday school, sometimes for an Infants’ school, sometimes to get a church out of debt, or to buy an organ; and oftentimes to educate young men for the ministry. For all the purposes I have mentioned, excepting that of educating young men, I found some excuse, but I own I did inwardly fret and find fault, with the kind-hearted women who belong to these societies, when they neglected their own families, and let us poor women who were willing to work, starve, while they did the things by which we formerly earned our bread.”

“Why do not the young men work for themselves, or why are there not societies of young men for these purposes; surely men can labour, and at more trades too than women can—mechanics I mean, and rich young men, they can contribute in money.”