Part 19 (1/2)
”You seem merry over your misfortune,” observed Father Brighthopes.
”Better be merry than sad, you know. There's no use o' complainin' of Providence, when my own folly tripped me up. My understanding is not so lame as that.”
It was amusing to see with what a relish the poor fellow cracked these little jokes of his over his infirmity. To get hold of someone who had never heard them before, and could laugh at them as well as if they were quite fresh and new, seemed a great happiness to him; and the clergyman did not fail to appreciate and encourage his humor.
”On the whole,” said the latter, ”you made a bad bargain when you traded your hammer and awl for a musket and cartridge-box?”
Job's eyes glistened. He rubbed his hands together with delight. The old man had given him a capital opportunity to get in another of his jokes, just like an impromptu.
”I might have made a worse bargain,” he said. ”As long as I had one leg left,”--he touched his solitary knee,-”I ought to call it a good bargain. You see, I did not come off altogether without something to boot.”
”I hope you were contented to return to shoe-making?” remarked the clergyman, laughing.
”Well--yes,” replied Job, in his cheerful half whisper. ”I did not find the change so difficult as many would. I can say, truthfully, that, with me, there was but one step between the battle-field and the shop.”
Father Brighthopes took time to consider the enormity of this far-reaching jest, and replied,
”Well, brother; I trust you get along pretty well now.”
”Pa.s.sable, pa.s.sable. Better than I should, if I was a lamp-lighter or a penny-postman. I wouldn't make a very good ballet-dancer, either. Do you think I would?”
Father Brighthopes replied that, in his experience, he had learned to regard a contented shoemaker as more blessed--even if he had lost a leg--than a miserly millionaire, or an ambitious monarch.
”I've had considerable to try me, though,” said Job. ”Two fine boys, 'at would now be able to take care of me and the family, got the small-pox both 't a time; one was nineteen, t'other fifteen; I'd rather lost a dozen legs, if I'd had 'em,” he murmured, thoughtfully. ”Then I've one darter that's foolish and sickly. She an't able to do nothin', and it's took more 'n my pension was wo'th to doctor her.”
”You have seen affliction: thank G.o.d, my friend, that you have come through it so n.o.bly!” exclaimed Father Brighthopes, smiling, with tears of sympathy running down his cheeks.
He patted Job's shoulder kindly; and the poor fellow could not speak, for a moment, his heart was touched so deeply.
”It's all for the best, I s'pose,” said he, coughing, and drawing his s.h.i.+rt-sleeve across his eyes.
”Yes; and you will get your reward,” answered the old man.
”So I believe! I find so much comfort in these good old leaves.”
Job pointed to a worn Bible, that lay on the mantel-piece.
”Right! right!” cried the clergyman, joyously. ”Job Bowen, there is a crown for thee! Job Bowen, in my life I have not met with twenty men so blessed as thou. But thousands and thousands of the rich and prosperous well might envy thee, thou poor Christian shoemaker, with one leg!”
”Thank you! thank you, for saying so much!” bubbled from Job's lips, like a gus.h.i.+ng stream of glad water.
He laughed; he shed tears; he seemed warmed through and through with the suns.h.i.+ne of peace. The clergyman clasped his hand, weeping silently, with joy in his glorious old face.
”Yes,” said Job, rallying, ”I knowed it 'u'd be all right in the end. I tell folks, though I an't good at dancing and capering, and turning short corners in life, and dodging this way and that, with my wooden stump, I shall do well enough in the long run.”
”And, considering how well afflictions prepare us for heaven, we may say,” added Father Brighthopes, ”you have already put your best foot forward.”
”That I have! that I have!” cried Job, delighted.
”How does your wife bear up, under all her trials?” asked the old man.
At this juncture the old woman in the corner started once more from her dreams, and cried out.