Part 53 (2/2)
Arrived at his village, he had to sell his donkey and trust to his crutch. And so Infirmity crept about begging leave to cure Disease--with what success may be inferred from this: Miss Phillips, a lady-like girl of eighteen, was taken up by Farmer Giles before Squire Langton for stealing turnips out of a field: the farmer was hard, and his losses in Hardie's Bank had made him bitter hard; so the poor girl's excuse, that she could not let her father starve, had no effect on him: to jail she should go.*
*I find, however, that Squire Langton resolutely refused to commit Miss Phillips. The real reason, I suspect, was, that he had a respect for the Gospel, and not much for the law, except those invaluable clauses which restrain poaching. The reason he gave was: ”Turnips be hanged! If she hadn't eaten them, the fly would.” However, he found means to muzzle Giles, and sent the old doctor two couple of rabbits.
Took to the national vice, and went to the national dogs, Thomas Fisher, a saving tinman, and a bachelor: so I expect no pity for him.
To the same goal, by the same road, dragging their families, went the Rev. Henry Scudamore, a curate; Philip Hall, a linen-draper; Neil Pratt, a shoemaker; Simon Harris, a greengrocer; and a few more; but the above were all prudent, laborious men, who took a friendly gla.s.s, but seldom exceeded, until Hardie's bankruptcy drove them to the devil of drink for comfort.
Turned professional thief, Joseph Locke, working locksmith, who had just saved money enough to buy a shop and good-will, and now lost it every penny.
Turned atheist, and burnt the family Bible before his weeping wife and terrified children and gaping servant-girl, Mr. Williams, a Sunday-school teacher, known hitherto only as a mild, respectable man, a teetotaler, and a good parent and husband. He did not take to drinking; but he did to cursing, and forbade his own flesh and blood ever to enter a church again. This man became an outcast, shunned by all.
Three elderly sisters, the Misses Lunley, well born and bred, lived together on their funds, which, small singly, united made a decent competence. Two of them had refused marriage in early life for fear the third should fall into less tender hands than theirs. For Miss Blanche Lunley was a cripple: disorder of the spine had robbed her, in youth's very bloom, of the power not only to dance, as you girls do, but to walk or even stand upright, leaving her two active little hands, and a heart as nearly angelic as we are likely to see here on earth.
She lay all day long on a little iron bedstead at the window of their back-parlour, that looked on a sunny little lawn, working eagerly for the poor; teaching the poor, young and old, to read, chiefly those of her own s.e.x; hearing the sorrows of the poor, composing the quarrels of the poor, relieving their genuine necessities with a little money and much ingenuity and labour.
Some poor woman, in a moment of inspiration, called Miss Blanche ”The suns.h.i.+ne of the poor.” The word was instantly caught up in the parish, and had now this many years gently displaced ”Lunley,” and settled on her here below, and its echo gone before her up to Heaven.
The poor ”suns.h.i.+ne of the poor” was happy: life was sweet to her. To know whether this is so, it is useless to inquire of the backbone or the limbs: look at the face! She lay at her window in the kindred suns.h.i.+ne, and in a world of st.u.r.dy, able, agile cursers, grumblers, and yawners, her face, pale its ashes, wore the eternal suns.h.i.+ne of a happy, holy smile.
But there came one to her bedside and told her the bank was broken, and all the money gone she and her sisters had lent Mr. Hardie.
The saint clasped her hands and said, ”Oh, my poor people! What will become of them?” And the tears ran down her pale and now sorrowful cheeks.
At this time she did not know the full extent of their losses. But they had given Mr. Hardie a power of attorney to draw out all their consols.
That remorseless man had abused the discretion this gave him, and beggared them--they were his personal friends, too--to swell his secret h.o.a.rd.
When ”the suns.h.i.+ne of the poor” heard this, and knew that she was now the poorest of the poor, she clasped her hands and cried, ”Oh, my poor sisters! my poor sisters!” and she could work no more for sighing.
The next morning found ”the suns.h.i.+ne of the poor” extinct in her little bed: ay, died of grief with no grain of egotism in it; gone straight to heaven without one angry word against Richard Hardie or any other.
Old Betty had a horror of the workhouse. To save her old age from it she had deposited her wages in the bank for the last twenty years, and also a little legacy from Mr. Hardie's father. She now went about the house of her master and debtor, declaring she was sure he would not rob _her,_ and, if he did, she would never go into the poorhouse. ”I'll go out on the common and die there. n.o.body will miss _me._”
The next instance led to consequences upon consequences: and that is my excuse for telling it the reader somewhat more fully than Alfred heard it.
Mrs. Maxley one night found something rough at her feet in bed. ”What on earth is this?” said she.
”Never you mind,” said Maxley: ”say it's my breeches; what then?”
”Why, what on earth does the man put his breeches to bed for?”
”That is my business,” roared Maxley, and whispered drily, ”'tain't for you to wear 'em, howsever.”
This little spar led to his telling her he had drawn out all their money, but, when she asked the reason, he snubbed her again indirectly, recommending her to sleep.
The fact is, the small-clothes were full of bank-notes; and Maxley always followed them into bed now, for fear of robbers.
The bank broke on a Tuesday: Maxley dug on impa.s.sive; and when curious people came about him to ask whether he was a loser, he used to inquire very gravely, and dwelling on every syllable, ”Do--you--see--anything--green--in this ere eye.”
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