Читать книгу I've Been Thinking; or, the Secret of Success - A. S. Roe - Страница 8

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The place where the scene of this story is laid, I have said was a lone village; it had no communication with other places by means of boats, although its water privileges were abundant; and between it and neighbouring towns intervened an extent of country, consisting of pine-barrens, where no settlements could exist, or at least any that deserved the name. There were those, however, who dwelt amid its dreary solitudes, and called it home. Scattered here and there upon an area of ten to fifteen miles square, might be seen, sometimes alone and sometimes in clusters of three or four, a few miserable dwellings, made principally of logs. A door, and one window without glass, were the only openings to these abodes; and a rude chimney running up against the outside, formed a receptacle for the pine logs, which blazed often through the long winter nights, the only light they could afford, as well as almost their only protection from the searching cold.

Poverty and wretchedness generally make sad havoc with the human frame; the haggard countenance, the dry and skinny hands, the stoop, the feeble, tottering gait, we expect and look for, when visiting abodes that betoken destitution. But miserable as was the appearance of these dwellings, the aspect of their inhabitants was generally that of health and sufficiency; their swarthy complexions, and fine athletic forms, almost compelled the traveller through these lonely regions to believe that he had alighted upon a tribe of those sons of the forest who once called our country all their own.

The moral character of this people was in keeping with the aspect of their dwellings. Having no regular religious instruction, seldom hearing the voice of a living teacher, with scarce a Bible to be found within their gloomy houses, they were but little in advance of the heathen as to religious knowledge, and far too near allied to them in many of their vicious habits.

They earned their daily bread by laboring amid the lofty and dense forests, in levelling the majestic pines, cutting them into lengths suitable for transportation, and conveying them to the outskirts of the barrens: their hire was but a pittance when considered as a remuneration for their toil, but it enabled them to live; it procured for them food, coarse indeed, but enough to satisfy their appetite, and the plain and simple clothing which necessity demanded, or to which perhaps their taste aspired.

The owners of these forests lived at some distance, and employed an agent to attend to all the various labors of preparing the timber and conveying it to market.

Cross, the individual employed for this business, had grown up amid these solitudes, and labored with his axe for some years. Gifted by nature with shrewdness, and not very particular on the score of morality, he had managed to obtain the post he occupied, and with most of the proprietors stood on good terms; he was active, prompt, and efficient, and perhaps, for the business intrusted to him, did as well as any one could. But he was, beyond measure, grasping and avaricious; and as he could not well gain undue advantage from those who employed him, being bound by contracts not easily evaded, he made up such deficiency by 'grinding the faces' of the poor laborers.

Without any means of gaining a livelihood besides, they had become entirely dependent on the good-will of Mr. Cross. He fixed their wages, supplied them from his store with the necessaries of life at his own price, and in that way managed to bring them, at the close of every month, either without any surplus, or most generally a trifle in debt.

On the border of these barrens, and near the principal scene of our story, lived the widow Mary Brown; her husband had been one of the woodcutters, an intemperate man, who had caused her much trouble while he lived, and when he died left her with two orphans. She had to struggle hard to support herself and little ones. But as a light in a dark place, so was this widow among these outcasts. She was generally known throughout the region where she lived, and the wildest and most abandoned never brought against her a railing accusation—they never spoke lightly of her not her religion; for the garb of piety she wore was so unassuming, the light that shone around her humble path was so mild and unobtrusive:—

Like the soft fleecy cloud at the close of day,

That far in the west where the sun's last ray

Rests bright on its bosom—its mellow light

Steals to our heart, as we gaze in delight;

No glare to dazzle, we love to view

Its changing tints and its golden hue.

Having a very humbling view of herself, she felt great pity for the deluded ones around her; she never chid them for their follies, but would weep and pray in secret, and when called to watch at their dying bed, she had such a quiet, happy way of holding up before the weak and guilty spirit the Saviour in his love and pity, that many a poor wanderer took courage from her message of mercy, and ere the spirit fled, it was enabled to look in faith, and go its lone way in peace. Wherever sorrow or sickness visited, there was she sent for, as one who carried with her a charm that could neutralize their power.

Her dwelling was a log hut like those in that vicinity, but it had an air of comfort the others had not. Her plain door was white-washed, and a little curtain hung across the window; and there was a box of flowers by the step, and every useless thing was removed from around the house, and the ground swept neatly, and beneath some of the large pines that afforded a grateful shade to her lonely abode, were rude seats, as though made for the wayfaring man, on which to rest and be refreshed.

Her children, though helpless little ones when their father died, had now grown up to an age when each of them, in different ways, could materially aid her. She felt no longer a dread of want, although often sighing in secret that her son was compelled to labor with those whose example could only lead astray, and that her daughter had no brighter prospect than a residence among these uncultivated foresters. But she had done what she could. Of worldly wisdom she knew nothing; but she had a Bible, and could read it. Its requirements and its doctrines were all plain to her, she loved them, and taught them to her children; they learned passages from them on the long, still Sabbath days, and as she sat in the shade of the large pines by her door, they would come and sit near her, to hear and listen to some story she would tell them of those whose names have been recorded, and their history handed down for the benefit of every coming generation. But other influences have now begun to exert a counteracting power; William is eighteen, a man in size and strength, a hardy laborer, and much from home. He still brings all he earns, or nearly all, to the common stock; he still reverences his mother, and listens to her instructions, and treats with kindness his only sister; but rumours have reached his home that his chosen associates were some whose names had become by-words for rude and evil doings, and any heart but a mother's would have given up his chance for any future good.

'She had hope for William,' she said, 'although he might be led astray by evil companions.'

And she had good cause for hoping—for she had fastened to his heart that golden chain, each link of which a mother's prayers and gentle teachings and untiring love had formed. He felt its power even in his hours of revelling, and although he never met with an upbraiding word or look from her, his conscience had no rest.

The daughter was all that her mother could ask; she had no desire to depart from the beautiful precepts of the Bible—because she loved them. Her mind was active, thoughtful, and discerning beyond her years; of kind and generous disposition, ever ready for any work of love, and cheerful and happy in the consciousness of good-will to all. Her moral character was well matched with a beauty of person rarely found, even under every advantage. Hettie had no ornaments to set off her beauty, and no graces imparted by culture to heighten the natural ease of her movements; her complexion, though dark, was brightened by the rich color which adorned her cheeks, and her jet-black eyes were softened by the long dark lashes that gave to their expression almost the languor of a southern clime, while her dark hair dangled in luxuriant curls, very much to her annoyance, for she often said:—

'She did wish her hair was straight like other girls; it was always getting into such a tangle.'

As Mrs. Brown—or the Widow Brown, as she was universally called—lived nearer to the open and more cultivated settlement than any of the other inhabitants of the barrens, she was well known among the farmers' families, although intimate with very few. Hettie had some associates there, which her mother preferred for her to those in her own immediate vicinity. Of these, the family of the Widow Andrews was one to which they were peculiarly attached. They could sympathize with each other; the mothers were both widows, and each had two children of about the same age. They both loved good things; they could converse bout their past trials, and present hopes and fears. But while many things in their circumstances were similar, there were others in which they were very unlike to each other; for the Widow Andrews was much under the power of strong natural feelings, easily excited by joy or grief, and her passions when aroused seemed at times to know no bounds: no sooner was a chord struck that touched a tender point in her heart, than she would begin to talk very rapidly and to weep freely; her words flowing faster and faster, and louder and louder, until, between weeping and talking, she would finally break into a flood of tears, and all was over.

The Widow Brown was aware of this weakness in her neighbor, and lamented it, for she knew that at times it did real evil; but there were so many things that she loved her for, this she considered as a mere weakness, for which she should be pitied.

In reference to worldly goods, too, there was a dissimilarity. The Widow Andrews had a much better house, although a very plain one; still it was called a house, and not a log hut; and she had a few acres of land attached to it, and a small barn, old and shackling to be sure, and a few head of cattle, and had been enabled, hitherto, to make out to live in a very frugal way from her own resources.

Mary, her daughter, was not pretty, like Hettie Brown, nor was she so intelligent; but she had a kind heart, and was obedient to her mother, and being about Hettie's age, the two girls became much attached.

The son had promised fair to be a support to his mother, and a good member of society, but a dark cloud had arisen upon all such prospects—bad company had now begun to have attractions for him. He neglected his work, disobeyed his mother, lost his ambition, and was in a fair way to make a wreck of body and soul. His mother had been proud of her William—of his good behavior, of his efficiency at work, of his industrious habits; and not a little proud was she of his fine appearance—it was a mother's weakness; but we will not judge her harshly. He had, indeed, a very pleasant expression to his countenance; his lively eye looked so kindly at you; there was such a play of roguishness and good-nature about his mouth; and when he spoke, a musical voice brought out the words so soft and clear—all tended to interest both friends and strangers. But all the love which his mother bore towards him, and all her pride in him, caused her to be more violent in her rebukes. She poured out such a torrent of invective at him, that much as he felt he deserved her displeasure, he could not stand the violence of it. Every bad feeling of his heart was aroused; he began to dread his home and his mother's voice, and sought refuge where, alas! ruin alone could be the end thereof.

He was now eighteen years of age, and as my reader was first introduced to him at Mr. Grizzle's store, we will follow him as he left that den of evil. His conscience was troubled; there was something in the appearance and behavior of Sam Oakum that morning, that revived the memory of what he himself had once been. We saw how he watched Sam when he left the store, as far his eye could follow him; how madly he poured down the offered glass, and rushed from the scene of his shame.

Whither to direct his steps he knew not, but onward he went; he was glad to be in the open air, it was so much better than the poisonous atmosphere he had just left. Soon his attention was arrested by the appearance of a dwelling and its precincts that he was about to pass. It was a scene of desolation—the house and all its accompaniments; the windows stuffed with every variety of color and substance to supply the places of broken panes; the door hung sideways by one hinge, the boards loose and flapping against the timbers of the house, the roof broken in, and apparently ready to fall upon the inmates, and the inclosures around the place lying prostrate or scattered about the grounds. A woman was outside, picking up what rubbish she could meet with to replenish the fire; sorrow was plainly marked upon her withered features; and as she walked into the house with a few faggots in her hand, there was such a deadness in her step, such a bowing down under the weight of some too heavy burden—ambition, comfort, hope, all seemed to have departed, and left her in her misery with a broken spirit.

William halted in his rapid course; he looked upon the scene and considered it well.

This was the house of one of those whom he had just left; the one most forward to complain of bad luck, and who joined most heartily in the laugh which had been excited at his expense. He had been familiar with this place; often had he seen it, just as it then appeared, but never had its desolate condition affected him before;—a light from heaven seemed pouring upon it, and singling it out from all other objects. He could look at nothing else. 'It was the vineyard of the man void of understanding, and the field of the slothful; the stone wall thereof was broken down; it was all grown over with thorns, and nettles covered the face thereof.'

William looked upon it, and received instruction: slowly and sadly he passed along.

A little by-road now crossed the public highway. Instinctively almost, he turned into it; the trees which lined it formed a grateful shade, and seemed to invite him therein to cool his heated, feverish frame.

Near to this path, and not far from the highway he had left, was a pure, bright, bubbling spring; it came up through the clean white sand, and the green turf formed its only curb. On one side it had cleared an opening, and meandered away through a little bed of fine gravel stones, which sparkled in the sunbeams as they stole through the branches of the willows which encircled the fountain. His throat parched with thirst, and his mind and body in an excited condition, he threw himself upon the velvet turf, and allayed his thirst from the pure stream. He tried to think, but his thoughts ran wild into each other; he turned his head towards the roots of one of the willows, and rested it there. It throbbed against the cool green turf; its coolness was refreshing to him, and there he slept.

Hettie Brown had that morning left her home in the barrens to do an errand for her mother in Mr. Grizzle's store; she stopped at the Widow Andrews', and found the mother and daughter in tears, and had to listen to a long tale of William's delinquencies.

'And he's gone off to Grizzle's, now again, I know he has; and there he'll sit and drink, and he'll come home drunk yet one of these days, and he'll be a drunkard and a vagabond.'

And the good woman went off into another hard crying spell. Hettie made no reply; she was not in the habit of talking much, nor did she shed any tears—she was not given to that either. A few expressions of sympathy she dropped as she parted from Mary, telling her to hope for the best, and making a short call, went on her way to the store.

She was anxious to see William, and therefore she hastened her steps. She seemed to feel a consciousness of power to lead him away from the path of ruin. He had been her playmate when a little child; nor had he ever, by word or deed, done aught to offend her. The intimacy of childhood had indeed passed away—her wise mother had cautioned her on matters referring especially to William, and of late she had seldom seen him; but she felt that she possessed an influence over him, and she meant now to exert it.

As she crossed the by-path we have already mentioned, she thought of the little spring, and how refreshing it would be to drink of its cool water. She turned, and followed the path towards the willows which marked the spot.

When William Andrews awoke, it was from a troubled dream, and the quiet which surrounded him was grateful to his spirits. He arose and drank freely from the spring—the birds were singing sweetly in the hedges and on the trees; there was no sound beside, but the rippling of the little rill that stole gently away from the fountain where he had slaked his thirst. His feelings, late so hurried and disturbed, were calm—the storm had lulled, a dark and dreadful gulf seemed to have been passed, and now he was upon a path where all above and around him combined to make it light and pleasant. This change, however, was but the effect of that rest which sleep had given to his frame; 'twas the pure fresh feeling which the soul enjoys when waked by morning's dawn, before the hopes and fears, the business and the cares of life, have time to urge their claims. Scarce had he quenched his thirst, and fully awaked to a consciousness of his situation, ere the scenes of the morning rushed back upon him. As the tumult of his thoughts arose, he stood and leaned against one of the willows, and cast his eye down at the little fountain, bubbling up so incessantly and with so little disturbance, that it came to the surface with no alloy of earth about it; and he saw how fresh and rank was the greensward all along its course—it not only gave from its little receptacle a full supply for all who needed, but virtue seemed to emanate throughout its meanderings, and to bless wherever it flowed.

'This spring,' said he, 'is like the life of one that is good—pure at the fountain, and the whole life a blessing, making things better and happier all around him; but my life—oh, what has it been?' And his cheek flushed, and tears of anguish fell fast, while with hands firmly clasped, and still leaning against the tree, he looked down at the bubbling water.

'Why William!'

He started at the well-knows voice.

'Oh, Hettie, is this you? how glad I am to see you.'

She extended her hand towards him, but there was something in the sight of Hettie that caused the cup, already full, to overflow; he did not take the offered hand, but covering his face, gave way to a passionate burst of weeping.

Hettie was much surprised, but she attempted not to interfere; nor did she weep with him, but waited silently until the violence of the storm had passed, and he was sufficiently composed to address her.

'I am very unhappy, Hettie, and have been so for a long time.'

'I have thought so, William, and I am very glad of an opportunity to say something to you about it. I was certain that you must be unhappy. There can be no peace for us when we have left the path of duty, until we return from our crooked ways: it would not be best for us that we should be happy when our doings are not right.'

'Well, mine are not right, and I am afraid they will never be any better.'

'Why not, William? are you willing still to be unhappy, and to break your mother's heart, and fill the minds of all your friends with sorrow?'

'I have been far astray, Hettie. I have sunk myself very low, and have struggled hard at times to break the charm that was leading me to ruin; but I feel now as I have not felt before; and if you will only not despise me, if you will let me hope that a new course of life may yet gain your respect, it will be a helper to me—a great helper to me. And oh! Hettie, you cannot tell how much I need your aid.'

Hettie was wise perhaps beyond her years. She felt much interest for the youth who had grown with her from childhood.

'I fear, William, that the struggle you will be compelled to encounter will need help greater than a creature can give. You must look to Him who made you, and relying on his strength, resolve to do your duty, cost what it may. All that I can promise is my feeble prayer; and whenever I offer it for myself, I will offer it for you too, William. And now I must leave you, for I have an errand to the store, and mother will be uneasy at my absence.'

And the happy girl, smiling a pleasant good-by, went on her way. William watched her until she turned into the public road, and then, with one strong cry to Heaven for help, turned towards his home, a happier person than he had been for many long months.

He had resolved to do right.