Читать книгу The Clergyman's Widow - Барбара Хофланд - Страница 7

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Poor Mrs. Gardiner was spared the agonizing knowledge of her loss, till she had become the mother of another son about three weeks, when just as her eldest daughter was admiring the baby, and observing with what delight her father would see it on his return, the second entered the room, to inform her mother that Mr. Wallingford, the curate, had got a letter from Lisbon, and she flattered herself that her father was on his road home, and had wrote to Mr. Wallingford, to inform them of it at the best time.

The heart of the poor mother throbbed violently in her bosom; life and death seemed suspended before her! she durst not hope with her children, nor had she courage to embrace that fear, which, in her situation, was best. The innocent children, whose buoyant spirits in every case of doubt look on the brightest side, were shocked at the speechless dismay which appeared in their mother's countenance; and little George, who, on his knees, was playing with the baby's fingers, gave a loud shriek on seeing her sink back on her chair. This sound induced Mr. Wallingford, who, with eyes dimmed with tears, was perusing Mr. H——'s letter, to conclude that the fatal secret was by some means anticipated; he flew into the chamber, exclaiming—'Dear, dear madam, do try to support yourself, for God's sake! for your children's sake!' This well-meant, though ill-heard exhortation, unfolded to all the dreadful truth—a shriek of distress rent the room; the widow fell senseless from her chair; deep and silent agony succeeded the burst of frenzied lamentation—it was the calm of despair.

'Maria,' said the curate, 'help your mother—she is only faint; exert yourself my good girl; prove worthy of the father you have lost—of the mother you have left.—Sarah, take these dear little ones down stairs; they will be good, and make no noise—for their mother's sake, they will control their grief.'

The curate had a right to conclude, as he did, that Maria would exert herself; for though only now entering her fifteenth year, she possessed acuteness and strength of mind to an uncommon degree, and added to great suavity of manners a degree of fortitude rarely found. She succeeded in restoring her mother to animation, who, moved by her tender assiduities, and still more by her repressed emotion, happily found relief for a bursting heart in an abundant flow of tears. From this natural effusion no one sought to divert her; the children were suffered to mingle their sorrows with hers, till exhausted nature took refuge in temporary repose.

But short and broken is the widow's slumber; and she who, to the poignant anguish of being severed from that beloved being who has been to her as the light of life—who, for years together, has been the father, lover, and brother of her soul, adds the misery of being mother to many unprovided babes, will seldom taste the blessings of repose; care and anxiety corrode the little peace which violent sorrow failed to destroy, and leave the mind to the gloom of despondency, or the helplessness of despair.

But, happily for herself and for her children, this good woman had been not only the companion of her husband's gay hours, but the partaker of his most awful cares; they had taken sweet counsel together, and walked in the house of God as friends. She firmly believed that the union begun on earth would be perfected in heaven; that the hand which had blighted her joys in this world, would bid them reblossom in another to eternity.

In what way so large a family could be provided for, in even the poorest way, was a consideration that not only distressed the poor mother and the good curate, who, though very young, partook her cares, but every person in the village. Those who had not shed the tears of grateful affection literally over his grave, gave full testimony of their sorrow, when on the following Sunday, the young minister, in a plain impressive manner, preached a funeral sermon, not calculated to exhibit his own eloquence, but to awaken their remembrance, which was done still more effectually by his reading a short address to his parishioners, written a little before his death, and found among the papers transmitted to his widow. Thus attached to the memory of their minister, the people naturally wished to retain his family amongst them: but it was soon found that she must quit the parsonage; and though several were ready to offer a part of her family a temporary accommodation, yet there appeared no possibility of procuring the means of a permanent residence amongst them.

Mrs. Gardiner had only three relations in the world, to none of whom she could apply for assistance; two of them were nephews of her mother, who had offended her family by her marriage with Captain Benson, who as a younger brother, was unable to support his wife in the circle she had been accustomed to move. These gentlemen were strangers to Mrs. Gardiner, and little likely to regard her, especially as one had a large family, to whom the other had attached himself, in a manner that allowed no hopes for his humbler relatives.

The other relation was likewise a cousin, but on the mother's side; he was an apothecary, and she had been told, in good business; but she knew he was married, and had a family; and as he lived at a considerable distance, she had not heard any thing of him for some years: nor had her late husband any relation with whom he kept up an intercourse; having been an only child, the nearer connexions of life were unknown to him.

Something, however, must be done, for the house must be evacuated. Happy would the parishioners have thought themselves, if their young curate had obtained the living; but this was in the gift of a great man who gave it, as he happened to be asked first, contrary to the example of his predecessor, who knew the value of the man he had served; but the young man was informed, that as it was understood he was the schoolmaster of the village, and was much approved in it he would be retained in his present capacity, notwithstanding the residence of the incumbent, and allowed thirty pounds a-year for his services. Happy in this addition to his income, the young man hastened to the widow, and having told her of his advancement, entreated permission to take little George under his protection, assuring her, that he had already engaged for the board of both at a neighbouring farmer's; 'and his education,' added he, 'I am sure you will trust me with, as I received mine from his excellent father.' To this offer Mrs. Gardiner could make no objection, and Mr. Wallingford wanted no thanks. The little boy loved his protector so well, that he made no objection to accompany him; and though the poor widow felt as if this was the first limb torn from her of a family about to be dissevered, perhaps for ever, yet she felt the value of the protection demanded a cheerful, as well as grateful compliance; and she parted from her eldest boy without a tear.

The goods of her neat dwelling—the farming utensils, and stock, were appraised, and bought partly by the neighbours, and partly by the clergyman who succeeded. From this disposal of all her worldly property, except a little linen, she raised a sum of between two and three hundred pounds; and with this she prepared to set out to the nearest market-town, to take a cheap lodging, and endeavour to get into some employment which might find bread for her little ones.

Desirous to remain in a house so long endeared to her till the very latest moment, Mrs. Gardiner did not avail herself of the invitation of her neighbours, but with calm fortitude saw one thing after another taken out of her house, till it was the very picture of desolation. She was sitting on a broken arm-chair, with her babe at the breast, and little William on the floor at her feet, while her daughters were seated on the kitchen-table, vainly endeavouring to suppress the tears this terrible reverse occasioned, when farmer Gooch, who had been busy about the place all day, came again into the kitchen, and hoped she would change her mind, and take her bed at their house; he said he could not bear to think of her sleeping in that place, it looked so forlorn and poor-like.

'I thank you, friend,' said Mrs. Gardiner, 'very sincerely; but as your wife has kindly lent me beds, I prefer using them: we shall manage very well, I assure you.'

The farmer looked wistfully round, and stroked his hand across his eyes, but did not offer to go.

'Do you want to take away any thing more to-night, Mr. Gooch? I think every thing seems gone.'

'Why, yesz, madam, to be sure moast oth things be gone, more'z th' pity; but I be come to tak zummit, zure enough; but I doezn't know how to ax verry weel, that I doezn't.'

'I beg,' said Mrs. Gardiner, earnestly, you will tell me what you mean. Do we owe you any thing? Did my dear husband get any money of you for his journey?'

'Noa! noa! what I meanz is this; woife and I settled a week sin to take little William, if zo be you can spare he; we haz but one, and we may thank yo for he; but I could na fashion to ax yo, becaze we know how much it would cut ourselves to part wi' owr own like; but if ye'll part wi' Willy, he shall go to schoal wi' his brother, and yer zure my woife'll be good to him, and he'll have his health far better here than in a gret toon, maist likely; and when, please God, ye can do wi' him back, we'll not be zae wicked to rob ye o' your child.'

To part with Willy was indeed a trial, but to leave him in such kind and tender hands, was amongst the greatest comforts to this good mother; with many tears and thanks, she placed her blooming boy in the rough arms that were stretched out to receive him, and which clasped him to a heart not only more benevolent, but more delicate, than thousands that boast refinement—a heart that thanked her for having permitted him to be generous, and on which, from having tried its worth, she could repose unlimited confidence.

With her two boys thus happily provided for, the heart of the poor widow would have been a little lightened of its load, but for the pang of leaving a place still so dear to her. But finding the new rector was to come in a few days, she determined on setting out the following morning; and having procured lodgings, she desired another farmer, whom we formerly mentioned, to convey her and her children thither in his covered cart, with which he complied, with a grateful bow. Her little luggage was easily packed, and sent to be placed in the covered cart. The sound of the farmer's whip was heard in the yard, and the widow, finding that delay only increased the pang of parting—a pang increased by the bitter grief of her poor servant, snatched her infant to her arms, and hastily kissing her boys, passed on to the cart. A post-chaise stood at the garden gate; the girls were standing at the cart, and assured her it was so full there was no possibility of getting in. 'Noa, Miss, it wazn't meant for madam nor ye to get in nather!' exclaimed a dozen voices at once.

'But, my dear friend,' said Mrs. Gardiner, 'I must get in somewhere; there is the rector come in that chaise, and indeed I cannot—cannot see a stranger.'

'Madam,' said a miller, pulling off his white hat, 'here's nae boddy near you but your own foaks; we haz made free to get this chaize for you to go in, being az how mare properer for you; and az to the cart ye zee, we ha put a few things in it to be uzeful, if so be ye'll excuse uz; we couldn't let you go without a token o'love—his reverence made uz better Christians than that, I hopes. Farmer Eade will drive it for you, and frae him we sall hear ye got safe—God grant it!'

Strangely blended were the sensations that now rushed on the widow's heart; grief, gratitude, and admiration, combined to affect her, especially as she saw the whole yard, and the lane through which she must pass, filled with her husband's parishioners. Some aged people, to whom she had been kind, clung to the heads of the horses, as if to stop her progress, and wept aloud; but the more sensible part of the crowd repressed their own feeling, as if out of compassion for hers: to those around her she offered her hand, but words were utterly denied her; the children ran with alacrity, though drowned in tears, among the crowd, and shook hands with all within their reach, till the curate, trembling for the effects of such an affecting scene on the weakened frame of their mother, placed them in the chaise with her. The carriage drew slowly off, hindered by the crowd around, who, in silent sorrow, watched it turn the corner of the lane: the moment it was out of sight, a burst of general sorrow was heard, and a thousand blessings, mingled with a thousand sighs. Little George and William, each held in the arms of their respective protectors, next attracted the homage of the crowd: and the good curate, anxious to imprint the best lessons on their young hearts, taught them to learn from this impressive spectacle, how much they owed to the virtue of their parents, and how sure were the rewards of piety, even in a world of sorrow.