CHAPTER IX.
GOLD ON A DARK GROUND.
OF what a fine bright metal that box is made,” said I; “I should almost have taken it for silver.”
“Your learned friend here would be shocked to be mentioned in the same breath with tin!” observed the Scissors.
“Far from it,” said the bright silver Thimble. “If usefulness to man gives value to metal, few can rank more highly than tin. England owes to it her earliest fame; for long before her flag waved o’er distant seas—long before her conquering armies trod foreign shores, while her fields were wild forests, and her people barbarians, the Phœnicians sought her coasts for tin, for which her mines in Cornwall are yet famous.”
“Ah! I remember,” I observed, “that it is when mixed with tin that mercury forms the amalgam used for the backs of mirrors.”
“Mercury is not the only metal which unites in a friendly manner with tin. Joined to copper, it becomes bronze, of which those pretty chimney-piece ornaments are made; and pewter, so useful to the poor, comes from tin united with lead. It is also very commonly used to line copper pots and pans, which, without such a coating of tin, might poison the food which they contain.”
“Poison!” I exclaimed in surprise.
“Yes; many serious accidents have arisen from the tin lining wearing away from cooking vessels made of copper. The rust of copper is called verdigris; it is of a bright green colour, and of a most poisonous nature.”
“Ah!” said the Scissors, “that accounts for our good lady’s alarm, when she found one morning, about two years ago, Master Eddy sucking a copper halfpenny! A precious deal of trouble that young gentleman has given her. He’s as active as quicksilver, and as mischievous.”
“Pity that we can’t make an amalgam of him,” laughed I, “and teach the little rogue to reflect.”
“He, Miss Lily, and the baby are killing their mother by inches between them,” said the Scissors.
I felt rather afraid that she spoke truth, when I saw how faint and exhausted the poor lady appeared, when at length she found a few minutes for repose. She looked so very thin and so pale, as she stretched herself on the sofa, when the light of day began to grow dim. She opened a book with gilt edges, which I had observed to be her favourite companion, and which my friend had told me was, as she believed, a great mine from which man drew all the virtue which he possessed. She read a little, until her worn, anxious face assumed a peaceful expression. She raised her eyes, and looked upwards; I thought that they were moistened with tears; and her pale lips silently moved, as if she were speaking to some unseen friend. Then she shut the book, and placed it beside her, and her blue eyes languidly closed; and she lay so still, so very still, that she looked as though she never would move again.
The sound of the opening of the outer door seemed to awaken her in a moment. She started up with quite a changed look, so bright, so animated, so cheerful; passed her hand hastily over her hair to smooth it, and then ran out of the room: and I heard her voice below in lively tones giving a fond welcome to her husband.
It must have been difficult, however, for the poor lady to keep up a cheerful manner in his presence. I never saw so gloomy a man. It was in vain that she troubled him not with a single care of her own,—that she spoke not a word of her failing health, her difficulties with servants, her troubles about the bills, her ceaseless anxieties with the children. I watched him where I lay beside my thread of gold; for Lily’s habit of filling her box so full that she never even attempted to close it, gave me constant opportunities of looking about me, and seeing what passed in the room. When the children were called down to see their father, the stern gloom in his face never changed. Even when his wife placed little Rosey in his arms, he kissed her soft cheek with an air so sad, that the babe, half frightened, held out her hands to be taken back to her mother. Lily could not win his attention at all, and left the room mortified and vexed; and Eddy received no answer when he said, “Are you not glad that Georgie is coming home to-morrow?”
“I’m sure that there’s something the matter with that man,” said the Thimble, when the sound of the dinner-bell had cleared the room.
“There’s something weighing on his heart, you may be sure,” observed the Scissors, “for he used to be as merry as a child. I’ve seen him galloping up and down this very room, with Master Eddy perched upon his shoulders, and Lily scampering at his heels; and it would have puzzled even our sharp friend the Needle to say which was the liveliest of the three.”
“He’s in trouble, then,” said the Thimble: “I’ve seen enough of life to know that mortals have their trials, which are to them as the hammer and the furnace to us.”
The opinion of our philosophic friend was confirmed that evening, as, when the lamp was lighted, and the curtains drawn, and the children all quiet in bed, the husband and wife sat together in deep, earnest conversation.
“You will hide nothing from me, my beloved,” said the lady, laying her hand fondly on his, and looking anxiously into his face. “I have felt for a long time that something was wrong; suspense is worse than the truth could be. I can bear all, all but to see you unhappy, and not be able to lighten, or at least share your trials!”
He drew her closer to him. I could not see his face; it was turned from the place where I lay; and he spoke so low, in a hoarse, agitated voice, that I could catch but few of his words. They were such as “ruin,” “bankruptcy,” “poverty;” the meaning of which I could scarcely comprehend; but I saw the lady’s cheek grow very pale, though her manner was quiet and composed.
“Well, dearest,” she said softly at length, “there are far greater trials than poverty. It will only draw us closer together. I can be happy in a very small abode—a cabin, a hut—so that my dear husband and children are with me. I will be Rosey’s nurse myself. We can manage on little; so little, you shall see what a housewife I shall be!”
“Ah!” thought I, as I looked on that sweet loving face, “the gold indeed looks brightest on the dark ground, and virtue most lovely in affliction.”
“It may not come to that; all may yet be well,” said the husband, rising and pacing up and down the room. “If I only could meet the present difficulty! A loan at this time would keep us all afloat; one good friend at this crisis might save us.”
“George Hardcastle,” suggested the lady.
“I have thought of him a thousand times,” replied her husband, stopping in his agitated walk. “He is rolling in wealth; he is generous; he is our cousin; our boy was named after him. But then—” He paused, and looked at his wife.
“We have quarrelled with him.”
“I have quarrelled with him. We have not met for months. I could not stoop to write to him now.”
“Not for your children’s sake?” said the mother, rising and laying her hand on his arm. “Oh, Edward, we must think of our helpless babes! Even if he refused to lend money to you, he might, I think that he would, do something for our George.”
Mr. Ellerslie uttered a sigh that was almost a groan, and threw himself down on his chair.
“It seems to me as though we should lose no time,” continued his anxious wife; “so much is at stake! Let’s see: this is Wednesday,” she continued, pressing her hand on her forehead. “I think there are two posts to Bristol; if we wrote at once, we might have an answer on Friday. Edward, when all depends on it, why should there be one hour’s delay?”
I could see that it went sorely against the will of Mr. Ellerslie to yield to the persuasions of his wife. It seemed to me, from words that dropped from him, that he was conscious of having behaved ill towards his cousin; that he regarded Mr. Hardcastle with a feeling of dislike, and almost preferred remaining in difficulties to asking assistance from him. I saw, though no mortal ever saw it, that Mrs. Ellerslie had a good deal to endure from her husband, however dear she might be to his heart. What patience she required, what earnest persuasion, to induce his proud spirit to bend so far as to write at all to his offended relative! And then, when the desk was opened, what a painful task was hers to make him write what would not offend, to alter sentences and soften expressions, and stoop to explain the greatness of his need. Often the ink dried on the pen, twice was the half-written sheet pushed angrily away, and bitter things were uttered, even to her whose every look and every tone was love. I scarcely believed that the letter would ever be finished. But finished it was at last; and Mr. Ellerslie hastily quitted the room, impatient with his wife, with himself, with all the world!
The lady took the sealed letter in her tremulous grasp, folded her hands, and again looked upwards: again her lips moved; and this time the big tears rolled slowly down her cheeks.
“We must do all that we can,” she faintly murmured to herself. “The hearts of men are in His hands. We must leave no proper means untried, and then commit all to a higher Power.”