Early on the Saturday afternoon Lottie Stone, with her little bundle in her hand, tripped lightly over the common towards the cottage of Holdich, which lay embosomed within the woods of Lestrange. She was on her way to her parent’s home, and pleasure winged her steps. There are few joys more keen and pure than those experienced by a young girl, like Lottie, returning to the family whom she loves, after her first absence. What though Mrs. Stone’s dwelling-place was but a single room over a shop, with a tiny attic chamber for her son; to Lottie there was still a charm in the word “home,” for love and peace abode there. She clapped her hands for joy as the open cart in which she was seated rattled down the narrow paved street of Axe, and she caught sight of the ungainly figure of her only brother standing before the shop. Out sprang Lottie almost before the horse was pulled up, and in another minute she was locked in the arms of her mother.
How much had Lottie to tell; how fast she talked, how merrily she laughed, as she sat at her mother’s little deal table spread with unusual dainties—buttered muffins, and toast, and water-cresses from the stream. The washerwoman had “cleared up and made all tidy” for the reception of her daughter; and her son had decked the homely room with bunches of cowslips and daffodils. Deborah’s care-worn brow seemed less deeply wrinkled, and her thin anxious face often relaxed into a smile, as her merry child talked over her first eventful month of service, playfully describing what at the time of occurrence had seemed to her anything but sources of mirth,—her own petty troubles and ignorant blunders. Lottie’s hearers drew from her recital that Hannah was a somewhat formidable task-mistress, that “Master” was not very easily pleased, that crockery at the Lodge had a peculiar tendency to slip out of clumsy fingers, but that “Miss Isa” was the kindest of mistresses, and that a smile from her seemed to smooth every difficulty away.
“Bless your dear heart, how your poor father would have liked to have heard you!” exclaimed Deborah Stone, as the merry girl at length stopped to take breath.
For the loyal heart of the deserted wife remained true in its allegiance. Perhaps memory had softened the past, perhaps it overleaped the years of bitter suffering on the one side and tyranny on the other, and Deborah only thought of her husband as what he had been in the days of his wooing. However that might be, conjugal affection remained firm and bright like its pledge, the circlet on the wrinkled bony finger, the sole piece of gold which its owner possessed, and which no strain of poverty would ever induce her to part with. When Deborah knelt down in the evening to offer her simple little prayer with her children, very fervent was her supplication for one absent but never forgotten: where Abner was she knew not, what Abner was she had proved by bitter experience, but still, “true as the needle to the pole,” the hopes and affections of the injured woman still pointed towards her lost husband.
Sunday was an especially happy day to Lottie, it was such a pleasure to go to what she deemed her own church, hear her own pastor, meet again with her own companions in the Sunday school which she used to attend. She was only disappointed when the baronet’s carriage drew up to the church-porch, not to see in it the bright fair face of her dear young mistress.
“A letter for you, mother,” said Mrs. Stone’s son, as he entered on the Monday morning the little room in which Lottie, humming a lively air, was helping her parent to clear away the remains of their early breakfast. As Mrs. Stone’s receiving a letter of any kind was a quite unprecedented occurrence, Lottie turned with some curiosity to see what the missive could contain. It had come by a cross-country post, for her brother pointed to the stamp-mark upon it, “Southampton.”
“A letter for me?—why, who would write!” exclaimed Deborah, gazing with a look rather of anxiety than of curiosity on the address, “To D. Stone, Wildwast,” traced in a straggling, hardly legible hand, with “Try Axe” written below by the postmaster, showing that her correspondent could not be aware that—years ago—she had changed her abode. It was no wonder that Deborah did not recognize that rude handwriting, as she had seen it but once before, when, in the parish register, she had scrawled her own signature beneath that of her newly-wedded husband.
“O mother, do open it!” cried Lottie; “who knows whether it mayn’t bring us news of poor father.”
It was the same thought that had made the hand of Deborah tremble as she had taken the letter from her son. She tore open the envelope, and with anxious eyes glanced at the signature at the end of its enclosure.
“It is—yes—oh! the Lord is merciful!” exclaimed the poor wife, with something like a sob. Long experience of hardship and sorrow had so strengthened her nature to endure, that it was very seldom that Deborah gave any expression to outward emotion; but no one could have looked at her at that moment and not have read in every line of her countenance that the depths of her soul were stirred, that the few scarcely audible words which escaped her lips came from the inmost recesses of a heart where sorrow had so long fixed its abode, that when joy came it startled and overpowered, like the visit of an angel.
THE LETTER.
“Mother, read more; oh! read every word!” cried Lottie, whose only emotions seemed those of hope and delight; while her brother looked bewildered and scarcely able to comprehend that that piece of paper, blotted and soiled, on which his mother’s tears were falling, actually contained the writing of his father.
It was some little time before the trembling, excited woman could, with the help of her children, make out the scrawl, which read as follows:—
ANCOR INN, SUTAMTON.
DEAR WIFE,—I landed here last month. I bin vry ill 6 weeks; i bin in det, an cant git away till i pais, so send me five punds afor thusday in a letter, or i shall git in gret trubel; don’t tell no one abuit me, most of all not mister Erdly, cause id be had up for that scrape—mind don’t tell no one, but send mony quick; i hop to be a beter husband an father; it was all along of the drink; so no more fum yur loving
ABNER STONE.
“Five pounds—how can I send him five pounds—I’ve not five shillings in the world!” cried Deborah, glancing around her, as if to see whether any article in that scantily furnished room could, if sold or pawned, bring anything like such a sum, the fifth part of which she had never possessed at one time since her marriage.
“Five pounds!” repeated her son dreamily, as he slowly moved his fingers one after the other, apparently to aid his dull brain in making some mental calculation.
“We must send, oh! we must send the money!” cried Lottie, clasping her hands. “Dear Mr. Eardley might—”
“I couldn’t ask him for another penny,” exclaimed Deborah, “he has done so much already, and he has so many alooking to him; and then your father forbids me to tell him a word.”
“If only Mr. Arthur were in England,” sighed Lottie.
“You earns wages,” said her brother abruptly, as if he had suddenly lighted on some fountain of wealth.
“My quarter’s wages won’t be due till next June,” replied Lottie.
“Could your master do anything?” suggested Deborah; “it is said about here that he’s rich.”
Lottie shook her head with a very significant expression. “He may have plenty of money,” she said slowly, “but I’m sure he don’t like to part with it; there’s nothing to be got out of he.”
“Here’s the baker’s cart come for you, Lottie,” cried her brother, who had sauntered up to the window.
Lottie hurriedly snatched up her bonnet and shawl. “I mustn’t keep him; but oh! mother, if I could only think of any way to help father—” a loud summons shouted from below cut her short in the middle of her sentence, and quickened her movements.
“Pray, child, pray; God Almighty will show us some way:” there was scarcely time for the parting kiss and blessing; Lottie hurried down into the street barely soon enough to prevent her impatient escort from driving away without her.
Very different were the feelings of the young servant girl on her drive from Axe, from those with which, two days before, she had entered the quaint little town. She replied at random to the jesting observations of the baker’s boy, she seemed unable to understand the meaning of the words that fell on her ear, for her mind was so full of conflicting emotions that outer things could make no impression upon it. Lottie scarcely knew whether she was happy or unhappy, whether her inclination was to laugh or to cry. Her prayers had been answered—her lost father was found; here indeed was joy and cause for thanksgiving: but he was ill, in debt, needed money, and where was that money to be procured?
“I would work my fingers to the bone!” muttered Lottie to herself, as the cart rolled lightly along the dusty high road, “but no working would bring more than the one pound due in June;” and thoughts of the new boots which would then be absolutely needed would intrude on the little maid’s mind. “I can’t go about Mr. Gritton’s house barefoot; and then he says that I am to pay for all that I break, and, oh! the things will slip out of my hands! Would my dear young lady help me? but I must not tell even her that I want money for my poor sick father. Shall I say that mother’s in trouble for rent?” The honest soul of Lottie recoiled from the artful suggestion of the Tempter, and she shook her head so emphatically in reply to it, that the baker’s boy, who had been watching with amusement her earnest look of thought and her moving lips, burst out into a laugh which startled her into a consciousness that she was not alone.
“I say, Lottie Stone, what did you see in that thorn bush to make you shake your head at it so fiercely?” cried the lad.
“I was only a-thinking,” replied Lottie.
“A penny for your thoughts,” said her companion.
But the answer was such a heavy sigh, that the good-humoured lad saw that the little maiden was in no mood for jesting, and as she turned her head sorrowfully away, he left her in peace to pursue her reflections.
It was perhaps well for Lottie that she had not much time for meditation after her arrival at the Lodge. Hard work has served to relieve many an anxious heart, and Hannah took care that her little assistant should have her share, and much more than her share, of the labour of the house. Lottie Stone had to pay by double work for her two days’ holiday at Axe. Yet while she washed, and scrubbed, and tidied the rooms, the thoughts of the poor young girl were constantly recurring to her father, and she was revolving the difficult problem how it would be possible to procure five pounds to send to her father before Thursday.
While Lottie was laying the cloth for dinner, she could not help hearing the conversation going on between her master and his sister, relative to one of the children of Isa’s Sunday class.
“I am certain that she is consumptive, and that Wildwaste is too damp for the poor little thing. I hear that the doctor has said that her only chance is to go to the hospital at Bournemouth.”
“I’ve no faith in doctors,” said Gaspar, applying to his snuff-box.
“If I myself had the means of sending her,” pursued Isa, “I would never trouble you on the subject; but the expenses will be heavy, and my purse is light, and—”
“It will always be light if you go picking up every case that comes before you. You may throw away your money if you choose, but I shall certainly not throw away mine;” and, rising, Gaspar walked to the window, to put an end to the conversation.
The words which she had heard fell like cold vapour upon the heart of Lottie. “My poor dear mistress, though she is a lady, has a light purse; she cannot do what she wishes; she is obliged to beg her brother for money, and he refuses to give it. Ah, there is no use in my asking help from her! She has the will to do good, but not the power; master has the power, but not the will. People say as how he is rich; it don’t look like it, when he’s so angry at the candles being used so fast. I’m sure if I were rich—;” and here the little maid’s thoughts flowed on fast in a channel into which they had often wandered before—how much good she would do if she were rich—how much she wished that she had plenty of money—how strange it was that some should be rolling in wealth, while others had scarcely bread enough to satisfy hunger. There are many through whose minds, as through Lottie’s, such a current of reflection is wont to run; but the little servant-maid suspected that there was danger in giving it free course.
“I do believe that Mr. Eardley would say—could he know of what I am thinking—that I am letting those Midianites, Discontent and Distrust, into my foolish little heart. It do seem as if I was beginning to think everything wrong in God’s world, ’cause I can’t do what I want for father. If I can’t ask Miss Isa to help me, is there not One above whom I can ask, and who has both the power and the will to do me good? I needn’t be hiding nothing from God; He knows all already. He has made poor father give up the drink, and has brought him back to England, and has helped him over his sickness, and now He can set him free from his debt. I must pray very hard, and pray in faith, and pray without fainting, and sure the answer will come at last.”
And so, while she pursued her household labours, as well as when she knelt by her bed-side at night; when the duster or the broom was in her hand, as well as when her Bible lay open before her, the simple-minded Lottie lifted up her heart to her Father in heaven, and found comfort and hope in resting her cares upon Him.
On the evening of the following day, Lottie accompanied her mistress to the meeting at the cottage of Holdich.
