One Amang Th’ Rest
I cannot say that the birth of Sally Green was heralded with many joyful anticipations. Her father was one of those unfortunate men who have never had any trade taught to them, and his income, always small, was also very precarious. One day you might find him distributing circulars, another, acting as porter; at times he got a stray job as gardener, and was always willing to undertake almost any thing by which to earn an honest penny. His wife had for many years been a sickly woman, yet she was fruitful, as was proved by the six children who with laughter or tears, as the case might be, welcomed their father home.
“Old Tip,” as he was familiarly called both at home and abroad, was sitting opposite the fire, smoking an old clay pipe, when the news was brought that little Sally was born, and both mother and babe were doing well. He answered simply, “Ho!” “An’ is that all tha has to say when tha’s getten another dowter, an’ one o’ th’ grandest childer aw think’ at wor iver born?”
“Well, what am aw to say? It’s all reight, isn’t it? Shoo’ll be one amang th’ rest.”
Although Tip appeared to treat the event with such indifference, yet his mind was ill at ease, for he well knew that his scanty means had barely sufficed to find food for those dependent upon him before time, and an additional mouth to provide for was by no means a thing to be desired.
There is an old saying, that God never sends a mouth without sending something to put in it, and that is very true, but it is just possible that the food sent to put in it is appropriated to some other mouth, that has already got above its share. If this was not so, we should be spared the pain of reading the heartrending accounts that are so frequently brought under our notice of people being “starved to death.”
It is not my intention to detail all the little incidents connected with Sally’s early years; suffice it to say that she was dragged up somehow, along with her brothers and sisters, who as they got older and able to work and earn a wage sufficient to support themselves, left one by one to depend upon their own exertions, but never once giving a thought to the debt of gratitude they owed to those, who had laboured so long, and endured so many troubles for their sakes.
In time Sally was old enough to be put to some business, and as she had all along been of a weaker constitution than her sisters, it was deemed advisable to select some occupation for her of a lighter description. Accordingly she soon found herself placed with a shopkeeper in the town, to learn the mysteries of concocting bonnets, caps, &c. The money she received at the commencement was very little, but doubtless was a just equivalent for her labours; but her parents, whose income had decreased with their increasing years, had often to suffer privations, in order to dress Sally as became her position. Sally was naturally quick of apprehension, and the old folks’ hearts were often cheered by the reports of her advancement.
“It maks me thankful monny a time i’th’ day, Tip, to think ha Sally taks to her wark; an’ tha sees shoo’s soa steady an’ niver braiks ony time, an’ aw connot help thinkin, ’at may be, shoo’ll net only be a comfort to us in old age, but a varry gurt help.”
“Shoo’s steady enough,” said Tip, “but aw dooant think its wise to build ony castles i’th’ air abaat her helpin us mich. Th’ kitten seldom brings th’ old cat a maase. Nooan o’ th’ brothers has iver done owt for us,—net ’at aw want owt, net aw; but aw know ’at we’ve had to do a deeal for them, an’ it luks rayther hard, at they should niver think abaat payin a trifle back; an’ awm feeared Sally ’ll be one amang th’ rest.”
“Happen net. Tha wor allus fond o’ lukkin o’th’ dark side.”
“Aw may weel be fond o’ lukkin at it, for awve seen varry little o’th’ breet en.”
Sally continued to progress, and her employer was not slow to recognize her abilities and increase her wages in proportion. She often indulged in dreams of what she would do for her parents, as soon as she was able, but as yet her own wants were so very pressing, that it took all her money to satisfy them. She saw and admired her fellow-workers, as they entered or left the place of business, dressed in such clothes as she had never had, and such as it must be some time before she could hope to obtain. But she clung to the hope that the time would come, and she strained every nerve to hasten its approach. Though by no means vain, yet it was quite evident, Sally was aware she was as much her companions’ superior, in personal attractions, as they were her superiors in point of dress, and it is to be feared, that there were times when she consulted her mirror with exultation, and painted in her imagination pictures how she could outshine them all when the time came.
By degrees almost imperceptible, crept in a dislike to her home;—not to those who owned it, far from it. To her parents she was still loving and dutiful, but she began to conceive that her own attempts to improve her appearance, her manner of speaking, and her general carriage, were strangely at variance with her humble home and its belongings. Happily, those precepts most potent to restrain any waywardness or wickedness, had been early instilled into her by her mother, whose quiet christian life had been her daily example. Her religion was pure and simple, and she never failed to impress upon Sally the happiness to be derived from an adherence to the truth, and a faith in the goodness of God.
Years rolled on, and the slightly built girl was developed into the beautiful woman. She occupied the second position in the work-room, and her love of dress she was enabled to gratify to its full extent. Many a young man lingered about the door of the shop at night, in hopes of catching a smile or some mark of encouragement, but Sally’s heart was free, respectful to all, but showing partiality to none, she passed on scathless through many temptations that might have proved too strong for many older than herself.
One night a strange event occurred. As she was hurrying home, and had arrived within a few yards of the door, she stumbled over some object in her path, and it was with much difficulty she succeeded in saving herself from an awkward fall. It was too dark to see what the object was, but she ran into the house, acquainted her parents with the event, and accompanied by them bearing a light she returned to see what the obstacle was. Across the pavement was laid a young man, about her own age, in a helpless, perhaps a dying state.
“Poor thing! what’s th’ matter wi’ him?” sed her mother; “Tip, lift him up an’ hug him in th’ haase, an’ see what’s to do! He’s somebody’s poor lad.”
Tip was not quite so strong as he had been, but he was yet strong enough for the emergency: and lifting up the slim young man, he bore him into the house and laid him on the longsettle.
“What does ta think is th’ matter wi’ him?” asked the mother; “Is he hurt?”
“Noa.”
“Why, has he had a fit thinks ta?”
“Aw think he has, an’ it’ll be some time befoor he comes aat on it, for its a druffen fit.”
“A’a, tha doesn’t say soa, Tip! does ta?” “Its ten thaasand pities to see him i’ that state!”
Sally approached him half in fear and half in anxiety, and after scanning his features, which in spite of the dirt and the drink were yet handsome, she turned to her father and asked, “What shall we do with him?”
“We shall be like to tak care on him, lass, wol he sleeps it off aw expect, for we connot turn him aat, an’ if we did th’ police wod lock him up. Awve suffered a deeal i’ mi lifetime wi’ my lads, but awve niver seen one on ’em i’ that state, an’ awd rayther follow ’em to th’ grave nor iver do it.”
For hours they sat beside the sleeping man, and when it was far past their usual time of retiring to rest, they looked at each other, mutely asking what would be best to do.
“Father and mother,” said Sally, “it is time you went to bed; I know you cannot bear to miss your accustomed rest. I will watch by this young man until he awakes, and so soon as he is fit to leave the house he shall do so, and then I can get an hour’s sleep before the shop opens in the morning; I do not think he will sleep long now.”
The old couple did not like to leave her sitting up, but seeing no reason why they too should watch, they left her with their blessing and retired to rest.
The light from the candle fell full on the face of the sleeper, and although Sally often tried to read one of her favourite books, yet as oft she found her eyes rivetted upon the countenance of the man before her. At times he moaned as though in pain; again he smiled a sweet, sweet smile so innocent and childlike, as if no care had ever crossed his path; then a deep, deep sigh heaved his breast, as though all hope had died within it. Sally leaned over him, and tears rolled down her cheeks as she gazed on him, and with her hand she gently parted his curly locks, exposing a brow that rivalled her own for whiteness. She was thus occupied when his eyes slowly opened, and she started back. He looked around him with a listlessness that showed the stupor had not yet worn off. Presently he aroused himself, and in a husky voice asked, “Where am I?”
“You are in the house of those who have endeavoured to befriend you,” she replied; “you are quite safe, perhaps you had better try to sleep again.”
“No! sleep! no! Let me have something to drink I Bring me some beer, I’m choaking.”
“That I cannot do, and would not if I could; but here is some tea made nice and warm, that will do you much more good.” And as she said this she handed him the jug.
He took it from her, with a half-amused, half-astonished expression on his face, and drank the contents at a draught. “There, there!” he muttered and reseated himself.
He looked for a short time at Sally, as she sat opposite him, but there was such an air of dignity, mingled with compassion, imprinted on her face, that it was only after one or two ineffectual attempts that he could articulate another word. At length he said, “Will you kindly tell me, miss, where I am and how I came here?”
“You are in my father’s house in————street, and he carried you here. I stumbled over something on my way home, and on going back with my parents, we found you laid helpless on the pavement. They have gone to bed, and I am waiting until you feel able to resume your walk home.”
“It must have been quite evident to you that I was in liquor, and I must have caused you great inconvenience. I did not think there was a person in the world who would have taken so much trouble on my behalf, but I am glad to say that I am in a position to pay for it, and you are at liberty to help yourself,” saying which, he threw a wellfilled purse upon the table.
“I beg that you will replace the purse in your pocket, sir. To any kindness you have received you are welcome, and you would only insult my parents by offering to pay.”
“Not a very enviable looking home,” he muttered, “but it seems pride can dwell in a cottage.” “Just pride can dwell in the cottage as well as in the mansion I hope,” she replied, rising to open the door. “The morning is cold yet fine,” she said, “and as you are, doubtless, expected home, it may be advisable not to delay your departure.”
“I will act upon your hint,” he said, “but I have one favour yet to ask, Will you grant it?”
“That depends upon the nature of it.”
“It is that I may be allowed to call here again, to express the gratitude I feel for the kind manner in which you have acted towards me. At present I am not in a fit state to do so. Will you grant me that privilege?”
“We do not seek for your thanks, sir, you are a perfect stranger to us, and we have but done that, which we felt it our duty to do, but if it will afford you any pleasure, I am quite sure my father will grant your request.”
With a hasty “good morning,” he hurried off, passing through the quiet streets as quickly as he could, still wondering how he had got into such strange company.
Sally sought her bed, to snatch a few hours of sleep, but all desire seemed to have flown. She could think of nothing but the young man’s face as she had seen him as he slept. His dress and manners bespoke the gentleman; but he had left no name, and she vainly endeavoured to discover who he was.
The next day brought the young man once more to the cottage door, but in a very different state. Sally was not at home, but the old woman invited him forward, and requested him to be seated. “Give my best thanks to your daughter,” he said, as they conversed together, “and tell her I shall be for ever grateful to her, for she has proved as good as she is beautiful; and she is beautiful.”
“Ther’s lots o’ nice young wimmen ith’ world,” said Tip, “an shoo’s one amang th’ rest.”
After sitting for a few minutes whilst the old woman warned him of the danger he placed himself in by giving way to such evil habits, and having promised never again to forget himself so far, he shook hands with the worthy couple and departed, leaving behind him a handsome sum of money, unknown to them.
Not long after, Sally was returning home, when she met the same young man. The recognition was mutual, and he at once joined her and strolled along by her side, pouring forth his thanks for her kindness, and begging that she would not look upon him with disgust on account of the unfavourable circumstances under which their first meeting took place. His manners were so easy, and his conversation so entertaining, that they reached the end of the street in which she lived, almost before she was aware. He bade her “good night,” and struck off in an opposite direction.
Sally’s heart palpitated more quickly than usual, as she entered the house, and for some reason, unknown even to herself, she did not acquaint her parents with the interview. She endeavoured to occupy her mind by busying herself with the little household affairs, but her manner was abstracted, so feigning exhaustion she went to her room, at an earlier hour than usual. She slept, but not that deep, quiet, undisturbed slumber that wraps in oblivion all the senses. She dreamed strange dreams, in which she saw strange faces, but the one face was ever there, and in the morning she arose, feverish and unrefreshed.