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Martin Crook lived with his mother and his, aged grandmother in the “White Cottage;” both of them were widows, and both hard-working women.
The name of the grandmother was Margaret Howard, that of the daughter Mary Crook. Margaret had formerly supported herself and her daughter by going out to wash and scour in the farmers' houses; she was not able, as she grew in years, to go out as often as she had done, still she was able to bring something to the family stock, and Mary made a good deal by her needle. She was the widow of a tailor; she had often helped her husband, and she was accounted to be particularly skilful in mending coats and waistcoats, and in cutting down to the best advantage the suits of fathers and elder brothers to serve the children of the family.
Martin Crook was not two years old when his father died, and his mother brought him back to his native home, the White Cottage under the hill, and seven years followed in which he was as happy a child as ever lived in a cottage or played in a green field. He often used to say, “Other boys have a father and a mother, but Martin has two mothers, and that will do as well, and Martin loves his mothers;” and well he might love them, for they were both kind and honest, though the old grandmother was far more pious than the mother, and more gentle, and more patients and more forgiving when anyone offended her; she had endured more sorrows, too, for she had lost several children, and had been taught that lesson which is so hard to learn, that God orders everything for the good of the creatures He has made.
The life which Martin led in the White Cottage was, as was before said, as happy as any little boy's life in this world could possibly be, till the winter came in which he was to enter his tenth year; there was a longer frost that season than was remembered by the oldest men then living.
Margaret bad been ailing all the autumn, and when the frost set in she was quite laid up with rheumatism, and was forced to keep her bed in order to save firing. Mary let out the fire in the kitchen, and kept one alight all day in her mother's bedroom. But Margaret's sickness was only the beginning of troubles; the last harvest had been bad, and bread so rose in price before the, winter that Mrs. Crook soon found that work was getting bad with her; people either patched their own clothes or went in rags. Thus was this family tried in various ways.
Till that winter Mrs. Crook and her son had never known real hardships, and the case with them was the harder because they were resolved to hide their troubles as much as possible from their old mother. Rather than run into debt, Mary sold some of her best clothes, and even put some articles in pawn at the next market town; amongst these last was poor Martin's Sunday suit,
Martin then had but one suit left, and no hope of another. From day to day as the winter went on his suit became more shabby and threadbare, although he took all the pains he could to prevent their tear and wear, and though his mother set all her industry to work to keep them from becoming only rags. The parish in which the White Cottage stood was divided into almost two equal parts by the high road to London, and all the land on the same side as this cottage was held by two farmers; one of these farmers was an old gentleman of the name of Allen; he was Margaret Howard's landlord, and Mrs. Allen was the best friend she had in the world out of her own family. During the whole winter Martin went twice every week to this house for broth and broken victuals; and many a time he brought home a few pence from the old lady; more than that, Mr. Allen promised him that as soon as the frost broke up and the ewes and young lambs could be turned out, he should be employed to keep them, for which he was to have sixpence a week.
The other farmer on the same side of the parish was a young man of the name of Bracebridge, one who always rode a horse worth a hundred pounds, and made no small profit by horse-dealing. Mr. Bracebridge was not altogether a bad man to the poor, though he was subject to be very violent with any one who offended him.
The family of the White Cottage had not, however, much to do with him, and never went near his house nor through his grounds excepting when they went to the village; and there was no other footway from that side of the parish but through a very long piece of grass land belonging to Mr. Bracebridge. The village was of a very superior kind to many country villages, for there lived a doctor who served the neighbourhood all round, and there was a great inn where all the coaches changed horses, and a shop where almost anything could be had which country people might want.
Having now described all the people of any consequence whom it may be necessary for the reader to know, we may now proceed to the most curious part in the history of Martin Crook. It was on the 31st of March, this same year of frost and almost of starvation to the very poor, that little Martin was sent about ten in the morning to take some work which his mother had done to Mrs. Allen; for this work she expected about fourpence, and she ordered her son, if the old lady gave him the money, to go on to the shop and lay it out in tea for his grandmother. At the very same time that Martin set out to go to Mrs. Allen's, Mr. Bracebridge left his hunter at Mr. Smith's gate and went into the shop to make some purchases; he laid out to the amount of fourteen shillings and sixpence; he laid a guinea on the counter, which Mrs. Smith, who served him, took up, and in return gave him six shillings in silver and a crooked sixpence, which, having been drilled in three places, he at first refused.
“Well, sir,” said she, “if you don't like it send it back for the next thing you want, and I will take it again.” As Mr. Bracebridge took the money, he saw from the window that his horse, which he had tied at the gate, was beginning to snort and prance, as if frightened at some sound; he therefore hurried all his silver into his purse, forgetting for the moment that there was only one side of the purse which was safe, there being a small hole in the other quite large enough for a crooked sixpence to creep through. There was a long slip of garden before the shop, and as Mr. Bracebridge ran down it he thrust his gloves and his purse into his coat pocket, and was hardly in time to seize the bridle before the horse had broken it and made his escape; he had sprung into the saddle the next minute and gave the creature a breathing along the road, after which he turned him into the large meadow through which was the footpath to the village—the gate into this meadow was directly opposite to the inn.
Mr. Bracebridge wanted to inspect some work which bad been done to the fences round this field, so he rode round it, and, as he afterwards remembered, took out his gloves in some part of the field and put them on without giving a thought to his purse; nor was it till the next day that he thought of his purse and found it was gone. He soon, however, comforted himself, for the loss to him was trifling; “and it served him right,” he said, “for putting money into a coat pocket;” so from that time he thought no more of it.
But to return to Martin Crook. Mr. Bracebridge was scarcely fairly out of sight when he came into the field in sight of Farmer Allen's house. Mrs. Allen had given him fourpence-halfpenny; be had it tied up in the corner of his little pocket-handkerchief; as he was going along he was thinking how much tea it would be for fourpence-halfpenny—he wondered whether there would be enough to make his grandmother two breakfasts; and he was so lost in thinking of this that he did not perceive that the mail coach was standing at the door of the inn waiting for horses; and although he saw a stranger in a traveller's dress walking with his back to him near the gate, yet he did not give him a second look.
Whilst he was walking on, full of thought, his eye fell upon something shining in the path, and stooping to pick it up, he found that it was a crooked sixpence with three holes bored in it; he was so much surprised that he could hardly feel glad; he knew that it was not his, and that he must return it, if he could find the owner; and then it came to his mind that the gentleman before him might have dropped it, and he immediately ran after him, and coming up close behind him he gently pulled his coat.
The gentleman turned instantly, and showing a pleasant face, he asked what he wanted.
Martin showed him the sixpence, and inquired if he had dropped it.
The stranger looked with pity at the poor, thin, patched figure of the little fellow, and hastily said something which Martin supposed meant that he was to keep the silver piece, though the gentleman had not said so, They were putting the horses to the coach, and the stranger thought that Martin might be able to tell him something which he wanted much to know, and which the people at the inn would not take the trouble to tell. What he wanted to know was whether such a person as Margaret Howard still lived in that neighbourhood, and this was the question he put to Martin.
How did little Martin's eyes sparkle when he told the gentleman that she was still alive, and that she was his own old mother, and that she was the best mother in the whole world?
“And very poor she is, I fear,” said the gentleman, as he looked kindly on Martin; and he was going to ask more questions, when the coachman from his box began to call to him: “Come sir,” he said—“come sir, if you please, sir; all ready, sir; we shall go without you; come, sir, we can't wait!”
The gentleman seemed quite confused.
“Well! well!” he said, “good-bye, little boy; take this and tell your good grandmother that I shall be back again perhaps In a month, perhaps two; so God bless you, little man!” And away went the gentleman, in his haste throwing as many as five or six shillings on the ground at the feet of Martin.
Had it rained gold from the sky Martin could not have been more surprised: he stooped down immediately and gathered up five shillings, after which, when he had almost done searching, ho found one more, and when he had got all this immense sum of money together, he ran to the hollow tree, and there he took the fourpence-halfpenny out of the corner of his pocket-handkerchief, and hid the six shillings in the same corner, and then he put the handkerchief, which he had knotted up in twenty knots, into the pocket of his trousers, and then he searched under the cuffs of his coat where he always kept a pin or two, and he pinned the handkerchief in two places to his trousers; and then he came out of hi~ hiding place, with the crooked sixpence and the fourpenny-piece in his hand. It happened that just as he stepped out of the hollow tree, a boy in the service of Mr. Allen, commonly called Long Dick, came along from the village across the field; this boy had a very cunning, curious look, and when he came near to Martin, he said—
“What have you been at there, in the hollow tree? No good, I fear.”
Little Martin was much too happy in thinking of all his riches to mind Long Dick's jest; he only smiled as he passed him by, and said laughingly, “I wish you may never have anything worse to do.”
When Martin arrived at the shop, he found Mr. Smith behind the counter instead of his wife, who had served Mr. Bracebridge.
As Martin felt how rich he was, he thought he might spend the crooked sixpence in tea, and the fourpence-halfpenny in sugar; the shopkeeper looked at the sixpence; he had not seen it before, for his wife had received and given it out; he saw that it was good silver, and he dropped it into the till without a word.
How gaily and how quickly did little Martin trudge home? How light and joyful was his manner as he came in at the door of the room where his grandmother was sitting up knitting in her bed, and his mother busy with her needle! With what an air did he place his two packets on the table, and with what delight did he watch his mother's eyes when she first saw the size of them!
“Why, child,” she said, “how much money did madam give you?”
“Fourpence-halfpenny,” he answered.
“But you don't mean to say,” she asked trying the weight of the parcels in her hand, “that you got all this tea and this sugar for fourpence-halfpenny.”
“No,” said Martin, “I did not mean to say so, and I did not say so. But now, mother, do you look, and grandmother, do you look also, and then I will show you such a sight as you never saw before.”
“I am quite ready to see all that you have to show me, my boy,” replied the old mother, looking kindly at her boy.
“Here then, dear mother,” cried Martin, taking out first one yellow pin and then another from where he had put them to secure his treasure in his pocket, and next opening out his little knotted pocket-handkerchief; but he found it very difficult in his hurry and his joy to get the hard knots untied, so that his two mothers had some time to wonder, and to exclaim—
“Why, what is the child about? what has taken him this morning?” And his grandmother, laughing, said, “If it was the first of April, and not the last of March, I should fancy that he was trying to make an April fool of his poor old granny.”
“You shall see,” said Martin, as he succeeded in untying the last knot, and then began to place the shillings in a row upon the table, crying as he did so, “One, two, three, four, five, six!” raising his voice at the last word, clapping his hands, and perfectly crowing with downright joy.
It would be very hard to describe what passed next in that little room, but it was several minutes before Martin could be got to leave off laughing and jumping, to tell his story so that it might be understood; and when he had told it, neither of his mothers could make anything of it, till after awhile Old Margaret fancied that she had some sort of clue to it.
Having made Martin describe the gentleman who had given him the money, she said that she could only account for this stranger having asked for her, and sent her the present, in one Way.
“About fifty years ago,” she said, “a lady, who was travelling through the village in her own carriage was stopped at the inn several days by the sickness of her infant son. Our doctor was called in, and he, by the blessing of God, brought the baby through the worst of the illness; and' when the child was on the mending hand, he advised the lady, who was a poor sickly creature, to put him to a healthy country nurse; and he recommended me,” continued Margaret, “and I brought the dear lamb to my house, and had him with me four years, and nursed him through the smallpox, he being spared when two of my own were taken.
“I was well paid, and more than well paid, by Mrs. Launder, when she came and took the dear boy from me; but I never saw my nursling again. I heard that, when grown, he went abroad; he must now be more than fifty years old, if he is alive; and if it is not he who gave you the money, I cannot guess who it is.”
“Well, mother,” said Mrs. Crook, “we shall see. He says that he will come back again. In the meantime this is indeed a Godsend, and this very morning will I go down, and take five of these silver pieces to pay for what is behind our rent.”
The frost broke up that very night; the earth, and all the animals and plants thereon, seemed the next morning as if loosed from the bands of cold death, to enter into the warmth of life. The change of air so immediately affected Margaret Howard that she was able to hobble downstairs and take her place in the chimney-corner in the kitchen. Mr. Allen sent for Martin to drive up the ewes and the lambs to the bill, where he was to watch them; several jobs of needlework came in to Mary Crook; and everything about the White Cottage seemed to be smiling and happy again; and so things went on for a fortnight or more, during which the hedgerows and bushes all about were almost ready to burst into leaf; the primroses, crocuses, and violets were all quite out; and Martin came running in one morning from the hill-side to say that “he had certainly heard the cuckoo—he could not be mistaken, it was the cuckoo.”
Poor Martin's dress was becoming ruefully shabby; his mother had patched his trousers in so many places that one could scarcely see what colour the cloth had been with which they had first been made; his poor jacket, too, was a mere rag; and his shoes so bad, that a day or two after he had turned shepherd, a thorn had run through the sole of one of them into his foot, and there inflamed, and though his mother had got it out, it had caused a sore which run up the ankle and made him walk lame—nor could he get his shoe on that foot again.
But though, with his ragged clothes and bare foot, little Martin looked very forlorn, yet the first few weeks of his being a shepherd was a very happy time to him; his grandmother used every morning to choose him some verses in his little Bible about shepherds and sheep, and these he learned as he sat by the hill-side watching his flock; and it is wonderful what lovely thoughts were then put into his young mind about Him who is our Shepherd, and of His love for us as His sheep: “For the flock of His pastures are men.”
But whilst this happy time was going on with little Martin, there was trouble preparing for him; perhaps he was getting too well pleased with himself, and things were going too smoothly with him. Mr. Bracebridge had not happened to go to the shop himself for as much as three weeks; for it was the third week in April that, calling there again, he was served by Mrs. Smith, to whom he told the ill luck he had had in losing his old purse and all the silver she had given him when last there.
“Why, sir,” said she, “you surprise me; did I not give you, in part of change, a curious sixpence?”
“To be sure you did,” said Mr. Bracebridge.
“And you say,” added she, “that you put it into your purse, and that you lost purse and all immediately afterwards. Should you know the sixpence again, sir?”
“I could swear to it anywhere,” he answered.
“Is this it, sir?” said she, taking it out of her pocket; and then she told him that “her husband had taken it back that very same morning; that it had been brought by Martin Crook; that her husband had dropped it into the till, and that she had taken it out and kept it ever since in her pocket with a double nut for good luck.”
“The fellow who got that sixpence had my purse, and the rest of the silver also,” said Mr. Bracebridge, in a towering passion; “but if I live I will bring the young vagabond to shame;” and running down the garden he sprang upon his horse, and galloped off to Mr. Allen's.
Coming into the fold-yard, he asked for Martin Crook, and being told that he was in the hill-meadow with the sheep, and being shown a short cut by which he might get there on foot, he sprang from his horse, and stood looking for some one to hold it. Long Dick instantly offered himself, the sly boy having little doubt that there was some mischief brewing against young Crook, whom he did not love.
Mr. Bracebridge found poor Martin, and loaded him with reproaches. Martin stood wondering at the hard names which the gentleman gave him. The boy, in his first fright, had dropped his crook, and looked perfectly wild with fear.
“A pretty fellow you are,” said Mr. Bracebridge, “to be picking up other people's purses, and spending other people's money!”
“Sir,” said Martin—“sir, I do not know what you mean.”
“Oh! you do not!” answered the farmer; “then I must make it my business to teach you; so come along with me, sir.”
Martin did not dare to refuse so great a man as he considered Mr. Bracebridge, and he was forced to go, limping before his accuser, down to his master's.
They were met by Mary Crook, who was just coming out of the house, where she had been receiving some needlework from Mrs. Allen; and before she could express her wonder at seeing Mr. Bracebridge driving her son before into the court, he bade her stand still, and hear what he had to say. By this time all the inmates were assembled in the yard, the master and mistress wondering not a little at the scene.
“I see, neighbour Allen,” said Mr. Bracebridge, “that you are surprised to see me come in here, driving that boy before me; but dishonesty ought to be exposed, and this Martin Crook here has been guilty of a most shocking piece of roguery—he has, I may say, robbed me. He has found a purse, containing five shillings and sixpence, as far as I can remember, which belonged, he knew, to some other person; and he has spent some of this money himself, and either kept the rest or given it to his mother.”
“When did you lose the purse, sir?” asked Mary Crook, turning very pale.
“On the last day of March,” replied Mr. Bracebridge.
“The day you paid your rent,” whispered Mr. Allen to Mary.
“It was, ma'am,” said Mrs. Crook, answering in a whisper; and then raising her voice, “Mr. Bracebridge,” she said, “if my boy has been guilty of dishonesty, I will be the last person in the world to screen him; nay,” she added, turning sharply, almost fiercely, at her son, “if he has been a thief, he has no mercy to expect from me. It is true that be brought me six shillings on the last day of March, but he explained how it had come into his possession, and as I live and breathe, I declare that till this moment I never suspected that he was deceiving me.”
“Neither did I, mother,” said Martin.
“Hold your tongue,” said the angry mother; “if you have done a dishonest thing, I shall be ready to turn you off.”
“Let the boy have a fair trial,” said Mr. Allen. “Let us first hear what neighbour Bracebridge says, and then let us hear Martin's story.”
“And I, too,” said Long Dick, stepping forward—“I have something to say.”
Martin was weeping very bitterly, but when Mr. Bracebridge began to tell his story the poor boy ceased to cry and was very attentive. Mr. Bracebridge had little to say but what the reader has heard before; only this he insisted upon, “that if the sixpence was in the purse when the purse was lost, Martin could not have got the sixpence without having found the purse.”
“That is not so certain,” said Mr. Allen, “because some one else might have found the purse and dropped the sixpence.”
“That would do,” said Mr. Bracebridge, “if it was not for the six shillings which the boy brought the same day to his mother.”
When Mr. Bracebridge had said all he had to say, Long Dick came forward, and told how he had seen Martin come skulking out of the hollow tree.
“It is altogether an awkward story,” said Mr. Allen. “What have you to say for yourself, Martin Crook? how do you tell the story?”
“Just as I told mother at the time,” said the poor boy; “I thought the sixpence I picked up belonged to the same gentleman who gave me the shillings. Oh, if he would come back again all would be right; but please, please not let poor old grandmother be vexed about it.”
“If you would but own the truth,” said Mr. Allen, “I dare say that Mr. Bracebridge would forgive you.”
“If you mean by owning the truth, telling what is not true, master, I cannot do it,” said Martin; but he added, as he turned away, weeping, “I am innocent! God knows I am innocent!”
Mr. Bracebridge's passion was over by this time, and although he really believed Martin to be the thief, he consented that nothing more should be said about the matter; he could put the lost crown on the price of his horse when he sold it, he said, and he hoped the boy would be the better for his fright. There was not one of all the other people present who did not think Martin guilty, except Mrs. Allen; she persisted in her persuasion of his innocence all along; she did what she could to soothe his mother, and she begged that the grandmother might know nothing about the business, at least for the present.
Martin was then sent back to his sheep, and Mary Crook went sorrowing home. And now came many days in which the little shepherd boy did not know what to make of himself; for although there was no other creature in the wide world to smile upon him but his aged mother, he often felt himself more happy than ever he was in his life, whilst sitting on the hill-side, learning his verses and watching his lambs.
The remainder of April and the whole of May passed without bringing any change to Martin. On the last day of May, Martin began to look for the return of the gentleman; but most of June was over and he did not come. That very hard winter had been followed by an early summer. Mr. Allen began to cut his hay about the 15th of that month, and then all hands were required to help—men, and women, and children from every cottage on the farm were out all day in the hayfield. Old Margaret even was requited to hobble backwards and forwards from the fields to the kitchen to fetch and carry food and drink. Mr. Bracebridge did not begin to cut his grass for two or three days after his neighbour.
Poor Martin, much as in former years he had always loved haymaking time, now thought that it could not be over too soon, so much did he suffer from the gibes and sneers of his fellow-workers, especially the boys. Long Dick was always the chief on these occasions; he never saw Martin Crook but he had something to say against hypocrites and people who pretended to be more pious than their neighbours; and his gibes were almost always taken up by the other boys, and even sometimes by the women and girls, so that poor Martin had no peace.
Mr. Allen got in his hay without one drop of rain; and just as the last loaded waggon drove out of the last field, Mr. Bracebridge came riding up, and having complimented his neighbour on his good luck, he lamented that he was so far behind him.
“Well, then,” said Mr. Allen, “I will tell you what I will do; I will lend you my team and all my people for a couple or three days, if you approve it, and we will see what can be done before Sunday comes, with a change of moon, and perhaps of weather.”
“Be it so,” said Mr. Bracebridge; “I take your offer, neighbour, and thank you too; and I promise your men a jolly supper on the day the last load is brought home.”
By five o'clock, all Mr. Allen's people who could be spared, men, women, boys, and girls, were working in Mr. Bracebridge's fields. The grass was already cut in all of them but one, and that, indeed, was partially done. This field was the very one in which Martin had found the sixpence and seen the stranger.
Long Dick's father was accounted one of the beat mowers in all that country, and Long Dick himself could use a scythe more skilfully than many a one of his age. Mr. Bracebridge therefore directed this father and son to go on with the mowing in that piece; and he told Old Dick, as he was called, to keep Martin Crook to turn up the grass after him.
Mr. Bracebridge left these three, whilst Old Dick had mowed a few yards, and young Dick was whetting his scythe, and Martin was using all his strength to turn the grass with a fork, the other haymakers being very busy at the other end of the field. Young Dick was still going on with some jest about Martin hiding himself so cleverly in the hollow tree, when suddenly the poor child screamed out—
“There! there! I do declare! Oh, I am very glad! Now they will believe me.”
And when Dick and his father turned to look, there was Martin holding up something which looked like a green ribbon in his hand, and jumping and capering for joy.
“What is it?” said Long Dick. “Let me see.”
“No, no,” cried Martin; and away he ran to the other side of the field, shouting so loud that all the people stood staring and wondering at him. Young Dick was after him, but he did not dare to touch him, because there were so many eyes upon them, and amongst these the master, too, for Mr. Bracebridge was still in the field, and saw all that took place.
As the little boy continued to run towards his mother, who was with many other women and men also at the end of the field—as he continued to cry out, “Come and see, now you will know that I am not a thief,” they all left their work; Mr. Bracebridge himself walked forward, and within two or three minutes after Martin had found what Long Dick supposed to be only a bit of old green ribbon, Martin was standing in the midst of perhaps twenty persons, holding up Mr. Bracebridge's purse in his hand, one end being heavy with silver pieces, and the other quite empty.
“Here, here!” cried the happy boy—“here it is, and I found it—my fork stuck into it—and when the grass which I lifted up fell from the prong, then the purse hung to the point, and I knew what it was in a moment—and there are the shillings at one end—and I am not a thief, and I have told the truth—and everybody now knows that I am an honest boy though the good gentleman has not come back to say so.”
Martin then stepped forward to Mr. Bracebridge, who had brought up the horse on which he had been riding round his field to a stand, and reaching the purse up to him, “There, sir,” he said, “it is just as I found it!, and turning hastily round, he pushed through the crowd about him, and walked away. Martin was not missed for a few minutes, because every one was pushing forward to see Mr. Bracebridge open the purse.
It was of netted green silk, and it was knotted in the middle. In many places it had lost its colour from lying so long on the damp ground, and the money which it contained was quite tarnished.
Mr. Bracebridge took out the shillings very carefully, dropping them one by one from one hand to the other, to let the people see that there were six. After which, fixing his eyes on Martin's mother, he said, “Mary Crook, I have been very unjust; I have used your boy very ill. I own my fault, and am willing to make the boy every reparation which may be required.”
“Sir,” replied Mrs. Crook, bursting into tears, “you have done my poor child justice as far as lies in your power, by confessing before all these people that you judged him wrongfully. Appearances were against him, and I can blame no one for thinking him guilty excepting myself, his own mother; I ought to have remembered the gleesome manner with which he came home that day when the purse was lost, and brought the six shillings which the gentleman had given him. Alas, my poor boy! what a cruel mother have I been to him from that day to this!”
“Nay,” said one of the women, “you surely have not kept up your anger all this time!”
“I have, though,” replied Mary Crook; “and supposing the boy had committed the sin, and still refused to confess, it was no more than he deserved; but my poor child,” she added, as she turned round to weep—“my poor child, how much have I made him suffer!”
Every one was now looking for Martin, and amongst the foremost Mr. Bracebridge, with the six tarnished shillings and as many bright ones ready to put into the little boy's hand; they found, however, that he was not near them, and looking round the field they saw him walking along the path to the village, and as he went they saw him take out his little pocket-handkerchief to wipe his face. His young heart, which had been frozen up with unkindness, was now melted by this new instance of God's goodness in bringing such full and public proof of his innocence; and although so happy, he could not stop the tears which ran like rain from his eyes. He was quite at the end of the field, near the gate, when the haymakers turned about to look after him; and Mr. Bracebridge had just given orders to one of the boys to run after him and bring him back, when they saw a gentleman enter the field from the high road; and they next saw Martin run up to this gentleman, and they saw the stranger hold out his hand to the poor boy, and they could perceive that Martin was looking up and talking to him. There was no doubt in anybody's mind that this was the very person who had given the boy the six shillings, and this was thought most wonderful that he should have come at that very time.
Martin had turned with this gentleman, and they were both walking towards the haymakers; Mr. Bracebridge did not wait however, till they came up, but rode forward to meet them, and making his bow to the stranger, he welcomed him to those parts, not knowing what else to say. The gentleman thanked him with a very gracious smile, adding,
“This little fellow, Mr. Bracebridge, has just been telling me of the trouble in which he has been for some weeks past, and how it has pleased God this very hour to deliver him from this trouble; and he tells me also how kind you were, when you believed him a thief, in sparing him from the punishment which you thought he deserved.”
“Poor boy,” said Mr. Bracebridge, “he has not much to thank rue for; nevertheless, I am obliged to him for this good word,” he added, nodding to the boy, and resolving in his mind not to give him the money he intended before the stranger, lest it should prevent his receiving a present from the other quarter; he failed not, however, to fulfil his intentions within that week.
Having made an acquaintance so far with the stranger, he proceeded to ask him if he had any business in that country in which he could assist him, and invited him to take refreshment at his house. The gentleman, in answer, told Mr. Bracebridge his name—the very same mentioned by Mary Howard—said that, having found occasion to take a very long journey, which led him through that part of the country both in going and coming, he had resolved to find the family of his old nurse, Mary Howard, having no hope of finding her still living. He was trying, he added, to get a peep at the White Cottage and the little hill, still faintly remembered by him, when he so strangely met with Martin in that very field:
“But now,” he added, “I am come back with the intention of staying here till Monday. I have apartments at the inn, and if you will permit me, I will join your party in the hayfield, and try to fancy myself such as I was when I played in scenes like this with my nurse's children.”
“Sir,” said Mr. Bracebridge, “you are most welcome. I shall order my own dinner into the field: Martin shall fetch his aged grandmother; and we shall be most proud of the company of such a gentleman.”
Mr. Launder was an old bachelor, and had more than money enough for himself. He was a pious, simple, and humble man. He had seen many grand sights in the world, but there was none so pleasant to him as those which are found in the country.
Mr. Bracebridge led him to where he could rest himself on the hay whilst Martin ran to the White Cottage. The first words which he said when he saw old Margaret were—
“It is found, and I am not a thief; and the gentleman is come, and he is in the hayfield, and he wants you, and you are his nurse, and his name is Launder, and you are to make haste.”
“Bless the child,” said Margaret, “what is come to you? The purse is found, and you are not a thief? What do you mean?”
Martin had forgotten that his grandmother knew nothing about the purse; he thought, however, he might tell her now1 as they walked along. Yet he could hardly have patience to wait till she had put on her best gown and cap.
What a meeting was that between the nurse and the child she had nursed and parted from some fifty years before! He had left her a dimpled, blooming boy, between four and five years of age; she saw him again a white-headed elderly man.
But if all the happiness of those days which Mr. Launder spent in that place was to be fully described, our story would be twice as long as it now is. The first three days were spent in the hayfield, on the fourth day Mr. Launder went with Margaret Howard to church, and on the Monday he gave a supper to the haymakers on the hill by the White Cottage, and there was also a general invitation to any of the neighbours who chose to come.
Mrs. Crook had contrived to get her own and Martin's things out of pawn on the Saturday night, so that they were able to appear decent as on former days.
The parting between Mr. Launder and Mrs. Howard would have been very mournful, had they not had the assurance of meeting, through their Redeemer, never again to be separated in another life. But before Mr. Launder went, he settled many things for the comfort of his nurse's family. He caused new clothes to be made for them; he supplied his nurse with warm blankets and a new bed; he undertook to pay for Martin being put to a good day school in the village; and he settled with Mr. Allen to pay the rent of the White Cottage as long as he lived; and saying that he would be answerable for any little assistance which Mrs. Howard might think necessary in case of hard times or illness, he took his leave.
Martin followed him to the coach door, and stood looking after the coach till it was no longer to be seen.