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Master Alfred Seymour had a rich papa, and lived in a fine house, and was always well dressed, and had a silver watch with a chain and seals, and a little pony when he chose to ride, and a very great man he thought himself—very much better than all the other little boys in the parish.
Alfred's mamma was dead, but his papa was living, and was so fond of him that he let him have his way in almost everything. He had one little sister called Laura, and she was very pretty and very gentle: he would have used her very unkindly if she had not had a tender aunt to take care of her. This aunt was a young lady; and she had come to live with Alfred's papa very soon after his mamma had died. Little Laura loved her aunt very much, and they were most happy together, especially when Alfred did not come into their rooms to tease his sister, or to break her playthings.
The place in which Alfred lived is such as most readers have often seen: first, there was a great house standing in a park, amongst very fine trees; and, then, just outside the park was a village, which contained about ten or twelve houses: one of these houses was a mill, and the other a shop: the mill-wheel was turned by a little rapid stream, which came towards it through the park; this same stream having passed the mill, ran winding about, as much, perhaps, as a mile, and then fell into a river of considerable size.
The shop was called the shop throughout the country for five miles round, because there was no other like it within that space; and it was said of it, that there was scarcely anything which country people might want, which could not be had there—not to speak of some certain things which even Master Alfred liked very well when he could get them.
Amongst these, the articles which he most coveted were barley sugar, sugar-candy, elecampane, and peppermint cakes. He was generally supplied with money; and seldom a week passed but he went to the shop to provide himself with a quantity of these things, and when he had got them he was never at rest till he had made an end of them, and carefully sucked from his fingers all that remained of their sweet flavour.
The person who kept the shop when Alfred was a boy, was a Mr. Perks, a brisk young man, who might be seen every morning at sun-rise behind his counter, and so well dressed that he had no other signs about him of being a seller of all sorts of rough and ordinary wares, but the apron, which was often tied before him, and the white half-sleeves which covered his coat from above the elbows to the wrists. Mr. Perks had in his shop an assistant of the name of Dickson, who had first been only an errand-boy; he had lately been promoted to be shopman; but this was a person quite beneath the notice of Master Seymour.
In such a place as this shop, which was half supported from the great house, it might be expected that Alfred would be treated with much respect; but the young gentleman was not contented with mere respect from Mr. Perks; he had let the cunning shopkeeper know that he must have flattery also; and as fine words cost no money, Mr. Perks took care, that whenever the young gentleman came with halfpence for sweetmeats to please his palate, that his ears at the same time should be tickled with the sound of his own praises—in which last he delighted almost as much as in sugar-plums.
Alfred's birth-day was In the beginning of June—that sweat time of the year in which birds sing most cheerily; and although the summer fruits are coming on the blossoms, the fair flowers of spring are not yet quite gone, and the cuckoo still lingers in the woods.
Miss Seymour and her little Laura delighted to walk abroad at these seasons; and many were the lessons which the little girl learned from her dear aunt, whilst sitting under the shade of the trees, and breathing the fresh air which blew over the fragrant lawns of the park; but poor Alfred had been so indulged by his papa after his mamma's death, that he could not enjoy anything that did not feed his pride or fill his mouth with some agreeable trash.
When the birth-day came in which he would be ten years old, his papa happened to be gone to London, and could not return in time to be with him. Mr. Seymour had, however, sent word in a letter, that although his boy's birth-day could not be kept as usual with a large party of young friends invited to play with him, yet he was to have a holiday, his writing-master was not to come, and he was to have a guinea given him the night before, which he was to spend in any way he liked.
Laura would have persuaded him to pass the day with her and their aunt, and Miss Seymour proposed that they should dine under the trees, and afterwards take some pleasant walk; but this plan did not suit Alfred, and he told his sister that he knew how to amuse himself better than she could teach him.
The sun had already risen, and was shining in at Alfred's window, when he awoke on the morning of his birth-day, and as soon as he opened his eyes, he thought of his guinea, and how he should spend it. The first thing he determined to do was to go to the shop; and he began to be impatient because the servant did not come to dress him the moment he rang his bell.
As soon as he was dressed he walked out and took the shortest way, along a shady row of trees in his father's grounds, towards the village; but he had not gone this way very far, when he saw before him a large strange dog, and though the dog was quiet enough, and he would, had he waited a moment, have seen that it belonged to the butcher who served the house, yet he was so frightened, that he ran off another way, and got out of the park by a lane behind the mill, which took him as much as a mile out of the direct path: it was a long time since he had been in that lane, and the objects which he saw there reminded him of things which had happened four or five years before, and brought his own mother fresh to his mind.
There was a cottage on the side of the lane, standing in a garden; the cottage and the garden, too, seemed as if they had been left for years, and that nobody had been in them for a long time, even to open a window or pull up a weed. The sight of this place came like a dream to his mind, and he stood and looked at it till he perfectly remembered having gone there several times with his mamma, and having seen her take great notice of a little boy called Harry, who might have been a year older than himself. He next recollected the name of the family, which was Marson; and then he remembered that he had heard of the death first of the man and then of the woman; and had even seen the funerals of both as they had crossed the park to the church, which was in the park.
But what, thought Alfred, as he turned away from looking at the house to go on to the village, what has become of the boy? Perhaps he is dead too; perhaps nobody took care of him when his father and mother were taken away, and so he died; and without troubling himself any more about this matter, he hurried on, saying to himself, “If I go on so slowly, I shall be too late at home for my breakfast; and I am to have hot cakes, because it is my birth-day.” So, feeling that his guinea was safe in his pocket, he walked on.
Having gone an unusual way to the village, he arrived at Mr. Perks's at the back of the house, but he knew his way very well; he entered it by a back-yard, and through the kitchen, where he saw no one, and was just entering the shop by the inner door, instead of that from the village street, when he beheld before him a scene which made him pause; and as no one saw him, he stood still to listen to what was going on.
The persons whom Alfred saw were—first, Mr. Perks, who stood with his back towards him, in the middle of the shop; behind the counter, on the left hand, was Dickson, weighting pennyworths of common articles for ready sale. Before Mr. Perks stood a young man with his eyes and mouth open; by his side was a stout old woman, with a basket on her arm, and her hand stretched out to point to a boy who was standing in the middle.
This boy was the one of the three strangers who chiefly drew the attention of Alfred, because he thought him very near his own age.
The boy had that particular look which children have, who being every day uncombed, unwashed, and suffered to go in rags, and almost without shoes, are suddenly caught, and for some special purpose made to look as decent in a rough way as can be done in a short time; it was clear enough the boy's face had lately been washed, and his rough hair not only combed, but plastered down with some sort of grease; his trousers and coat had been lately patched: he had a cap in one hand, and a pair of shoes on his feet of a size so much beyond him, that they seemed evidently to have been borrowed from some bigger boy. The child did not look as if he had ever actually wanted food, but rather as if the food he had taken had been of a kind which had filled without nourishing or strengthening him; and when Alfred first saw him, he was looking from one person to another of those about him, as if half afraid and half in hope that something might be settled for his good.
When Alfred had looked again at the man and the woman, he knew that one was the mother and the other the son, and that they were the keepers of a small poor-house built on a common at the edge of the park, to which all the orphan children of the poor were sent, and where they were kept till they were old enough to be sent out; and he supposed that Mr. Perks was going to take this boy as an apprentice.
The custom of that parish then was, that all persons who were able were liable, each in his turn, either to be forced to take a pauper child, or to pay five pounds for his being out elsewhere.
Mr. Perks had been warned some days before, that his turn was come to take a boy or to pay the five pounds, therefore he was not surprised when the boy was brought to him: and, as it happened, he really wanted a boy, yet still he felt displeased and out of humour in having one thus forced upon him.
Alfred had not heard what he had been saying when he first came in, but he heard her answer to him, which was very loud and very impertinent; “Well, sir,” said she, “do as you please—keep the boy, or let it alone; but we have directions from the officers, sir, if you don't please to keep him, you are to pay us five pounds down.”
Mr. Perks replied, that he certainly should not think of paying five pounds without a written order from the parish officers; and though he professed himself not to be pleased with the appearance of the boy, who appeared to be unfit for anything he had for him to do, yet, he said, he supposed he must take him and make the best of him; and thus the matter was decided, to the joy of the poor child, to whom any change brought hope; and the man and woman took their leave, the woman, as she stepped out into the street, calling the boy by his name, “Harry Marson,” and bidding him behave himself and his fortune was made.
That is the boy, thought Alfred, as he came forward, whose father and mother lived in that old house in the lane; it is very odd that I should be thinking of him this very morning.
Master Seymour had hardly made one step forward from the door-way in which he had been standing, when Mr. Perks and his shopman saw him. It was not usual for the young gentleman to visit them at that early hour, nor to come in at the inner door; but Mr. Perks's civilest bow was ready, as he cried out, “Why Master Seymour, who would have thought it? at this time of the day too. What can I do for you, sir? how shall I serve you? what are your commands?”
Alfred made no reply to these offers of service; but said, “So you have got a boy to help you, and that boy is Harry Marson; it is very odd that I was thinking of him this very morning?”
“Were you, sir?” replied Mr. Perks; “you did him honour to remember him; the boy comes of a decent family, and I hope that he will do well; but he was represented to me as a well-grown, brisk boy, and I do not as yet see much signs of either; he is not so tall as you, Master Alfred, and yet I am mistaken if he is not older. You are not ten yet, sir, are you?”
“Ten,” repeated Alfred: “yes, Mr. Perks, I am ten—ten this very day; this is my birthday; but we are not to have our usual party to dine with me, because my papa is from home, and he always chooses to be with me to help me to entertain my friends; but I am to have a whole holiday; I have the liberty of ordering my own dinner; I am to amuse myself as I like; and I have this guinea to spend;” and he threw the gold on the counter with an air which said, I am a man of money.
Mr. Perks stepped behind the counter as soon as he saw the gold, bidding Dickson give way, and telling Henry to go to the other end of the shop till he could attend to him; his mind at the same time turning over everything which he had in his shop which he could shew the young gentleman, to tempt him to part with his money; and so well did he manage, that Alfred, instead of spending about five shillings, as he had intended that morning, did not leave the shop till he had run three or four shillings in debt above the guinea.
The first half-crown went entirely for sweet things, which Dickson made into small packets, and which the young gentleman contrived to stow about his own person, in the two pockets of his jacket and those of his trousers. Two more shillings went in balls of string and a clasp knife, and some other small articles; and the boy was then preparing to leave the shop, when Mr. Perks, asking him if he wanted anything in the angling way, produced a handsome fishing-rod, quite new and very cheap.
Mr. Perks did not know that almost the only sport denied to Alfred, by his papa, was fishing, unless he himself was with the boy, and unless he himself chose the spot whereon to stand. Mr. Seymour was so particular in this matter, that he never went out without locking up all his fishing tackle; and he had given orders to his servants never to accompany Alfred to fish, either in the ponds or rivers, or to conceal it from him, if they found that he attempted to go alone.
Mr. Perks knew nothing of this great dread which Mr. Seymour had of the water for his son; but he might have known that angling was not a safe amusement for a child of ten years old; and he ought not to have tempted him as he did, first to buy the fishing-rod, and then lines, and hooks, and a basket, and all things necessary to set up a fisherman.
When these purchases were complete, Alfred gave his directions about them in a way which showed that he knew he was doing wrong. He ordered that the string, the knife, and the other things which he had bought after the sweetmeats, and before the fishing tackle, should be put in a parcel by themselves, and these, he said, were to be sent up to the Hall; but the fishing-rod, the basket, the hooks, floats, weights and lines, were to remain at the shop till sent for.
Mr. Perks might have guessed, when these orders were given, that things were not all quite right; but if he had such a guess, he did not follow it up.
Master Seymour was preparing to leave the shop, and Dickson was just handing him the second parcel over the counter, forgetting the order which he had given, that the packet was to be sent by another hand; and probably the shopman would not have made this mistake had he not remembered that Master Alfred had always before this insisted on carrying his own parcels. This was the first which did not contain good things to eat. He had always thought them safer with himself than with other people; but when this packet of string and other uneatable matters was presented by Dickson to the young gentleman, he drew back proudly: “No,” he said, “you have got a boy now, let him bring it. Now, I say, that I am ten years old, I must not be seen carrying parcels, or doing anything of that kind.”
“Certainly not, certainly not, Master Seymour,” said Mr. Perks; “Dickson, I wonder at you, how could you think of handing over the parcel to the young gentleman, for him to fatigue himself to save others, whose business it should be to wait upon him.”
“Fatigue myself, indeed,” said Alfred taking up the parcel from the counter, tossing it in the air and catching it again like a ball, to prove how light he found it—“do not suppose that I should be tired by carrying a thing like that half a mile; I am certain I could carry twenty times the weight, and scarcely know that I was carrying anything.”
“I dare say you could, I dare say you could, Sir,” cried Mr. Perks; “such a fine-grown young gentleman as you are. I dare say you could lift twice the weight Harry Marson there could. Do not you think so, Dickson?”
“No,” replied the shopman; “no, I cannot say I do. Master Seymour is so slight, and he has sprang up so tall.”
“For all that,” said Alfred, “I am very strong. Papa says that gentlemen in general are stronger than lower people: but let us have a trial; let us see which of us can lift the heaviest weight.”
“It shall be so,” replied Mr. Perks. “Here, Dickson,” he added, “hand me a sack and I will put weights into it, and then Master
Alfred shall try it, and after him Harry Marson shall try; and I only wish that I had a gold piece depending on Master Seymour being the stronger.”
The bag was handed to Mr. Perks, who put one weight after another into it, giving it each time to Alfred to lift, and both he and Dickson were surprised to find that young Seymour was a stronger boy than his slight, gentleman-like shape had led them to suppose. Mr. Perks, however, was afraid to let him exert himself too far, lest he should hurt himself, and those who were standing by should be blamed! and he entreated him to lay down the bag, and let Harry take his turn.
As Mr. Perks had encouraged Alfred, Dickson now set himself, though in a more underhand way, to encourage Harry. “Do your best,” he whispered to him, as he came forward to lift the bag, “and I will give you a penny if you succeed.” Harry Marson turned red and then pale as he took up the ends of the bag in his hands. He looked at his master and at Alfred, and he was not certain whether he should gain or lose favour if he could prove himself to be stronger than the young gentleman. Dickson's whisper had however given him courage, and he was resolved to do his best. He first endeavoured to secure a strong hold of the bag, which being done, he made several strong efforts to lift it; but could not succeed either the first, second, or third time, his master standing by all the while, with a sort of smile on his lips, which seemed to say, 'I knew how it would be.' Alfred, too, looked on with contempt, and Dickson was the only person who spoke—“try again,” he said, “once again, my boy; wait an instant; recover your breath, and then put out your strength.”
Harry did as the shopman directed; he stood a moment to recover himself, and then, using all his strength, he had just succeeded to raise the bag from the floor, when his foot slipped, owing, perhaps, to the size and weight of his shoes, and he fell backwards his whole length, striking his head against the corner of a chest used for keeping some sort of meal.
Every one in the shop was frightened; even Alfred looked on with concern, for the blood was pouring from the back of the boy's head. He was however soon raised; Dickson carried him into the kitchen, and Mr. Perks followed, whilst Master Alfred contented himself with looking after him. He did not, however, leave the shop till Mr. Perks came to tell him that there was no harm done but what a plaster of brown paper would set right.
Alfred had lingered longer at the shop than he had intended to do; and he now had another affair to settle before he went home. There was a youth called William, of about fifteen or sixteen years of age, who served in the mill, and was a nephew of the miller, and Alfred wanted to see him, and to consult with him respecting the piece of disobedience on which he had resolved.
It is of no great consequence to our story to know how Master Seymour had made an intimacy with this youth; it is enough for us to know that he had done so, and that he then thought of him as the only person who would help him in his fishing scheme.
Alfred did not walk home the straight way, on this account; but went a little way round by the mill, and he had just come within the yard before the mill-house, when he met William, driving an old horse laden with bags of flour towards the turnpike road.
“Stop, William,” said Alfred, “I have something to say to you; or perhaps it would be better for me to walk with you a little way, and then I can tell you what I want to do this evening and how you can help me.”
There was a long talk between the young gentleman and the young miller, as they walked together along the road, driving old Ball before them, The way which the miller had to go being at first the same as that which led to the Hall; and as they went slowly along, they settled everything just as they wished it to be. About a mile or somewhat less below the mill, the stream which crossed the park, and turned the mill-wheel, fell into a river, which was so large as to be navigated by boats, or barges of considerable size.
William proposed that Alfred should fish on a part of the bank between the Hall and the junction of the two streams; “because there,” he said, “it was not likely that anyone should see him who would tell it at the Hall:” and it was further settled, that William should fetch the rod and the basket and the tackle from the shop, and take them, with bait, and all else which might be wanted, to the place fixed upon, and be there to receive the young gentleman between four and five in the afternoon.
Alfred and William parted as soon as everything was settled, the miller going along the road with the horse, and Alfred returning up to his own home by one of the park gates.
It was now nine o'clock and very hot, and as Alfred walked slowly up the gentle ascent which led from the gate to the house, his mind was at first full of the pleasure which he promised himself in his favourite employment of angling; for this spoiled boy loved angling all the better because it was forbidden to him. Next he thought of Harry Marson, and fell into a comparison between himself and the poor parish boy, priding himself not a little on his superior strength: and from Harry Marson he thought of the sweet things in his pockets, and he doubted for a little while whether he should take out one of the packets in order that he might taste some of these sweets, or whether he should wait till some time after breakfast; for he had been out longer than he had intended; the rolls would be quite ready; and he hoped that the housekeeper would have kept them quite hot; and as he could not enjoy the rolls and butter and the sweetmeats at the same time, he thought it best to put off that pleasure which would not be the worse for keeping: the barley-sugar and sugar-candy, and all the other sweet things, he thought, would be quite as good two hours to come as they were at the present time. Having therefore made up his mind, he hastened on and entered the hall as the footman crossed it to carry the hot rolls into the breakfast-room.
His aunt and Laura were there, and Laura ran up to him to present him with a nosegay of very sweet flowers from her own garden, wishing him many happy returns of the day.
The smell however of Laura's roses, pinks and carnations, was not half so agreeable to her brother as that of smoking rolls. He therefore threw down the flowers as soon as he had received them, and set himself to the important work of buttering his hot bread.
As soon as the selfish boy had eaten as much as he could, he pushed his plate from before him, and arose from his chair, and began to yawn and stretch out his arms as if quite tired of himself and of everybody about him. At length he lounged out of the room, taking no notice of Laura, who was inquiring whether she might not follow him and help to amuse him. “Let him alone for the present, my dear,” said Miss Seymour, “when he wants your company he will come back.”
“I hope that he will come soon,” said the little girl; “I will not go up to my own room to play there, lest he should seek me here, and not find me.”
There was in the breakfast-room a small bow, in which there were three windows, and all these windows opened down to the floor; before them was a grass plot, over which many beautiful shrubs were sprinkled, and on the right hand were many tall and thick trees, which concealed the way up to the back of the house, where was the kitchen and the stables and the poultry yard.
This bow was covered with the same bright carpet as was spread over the rest of the room, and Laura had always been so fond of it, that she called it her parlour.
“You may play in your parlour, Laura,” said Miss Seymour, “till I have settled some business which I have to do in another room, and you may bring down any of your playthings which you may want; and,” added this kind aunt, “when I go into the housekeeper's room to order dinner, I will send you a few strawberries and some flowers, if I find that the gardener has brought any in.”
“And I will make a feast,” thought little Laura, “in my doll's new plates,” and upstairs she ran to her play-room and came down laden with her large wax doll, a housemaid following with a doll's chair and table, and a box containing the new little china dinner service. When returned to the parlour, Laura found that her aunt had sent her a small basket of strawberries and a large nosegay of flowers.
Being left alone, she sat down on her stool, with all her things about her, in a state of the greatest delight, though she had no companion but a bee, which came and went in and out of the window, humming and buzzing most pleasantly.
Laura had dressed her wax doll in its very best the evening before, in order that it might be ready for Alfred's birth-day; and most richly indeed was Miss attired in pink and silver, with a turkey's feather in her cap. Laura placed her doll in the chair she had brought down, and before her she set her table; she had brought out of her drawer a clean lawn pocket-handkerchief which she spread for a table-cloth, and then she began to arrange her plates and dishes; she had nothing of which to make her feast but strawberries and two or three biscuits, but she made every dish look unlike the others by using different flowers to garnish it, and she was a long time before she could settle it all to her liking. When this was done, she collected the rest of the flowers and made them up into a crown which she prepared to place on her own head amongst her bright brown hair. All this while the little girl was very happy, and the time went on most sweetly and quietly—for even the bee had flown away, and for a while there was no sound whatever, but that of a distant cuckoo, the note of which was heard from time to time from the top of a tall tree on the highest point of the park.
Laura had just finished her garland and put it on her head when suddenly she heard Ranger, the great yard dog, begin to yelp and then to growl angrily. Ranger was a Newfoundland dog of very great size, but still so young that his teeth were hardly grown and his hair was still soft and woolly; he was a great and terrible fellow to look at, and often very rough in his ways even to those he loved best, and more than once had ho been known fairly to overturn little Laura when only intending to show his affection for her; but now he was growling angrily, and his voice was heard nearer and more near every moment. Laura started on her feet and ran to one of the window sills, soon after which she saw a move amongst the shrubs which hid the road up to the kitchen, and the next moment a shabby looking boy burst out from amongst the briars followed close by Ranger, and before the poor boy could get near to the window, Ranger had jumped upon him and rolled him over and over on the soft grass. Laura knew Ranger's way, and was not so much frightened as she would have been had she been ignorant of them; but she called him with all her powers of voice to let the boy alone, and when the dog heard her he looked up as innocently as if he had not been conscious of having deserved a good beating, and jumping in at the window he laid himself down by his little lady. Laura then called to the poor boy: “get up, little boy,” she said, “do not be frightened, Ranger is very rude, but he never hurts anybody; I am very sorry that you have been so frightened.”
The boy was Harry Marson, and he had been sent to the Hall with Master Alfred's parcel, and he had been told where to find the back door, and had got in as far as the court of the kitchen when Ranger had driven him back; he had run through the shrubs to get away. On finding that the dog had left him, and hearing the sweet and gentle voice of the young lady, Harry soon got over his fright, and getting up on his legs he came near to the window holding up his parcel to Laura, and saying that he had been ordered to bring it from Mr. Perks's for the young gentleman; “for my brother,” replied Laura, “I will see that he has it quite safe.” When Harry Marson had delivered his parcel, he had nothing more to keep him at the great house, and Laura supposed that he would have gone immediately; but if his life had depended on it he could not have stirred just then, for as he stood with his face just above the window sill, his eyes had settled themselves on the waxen lady in her pink and silver, seated in her chair, which was of ivory and ebony, with her table before her and all her fine set-out of china dishes, and fruit and flowers; he had never in his life seen anything so grand, and almost for one minute he seemed hardly to be quite sure whether the pretty wax figure was not alive. Laura was not so dull as not to see and be pleased with the wonder of the poor boy, and perhaps she was a little proud of her baby being so much admired; but she was very modest and very delicate, and she thought that she must not take notice of the poor boy's surprise, she therefore did not speak, but stood looking down with a very soft but gentle smile. “Be them things real?” said Harry at length; “be they real, Miss, or is that a wooden baby, and them things in the dishes only cut and painted?”
“Those are real strawberries in the dishes,” replied Laura; “and those are real flowers, but the rest are playthings:” and immediately, with great kindness, she took up the largest dish of strawberries and poured what it contained into the boy's hands.
Harry looked up to the fair little girl with such gratitude that she could not help taking up another little dish to empty into his hands.
He drew back: “No, Miss,” he said, “I will have no more; these be quite enough, and the very smell of them reminds me of mother and our garden when she and father was alive, and of the sweet flowers which grew up on each side of the walk from the gate to the house; but mother is dead and father too, and both be buried in the church-yard. I was standing by when they put them in the grave; it was before they took me to the poor-house, and there they be now.”
“My own mamma,” said Laura gravely, “is dead; but she is not in the grave, her body indeed is there, but her soul is in heaven, and I shall see her again, because my Saviour died also for me,”
Harry Marson looked up earnestly at the young lady while she spoke, and he said, “before mother died she was used to tell me about a Saviour, and about some happy country which is very far off; but after she died I never heard no more about it.”
“Oh then,” said little Laura, “you must be very unhappy when you think of your own dear father and mother, and do not know that you will see them again and never more be parted from them; but do you never read your Bible, little boy?”
“I have no Bible, and I can't read,” replied Harry; “and it's only the few words which I remember of what my father and mother said to me, as ever gave me a single thought about Him who made the world.”
Laura was going to answer, when she heard a step behind her, and turning, she saw her brother marching up the room. “What have you got there, Laura?” he said: “who brought that parcel? Oh I see,” he added, as his eye fell on the face of Harry Marson, the only part of the boy seen above the window sill. “What brings you here, sir, to the front of the house? could not you find the back way? and what were you saying to him, Laura, when I came in? Mr. Perks must be spoken to, to tell his boys that they are not to bring their parcels to drawing-room windows.”
“Oh, sir, please sir,” said Harry, “Miss will tell you how it happened; please not to speak to master.”
“No, brother, you must not,” said Laura, earnestly; “for I can tell you exactly how it was, it was Ranger's fault.”
“Well! Well!” replied Master Alfred, “I shall probably not see Perks again for a few days, and I shall say nothing of this affair to him, if I do not see anything of the kind again before that time. Do you go back to your master, Marson; and do you, Laura, get yourself ready to walk with my aunt and me; for my aunt would not let me alone till I had agreed to walk with her, though I told her that I had other plans for my birth-day.”
Laura instantly ran up to get her hat and tippet; and while she was absent Alfred knelt on the carpet, and picked out every strawberry from the flowers, and bits of biscuit in the doll's dishes. When Laura returned to the parlour with her aunt, they were both prepared for their walk. There was at the edge of the park the cottage of a poor woman who was sick; and Miss Seymour's plan was to visit this person and take her some medicine, to which she had added some comforts fitted for her situation. They took a direct way through a grove of oak trees to the border of the little river which has been spoken of before; this river had so wide a bed in the park that it was very shallow, and so quiet that it could hardly be supposed to have power to turn a mill-wheel about half-a-mile below. There was a fresh and cool breeze near this running water, which was very delightful to the party as they went on. Miss Seymour did not say much, but she was listening to what the children were talking of to each other. Alfred began by asking Laura how she could think of standing talking through the window to the errand-boy, whom he called a dirty little fellow; in answer to which Laura told the story of Ranger's attack upon the boy, and as she was a merry child she laughed and even chuckled again when she described the manner in which Ranger rolled over the boy; “but I was frightened,” she added, “just at first.”
“It was very proper for you to call Ranger away,” replied Master Alfred; “but I hope, Miss Laura, I shall never see you again talking with a little dirty parish apprentice.”
While walking along, they saw a young man in a smock-frock all white with meal, and a hat equally white, coming up towards them, but on the other side of the stream. Alfred instantly knew the miller's boy, but he had several reasons for not seeming to know him in the company in which he then was. But William, who loved mischief at his heart, and guessed pretty well what was passing in the young gentleman's mind, was resolved that he should notice him: and running forwards, though still on the other side of the bank, he began to call, “Master Seymour, I say, Master Seymour.”
Alfred, though very angry, thought it best to run forward so as to get in a line with him, before the ladies came up: and calling to the youth, he said, “What do you want of me?”
“What hour was it?” said the miller; “what hour was it? I have forgotten.”
Alfred bent forward, and putting his hands on each side of his mouth, the better to carry his voice across the water, he said, “five o'clock—do you know now?”
“Anan!” cried the young miller, though he had heard the words as plainly as if it had been shouted close to his ear; by which Alfred was so much provoked that he bent his head over the stream and cried again, “five o'clock—do you hear now?” at the same moment the breeze coming down, the wind took his hat, and away it pitched into the water, floating down the stream like a small boat.
By this time Alfred's sister and aunt were come up, and had placed themselves one on each side of him, while the little girl stretched out her arms as if to catch the hat, which was already some yards down the stream.
Alfred looked up in a sort of triumph at his aunt, for he cared very little for his hat, whether it was recovered or not, but he was exceedingly glad of an excuse to run home for another hat, and thus to get rid of his aunt's company. Miss Seymour reproved him for his carelessness, but this he did not mind. “I can't help it,” he answered sullenly, “if my hat is lost. However, that will not be, for Bill will fish it out of the water. Home, however, I must go, for I cannot go on without a hat.”
“I thought,” said Miss Seymour, “that you were finding fault with your sister just now, Alfred, for being too civil to the little errand-boy. Are you not conscious that you have more reason to find fault with yourself than with her, for not keeping your proper place in society? You seem to be quite intimate with this Bill, as you call him.”
It was always Alfred's custom, when his elders said anything to him which did not please him, to pretend to have his thoughts engaged with something else.
Instead of answering his aunt, he called on Laura to look at the boy from the mill, who had run to the side of the stream after the hat. “There, Laura,” he exclaimed, “he is fishing for it with that long stick; he will have it, there it comes, he has got it; it looks like Ranger when he comes out of the duck-pond and shakes his shaggy sides;" and he forced himself to laugh very heartily, although he did not feel at all merry, for he was in fear lest the young miller, who was again coming up to them on the opposite side of the bank, should say a word which might lead his aunt to suspect anything of the fishing scheme; hut if Alfred did not laugh from his heart Laura did, for she was much amused at her brother's comparison between Ranger and the dripping hat. The party, however, very soon separated after the hat was recovered, Miss Seymour and Laura went on to the cottage, the miller's boy went on his way on the other side of the water, and Alfred ran home.
He was hot and tired when he got back: but, tired as he was, he had a very heavy burthen to bear: he had three hours before him, that is, from twelve o'clock, which it was then, till three o'clock, when the dinner was to be ready, three long hours in which he had nothing in the world to do but to please himself. This was the manner in which he tried to perform his very hard task: for the first half-hour he munched sugar-candy; he began the second by exchanging it for barley-sugar: the two sweet tastes did not agree, and together they began to make him a little sickish. He then lay down on the sofa and shut his eyes and endeavoured to sleep; but there were many flies buzzing about and some lighting on his face and tickling him; he tried to cuff and beat them away, but after a while he was so provoked by them that he jumped up from the couch and went down into the stable-yard; and there he amused himself for half-an-hour by throwing sticks into the duck-pond, and sending Ranger to bring them out. Ranger liked this amusement, but at last the great big puppy got into such high spirits, and became so familiar, that one time, whilst he was all wet with slimy green puddle, he jumped upon his young master and made him almost as dirty as himself. Master Alfred was excessively angry, he called aloud for the servants, ordered that Ranger should be chained up, and went up to his own room, where the servants soon came and provided him with clean clothes. By this time it was two o'clock, and Alfred had only one more hour to bear his burthen before dinner; but what could he do with that hour? he hated reading, he was sick of sugar-candy, he was tired of running about, the flies teazed him when he wished to sleep, he had had enough of Ranger's company, he could not get his sister's without his aunt's, and he had not a play-thing but which was so much out of order that it could not be used; he hated cutting paper, he could not draw—what could he do? he could do nothing, and he laid himself on the floor in Laura's parlour, with a cushion under his head, and counted the flies on the ceiling until the joyful sound of plates and dishes in the next room gave him notice that the dinner would very soon be upon the table—and the dinner, too, which he had himself ordered.
It could not be expected that after so much sugar-candy Alfred's dinner should taste very well; he, however, contrived to eat a little of each favourite dish; the cloth was hardly taken from the table when one of the footmen gave notice that a carriage and four had that moment entered the park by the lodge.
“What visitors can these be at this hour?” said Miss Seymour, rising from table and leaving the dining-room, followed by Laura.
“That,” said Alfred, as he looked after his aunt and sister, “is what I shall not stay to inquire,” and running into the hail he caught up his best hat which he had worn before dinner when he went out to amuse himself with Ranger, and, having given one peep through the front door at the carriage, which was drawing fast up to the house, he darted through that door of the hail which led to the servants' rooms, crossed the courts and stable yards, and was the next moment quite clear of the house amongst wood-stacks and duck-ponds and great heaps of manure and ashes.
There he stood for a moment to take his breath and look at his watch; “twenty minutes past four,” he said, “I shall not be much too soon, but there is no need of great hurry:” whilst he was thus standing, he could distinctly hear the sound of the carriage as it approached the house; he heard the rumbling of the wheels, ho was aware also of the sudden stopping of these sounds: and then, recollecting that if the visitors should want to see him, his aunt would certainly be soon sending somebody to look for him; he took another run which brought him to the outside of the wall of the kitchen garden, where there were a number of hotbeds and glass-frames; and there he found the old gardener looking about and giving his orders to his men.
“Why, master Alfred,” said the old man; “how uncommonly hot you look: what brings you running at the rate you come up, at this time of day; where can you possibly be going at this hour?”
Alfred's uneasy conscience made him think that the gardener had some reason for asking this question, and perhaps that he suspected what he was about; and he felt very angry with him, and answered proudly, “Do you, Smith, mind your own affairs, and leave me to mind mine. I do not understand,” he muttered as he walked on, “that I am obliged to give an account to you of the manner in which I am to spend my birth-day.”
“As sure as you be there, master,” said one of the workmen after Alfred had walked quite out of hearing, “as sure as you be there, the young sprig is about no good.”
“I fear as much,” replied the gardner; “but he is a thorough bad graft, and it is not for us to mind him; he is no more to be compared to that sweet blossom, Miss Laura, than a thistle to a lily of the valley.”
It was not quite five o'clock by Alfred's watch when he arrived at the place where he was to meet William; he was vexed not to find him there, and he was also very much out of humour at having been seen by the work-people in his way to the fishing-pond. He sat down or rather stretched himself on the bank near the water whilst making these reflections, and as much as five minutes passed by his watch before anything disturbed him; these five minutes were hardly out when the youth from the mill came up to the place of meeting, he had been there ten or twenty minutes before, and had brought the fishing-rod, the bait, the fishing-basket, and all things which were wanted, and not finding Alfred there, he had hidden them in a fissure or cleft in the bank just by; and now he was coming again, and seeing the young gentleman lying down with his back towards him, he thought he would have what he called some fun with him; so he came up, treading softly, and stooping down he whispered in his ear, “so here I be, master”
There are few things more startling than to hear a voice close when one fancies one-self quite alone; and when people's conscience are not quite at rest, they are much more easily frightened than at other times. So Alfred jumped up, and when he saw whom he had got with him, he asked William with no small pride, how he could dare to take such a liberty with him, a gentleman's son, and one who was ten years old that very day. In answer to this the young miller only smiled, and without thinking it worth his while to make an excuse, he went to the place where he had hidden the fishing tackle, and the basket, and the hat which he had picked out of the water in the morning; the beaver was as hard and stiff as if it had been made of leather, and it had entirely lost its shape. Alfred was again offended by a sort of smile which he observed on the lips of the young man when he held out his hat to him, and instead of thanking him for the trouble he had had with it, he told him that he might, if he pleased, throw it into the water again and see how it would sail down the stream. The young miller took no notice of this order, but turning the hat upside down, he made the crown a deposit for the worms and moss which he had brought to the fishing place in a blue pocket handkerchief: the young man seemed as if he had resolved to be just as cool and easy as the young master was stiff and high.
It was in these tempers that the two companions set themselves to their fishing. It was William's business to place everything in order, and to fix the best place where to stand; not that he cared whether his proud companion caught any fish or not, nor did he give himself more trouble than was quite necessary to put him in the way to catch any at all.
The place in which Alfred and the miller had met was about half-way between the mill and the point where this lesser stream fell into a larger one, just where the little stream was the narrowest, the banks on both sides being rocky, and that on the opposite side being quite precipitous, that is, straight from the level of the water to the top.
Over the little tongue of land which the miller had chosen for Alfred to stand on there was also another high bank. Out of the clefts and cracks in the stone or rock, which formed this bank, grew several trees, some branches of which hung right over the water. On this side of the stream there was also room for a narrow path, which led from the mill down to where the two rivers met; there was often much traffic of foot passengers along this little path, from the village down to where the barges and other vessels often stopped to take in and discharge their ladings.
Whilst William was still busy in putting all things in order for the young master, having made up his mind to leave him as soon as he had done so, there appeared at a little distance the short figure of a boy trudging that way, coming from the mill and going down towards the wharf or place where the boats lay.
This person was Harry Marson; he was carrying a small parcel to the barge which was just going off, and he was instantly known by Alfred and the miller. “There,” cried William, “there is that soft fellow that they turned out of the poor-house this morning. I knew him of oil; he is the very fellow to make sport of, for he believes every word one can say to him. Shall I try some fun with him now?”
“Do as you please,” said Alfred, “I cannot think of making free with a low boy like that, or with any boy in his condition I am ten years old now, and a gentleman must be careful what he does.”
“Stick to that, master,” replied William; “but as I am no gentleman, what you say cannot touch me; so if you wont say a word, I'll have some sport with him,” at the same instant he placed his hands on each side of his mouth, and shouted, “Harry Marson! Harry Marson! make haste, make haste, boy.”
Now the miller's boy knew very well that just near to where they stood there was so good an echo formed by the winding rocks, that any two or three words spoken very loudly, would be returned two or three times, each time being fainter, and seeming to be more distant.
Alfred did not know of this echo, nor did he, with all his pretended cleverness, know anything of the nature of an echo; therefore, when he heard the words “Harry Marson, make haste!” repeated, as he thought, from over the hills, he quite started; and as to Harry, he came running on, crying “Who calls? who calls so loud?”
“Who calls,” said the miller, “why, did you hear any one call?”
“Sure I did,” replied Harry, “and the voice came down over the bank; did you not hear it?”
“I heard nothing but my own voice,” replied the miller; “but where are you trudging with that parcel?”
Harry told him, “to the wharf.”
“Make haste, then,” replied William, “is not that what the voice said?”
“You are at your old tricks, making game of me,” remarked Harry. The child passed by, and was soon out of sight.
The day was by no means good for fishing, and the place chosen by William was equally unfit; but what did he care. The young squire, as he often called Alfred, had been very high and rude to him, and he was thinking how he could get away; for he was quite tired of hearing him cry out every moment, “Look, William, see, is not that a nibble? there's a bite; no, it is nothing. Look again.”
As no better excuse came into the young miller's mind, when he saw by the place of the sun in the heavens that it was past six o'clock, he seemed suddenly to recollect himself, and pretended that he must be back at the mill in no time, lest his master should miss him.
Alfred was not pleased when William told him that he must leave him, nor did he fail to make him promise that he would soon return.
When William was so far gone that his step was no longer heard, Alfred was somewhat startled by a gruff voice, which became louder and louder every moment, as the person speaking came nearer. There was a sort of clattering hollow sound, which seemed to keep time with his voice, or rather with the steps of the person to whom this voice belonged. These sounds were coming down the stream; and Alfred had not looked long in that direction, when a travelling tinker appeared in sight, with a huge bag on his back, as black as soot, and seemingly very full.
Behind him walked a very dirty woman, with dark eyes and sharp features. She wore a shabby black felt hat, and an old grey cloak; she had a short pipe in her mouth, and she came puffing along, not even paying Alfred the compliment to cease when she saw him.
The man seemed to be much engaged with something he was telling the woman; but Alfred could not understand what he said, for he was a gipsy, and he was using his own language.
When the tinker came within a few yards of the young master, he however suddenly changed his language, and speaking in plain English: “You there,” he said, “you young spark, stand off there! if that bank there should give way but ever so little, you would have a chance of swimming farther than you might quite relish.”
In this speech of the tinker's there was not a word which Alfred thought worth his attention but “young spark”—he had never before been called a spark—and now to hear himself thus addressed by such a man was more than his pride could bear. He did not, however, give a single word in answer; but he drew up his lip, and looked with as much scorn as he could throw into his face. This was seen both by the tinker and his wife; and the man, as ha trudged onwards, only laughed, saying, “well, my clever chap, if you will not be advised, it is your own look-out, not mine.” But the woman had no mind to let the proud boy pass so easily; she drew her short pipe from her mouth, and opened out upon him in such abuse in downright plain English, as made the proud blood of the young gentleman mount up to his very brow. The woman, however, did not stop to speak to him, but went jogging on after her husband, and her voice was still heard, mixed up with the clatter of the hardware in her husband's bag, when another sound reached the ears of Alfred. This was a voice which came over the bank, uttering these words, “Master Seymour, your papa is come. This call was immediately taken up by the echo, and again and again were the words repeated, “Your papa is come, is come, is come.“
Alfred now indeed did start; he turned, he shook the frail bank on which he stood; the ground gave way, and he fell backwards into the water, whilst a quantity of earth, roots, and stones fell after him.
The stream in that place was deep and the current strong. Alfred could not swim, and never did boy utter a more wild and fearful cry, than that which came from him in his terror, giving, in truth, such a voice to the echo as it had not often before repeated.
There was at that moment at the distance of two or three hundred yards, the same young man who had been with the gardener when Alfred had passed by. This youth had heard that Mr. Seymour had come unexpectedly in the coach of a friend, and that he had called for his son, and that no one could tell where he was.
The young man thought that he could find him. He ran in the direction in which he had seen him go, and had been farther helped on by two old sweepers in the fir-grove. This young man heard the wild shriek of his young master, at the instant he fell into the water; and though he bounded over everything in the way towards the place from whence the shriek came, yet several minutes must have passed before he could have given any help, and in those few minutes where might Alfred have been? probably beyond all human help.
But a nearer friend had been prepared by a kind Providence; and who was this but Harry Marson returning from the wharf.
He and the tinker and his wife had not passed each other a minute before, but that minute had brought the boy so near to Alfred when he fell, that Harry thought that by one spring he might have caught him and saved his fall. Harry made this spring, and with such violence, that he himself plunged into the water, his cap flying from his head and falling behind him.
Though of strength much less than that of the young gentleman, the parish boy had been more accustomed to shift for himself, nor was he so soon alarmed by the idea of danger. He had now, indeed, undertaken what was beyond his strength, on account of the force of the current; but he had the presence of mind, whilst he seized the wrist of the drowning boy with his hand, to grasp the root of a tree just laid bare by the falling earth firmly in the other hand.
Alfred had gloried in the morning, because he had proved himself to be stronger than this poor boy. Little did he think that before sun-set he should, under Providence, owe his life to the small strength and great courage of that same despised orphan.
But though Harry still firmly held by the root of the tree and the wrist of Alfred, yet he had not the power to keep either his own or his companion's head above water; and a moment or two more must have fixed the fate of both the boys, had not help arrived from various quarters.
The first who came up was the young gardener, and the second, and not the least important, was Ranger, that had been providentially let out of the stable when the coach-horses had been put in.
The third was the tinker and his wife, the fourth the miller's boy, and still after these came persons from the hall.
As none of the people there present could afterwards give much account as to how the two boys were got out of the water, it would be no easy matter for the writer of this story to tell it; some said that it was Ranger that drew Alfred so near the bank as to give the people an easy hold of him; and others say that Harry Marson owed his safety to the boldness of the tinker; but, at all events they were soon brought up, and stretched on the sunny bank, though neither of them at first gave the smallest signs of life.
The servants of the hall, several of whom were now come up, proposed carrying them to the mill, which was the nearest house; but the tinker's wife, who had been looking on with much good-will to the boys, though she had kept her short pipe in her mouth most of the time, now suddenly took it out and poking it into some Corner about her dress, where she always kept it when not in use, she began to give her opinion, opening out by telling all the fine servants that they were no better than a parcel of fools.
“If there is any the least life now in either of them,” she said, “it will be quite out before they could get there; be quick with you, and strip the wet clothes from both of them;” and bidding her husband be busy with Harry Marson, she herself set to work to assist in undressing master Alfred, wrapping the still cold body in her own cloak, which she took off for the purpose, one of the servants at the same time wrapping Harry in his own livery coat.
The good wife next caused her husband to bring out from his bag a black canister, which contained gin or some other strong spirit, and having taken, or directed to be taken, the means generally used in these cases to help the bodies to disgorge the water which had been swallowed, she directed that their limbs and breasts should be well rubbed with the gin.
Harry Marson was the first who gave any sign of life; this he did by first a very faint sigh, and then a stronger one; and then by degrees he recovered the power of breathing, and the natural warmth of his limbs; but every one feared that Alfred, who had been longer under the water, would never breathe again; even the tinker himself looked upon him without hope, and said he feared it was all over with him; but his wife bid him hold his tongue, and bidding the other persons to keep off, and let her alone, down she fell on her knees by the still body of the poor boy, and having forced open his mouth with her skinny fingers, she placed hers on his, and for a time, which appeared very long to those standing by, she endeavoured with her own breath to fill his lungs and set them in motion in the natural way.
It was just at the time in which every one in that place were anxiously waiting the success of what the woman was doing—whilst his son lay like a corpse, shrouded in the old cloak, and the poor ragged gipsy woman was bending over the body, trying her best to restore the child's life, that Mr. Seymour came up.
One of the servants had run back towards the hall, to fetch some brandy or other strong spirit, not knowing that the tinker could provide it nearer at hand; and he had met Mr. Seymour and told him terrible news.
What a sight was that he saw! too well he understood what the woman was about; but he could not utter a word: he stood like one fixed, and without the power to stir: but, oh, who can describe the thoughts which then passed through his mind.
He had till that moment been a very proud man; and it was from this pride that he had so grievously indulged his son, and set him up so greatly in his own opinion; and now, now what was the poor boy's condition? Perhaps his child was already a corpse; but if it were God's pleasure he should breathe again, by whose help was he to receive his breath again?—from a poor wretch, whom he would not have touched an hour ago with the tip of his finger.
Oh pride! pride! thought Mr. Seymour, in his agony: what have such poor, sinful, dying wretches as we to do with pride? and the groans of the poor gentleman drew the eyes of many towards him, though every one turned again when the tinker's wife raised her head; and though she did not move from her knees, kept her eyes earnestly fixed on the face of the boy.
No one knew whether this change of her posture was for good or for bad, but her husband, who whispered, “Let her alone—she has hopes: she is wonderful clever.”
She was busy about the boy a few minutes longer, rubbing his chest, and gently varying his position; at length, rising up, she said, “He will do now; take him home; put him and the other poor lad in a warm bed; “and you, master,” she added, looking at Mr. Seymour, “if you love your boy, mind that you owe his life to that fatherless and motherless one that lies by him:” but we must pass over what Mr. Seymour said to the tinker's wife, and with many other things that were said and done before they all left the place which had like to have been so fatal to Alfred Seymour and Harry Marson.
When it was thought quite safe, the two boys were raised in the arms of the servants and carried to the hall, whilst all the rest of the people followed, excepting the young miller; who when they were gone, gathered up the fishing tackle, and sneaked away, hoping that it might never be known how much he had to do in that day's work.
Alfred and Harry soon found themselves quite recovered in the warm beds in which they were laid; and poor Harry thought himself as happy as a king, surrounded as he was with such comforts as he had never known; but when Alfred came early the next morning to thank him for his kindness in saving his life, and to beg his pardon for all his ill-behaviour to him, he seemed to wonder more and more at the strange things which had happened to him for the poor child had not yet learned to know that every mercy and every blessing comes from God.
Harry Marson never went hack to the shop, but was brought up at Mr. Seymour's house.
Had not God used the fright, and the shame, and the disgrace of that affair, which happened on Alfred's birth-day, to bring him to a knowledge of the truth! to make him humble and to lead him to see that his aunt was right, when she tried to show him that there is no real happiness in anything but in being beloved by our blessed Redeemer, he would very soon have forgotten all that he had suffered on that birth-day, and soon have become as high as ever; but God did use all those sufferings for his good; and from that day he was even more loved by the people about him than he had been hated before it.
He is now an old gentleman, and he is waited upon by a white-headed butler, who has lived with him ever since he was ten years old, and is more like a brother than a servant to him; this old man is called Mr. Marson; and, as he often says, it was a most blessed day for him when his poor master fell into the water.
Alfred's papa felt himself so much obliged to the tinker and his wife, that he offered them a little cottage and garden, rent free, on his estate; but they thanked him, and only asked as a favour that he would give them a night's lodging and a supper whenever they came that way: this was granted, of course; and to this he added a few guineas, which the woman covered with cloth, to use by way of buttons on an old coat of her husband's, which served her as a gown.
When Alfred was grown up, he used often to smile at the dreadful fall which his pride had had on that, his memorable birth-day, of which we have been telling in the history, and at the strange figure he must have made when lying on the bank in the gipsy's cloak, with the old woman kneeling by his side, and forcing his mouth open with her bony fingers: and he used often to add, “it is quite out of the question for human creatures, who are liable to all sorts of accidents, to be thinking highly of themselves, and giving themselves airs as if they were better than all else of their own kind.”