The Middy and the Moors by Robert Michael Ballantyne (good english books to read txt) 📖

a terrible revelation of the intensity of sorrow and suffering that is endured by a large mass of our fellow-creatures! I am persuaded that thousands of the well-to-do and the rich have no conception of it, for it must be seen to be understood. I feel as if my heart had become a great fountain of pity! And I can well—at least better—understand how our dear Saviour, when He wanted to give evidence of the truth and character of His mission, said, ‘The poor have the gospel preached unto them,’ for if any class of beings on the face of this earth stand in need of good news it is the poor. God help and bless them!

“Well, the other day Miss Love came to ask me to go out with her to visit some of her poor people, among others one—a very singular character—a woman who was reported to be a desperate miser, insomuch that she starved herself and her child for the sake of saving money. It was said that she was very ill at the time—thought to be dying—and seemed to be in a wretched state of destitution. Her name, Miss Love told me, was Lundy.

“As Auntie was pretty well that day I gladly accompanied my friend to her district. And it was an awful place! I shudder even now when I think of the sights and sounds and dreadful language I saw and heard there—but I must not turn aside from what I have to tell. I pass over our visits to various families and come at once to the reputed miser. She was in bed, and from her flushed face and glittering eyes I could see that she was in high fever. She started, raised herself on an elbow, and glared at us as we entered.

“I was deeply interested in her from the first moment. Although worn and thin, with lines of prolonged suffering indelibly stamped on her, she had a beautiful and refined face. Her age appeared to be about thirty-five. A lovely, but wretchedly clothed girl, of about fourteen years of age, sat on a low stool at her bedside. And oh! such a bed it was. Merely a heap of straw with a piece of sacking over it, on a broken bedstead. One worn blanket covered her thin form. Besides these things, a small table, and a corner cupboard, there was literally nothing else in the room.

“The girl rose to receive us, and expressed regret that she had no chairs to offer. While Miss Love went forward and talked tenderly to the mother, I drew the girl aside, took her hand affectionately, and said, ‘You have not always been as poor as you now are?’

“‘No indeed,’ she said, while tears filled her eyes, ‘but work failed us in London, where we once lived, and mother came to Liverpool to a brother, who said he would help her, but he died soon after our arrival, and then mother got ill and I had to begin and spend our savings—savings that darling mother had scraped and toiled so hard to gain—and this made her much worse, for she was so anxious to save money!’

“This last remark reminded me of the reports about the mother’s miserly nature, so I asked a question that made the poor girl reply quickly—

“‘Oh! you mustn’t think that darling mother is a miser. People so often fall into that mistake! She has been saving for ever so many years to buy father back—’

“‘Buy father back!’ I repeated, with a sudden start.

“‘Yes, to buy him from the Algerine pirates—’

“I waited for no more, but, running to the bedside, looked the poor woman steadily in the face. There could be no doubt about it. There was the fair hair, blue eyes, and clear complexion, though the last was sadly faded from ill-health.

“You should have seen the look of surprise she gave me. But I had been foolishly precipitate. Her mind had been wandering a little before we came in. The shock seemed to throw it further off the balance, for she suddenly looked at me with a calm sweet smile.

“‘Yes,’ she said, ‘he always called me Marie, though my name was Mary, being a Frenchman, you know—his little Marie he called me! I often think how pleased he will be to see another little Marie grown big when we get him back—but oh! how long—how long they are about sending him, though I have sent the money over and over again. Hush!’

“She looked round with a terrified expression and clutched my shawl with her thin hand. ‘You won’t tell, will you?’ she went on; ‘you have a kind face, I am sure you will not tell, but I have been saving—saving—saving, to send more money to the Moors. I keep it in a bag here under my pillow, but I often fear that some one will discover and steal it. Oh! these Moors must have hard, hard hearts to keep him from me so long—so very long!’

“Here she thrust me from her with unexpected violence, burst into a wild laugh, and began in her delirium to rave against the Moors. Yet, even in the midst of her reproaches, the poor thing prayed that God would soften their hearts and forgive her for being so revengeful.

“Now, mother, I want to know what is to be done, for when we sent for a doctor he said that not a word must be said about the return of her husband until she is out of danger and restored to some degree of health.”

Thus far the middy read the letter.

“Mother,” he said, firmly, “the doctor may say what he likes, but I am convinced that the best cure for fever and every other disease under the sun is joy—administered judiciously, in small or large doses as the patient is able to bear it! Now, the primary cause of poor Marie’s illness is the loss of her husband, therefore the removal of the cause—that is, the recovery of her husband—”

“With God’s blessing,” interjected Mrs Foster.

“Admitted—with the blessing of the Great Physician—that is the natural cure.”

“Very true, George, but you wisely spoke of small doses. I am not sure that it would be safe to tell Monsieur Laronde that we have actually found his wife and child. He also is too weak to bear much agitation.”

“Not so weak as you think, mother, though the sufferings of slave-life and subsequent anxiety have brought him very near to the grave. But I will break it to him judiciously. We will get my dear little Hester to do it.”

“Your Hester!” exclaimed Mrs Foster, in surprise. “I trust, George, that you, a mere midshipman, have not dared to speak to that child of—”

“Make your mind easy, mother,” replied the middy, with a laugh, “I have not said a word. Haven’t required to. We have both spoken to each other with our eyes, and that is quite enough at present. I feel as sure of my little Hester as if we were fairly spliced. There goes the breakfast-bell. Will you be down soon?”

“No. I am too happy to-day to be able to eat in public, George. Send it up to me.”

The breakfast-room in that seaside villa presented an interesting company, for the fugitives had stuck together with feelings of powerful sympathy since they had landed in England. Hugh Sommers was there, but it was not easy to recognise in the fine, massive, genial gentleman, in a shooting suit of grey, the ragged, wretched slave who, not long before, had struggled like a tiger with the janissaries on the walls of Algiers. And Hester was there, of course, with her sunny hair and sunny looks and general aspect of human sunniness all over, as unlike to the veiled and timid Moorish lady, or the little thin-nosed negress, as chalk is to cheese! Edouard Laronde was also there, and he, like the others, had undergone wonderful transformation in the matter of clothing, but he had also changed in body, for a severe illness had seized him when he landed, and it required all Mrs Foster’s careful nursing to “pull him through,” as the middy styled it. Brown the sailor was also there, for, being a pleasant as well as a sharp man, young Foster resolved to get him into the Navy, and, if possible, into the same ship with himself. Meanwhile he retained him to assist in the search for Marie Laronde and her daughter. Last, but by no means least, Peter the Great was there—not as one of the breakfast party, but as a waiter.

Peter had from the first positively refused to sit down to meals in a dining-party room!

“No, Geo’ge,” he said, when our middy proposed it to him, on the occasion of their arrival at his mother’s home—“No, Geo’ge. I won’t do it. Das flat! I’s not bin used to it. My proper speer is de kitchen. Besides, do you t’ink I’d forsake my Angelica an’ leabe her to feed alone downstairs, w’ile her husband was a-gorgin’ of his-self above? Neber! It’s no use for you, Geo’ge, to say you’d be happy to see her too, for she wouldn’t do it, an’ she’s as obsnit as me—an’ more! Now you make your mind easy, I’ll be your mudder’s black flunkey—for lub, not for munny. So you hole your tongue, Geo’ge!”

Thus the arrangement came to be made—at least for a time.

The middy was unusually grave that morning as he sat down to breakfast. They were all aware that he had returned from London late the previous night, and were more or less eager to know the result of his visit, but on observing his gravity they forbore to ask questions. Only the poor Frenchman ventured to say sadly, “Failed again, I see.”

“Not absolutely,” said Foster, who was anxious that the invalid should not have his breakfast spoilt by being excited. “The visit I paid to the solicitor did indeed turn out a failure, but—but I have still strong hopes,” he added cheerily.

“So hab I, Geo’ge,” remarked Peter the Great, from behind the chair of Miss Sommers, who presided at the breakfast table, for although Peter had resigned his right to equality as to feeding, he by no means gave up his claim to that of social intercourse.

“Come, Laronde. Cheer up, my friend,” said Hugh Sommers heartily; “I feel sure that we’ll manage it amongst us, for we have all entered on the search heart and soul.”

“Right you are, sir,” ejaculated Brown, through a mouthful of buttered toast.

“It only requires patience,” said the middy, “for London is a big place, you know, and can’t be gone over in a week or two.”

“Das so, Geo’ge,” said Peter, nodding approval.

After breakfast Foster sought a private interview with Hester, who undertook, with much fear, to communicate the news to Laronde.

“You see, I think it will come best from you, Hester,” said George in a grave fatherly manner, “because a woman always does these sort of things better than a man, and besides, poor Laronde is uncommonly fond of you, as—”

He was going to have said “as everybody is,” but, with much sagacity, he stopped short and sneezed instead. He felt that a commonplace cough from a man with a sound chest would inevitably have betrayed him—so he sneezed. “A hyperkrite as usual!” he thought, and continued aloud—

“So, you see, Hester, it is very important that you should undertake it, and it will be very kind of you, too.”

“I would gladly undertake a great deal more than that for the poor man,” said Hester earnestly. “When must I do it?”

“Now—at once. The sooner the better. He usually goes to the bower at the foot of the garden after breakfast.”

Without a word, but with a glance that spoke volumes, the maiden ran to the bower.

What she said to the Frenchman we need not write down in detail. It is sufficient to note the result. In the course of a short time after she had entered the bower, a loud shout