IT was Saturday evening, about eight o clock. Mary Gray had finishedmangling, and had sent home the last basket of clothes. She hadswept up her little room, stirred the fire, and placed upon it asaucepan of water. She had brought out the bag of oatmeal, a basin,and a spoon, and laid them upon the round deal table. The place,though very scantily furnished, looked altogether neat andcomfortable. Mary now sat idle by the fire. She was not often idle.'She was a pale, delicate-looking woman, of about five-and-thirty.She looked like ones who had worked beyond her strength, and herthin face had a very anxious, careworn expression. Her dress showedsigns of poverty, but it was scrupulously clean and neat. As it grewlater, she seemed to be listening attentively for the approach ofsome one; she was ready to start up every time a step came near herdoor. At length a light step approached, and did not go by it; itstopped, and there was a gentle tap at the door. Mary's pallid facebrightened, and in a moment she had let in a fine,intelligent-looking lad, about thirteen years of age, whom shewelcomed with evident delight.
"You are later than usual to-night, Stephen," she said.
Stephen did not reply; but he threw off his cap, and placed himselfin the seat Mary had quitted.
"You do not look well to-night, dear," said Mary anxiously; "isanything the matter?"
"I am quite well, mother," replied the boy. "Let me have my supper.I am quite ready for it."
As he spoke, he turned away his eyes from Mary's inquiring look.Mary, without another word, set herself about preparing the supper,of oatmeal porridge. She saw that something was wrong with Stephen,and that he did not wish to be questioned, so she remained silent.In the mean time Stephen had placed his feet on the fender, restedhis elbows on his knees, and his head on his hands. His handscovered his face; and, by and by, a few large tears began to trickledown his fingers. Then suddenly dashing off his tears, as though hewere ashamed of them, he showed his pale, agitated face, and said,in a tone of indignation and resolve,
"Mother, I am determined I will bear it no longer."
Mary was not surprised. She finished pouring out the porridge; then,taking a stool, she seated herself beside him.
"Why, Stephen," she said, trying to speak cheerfully, "how manyhundred times before have you made that resolution! But what's thematter now? Have you any new trouble to tell me of?"
Stephen answered by silently removing with his hand some of histhick curly hair, and showing beneath it an ear bearing the tooevident marks of cruel usage.
"My poor boy!" exclaimed Mary, her tears starting forth. "Could hebe so cruel?"
"It is nothing, mother," replied the boy, sorry to have called forthhis mother's tears. "I don't care for it. It was done in a passion,and he was sorry for it after."
"But what could you have done, Stephen, to make him so angry withyou?"
"I was selling half a quire of writing paper to a lady: he countedthe sheets after me, and found thirteen instead of only twelve; theyhad stuck together so that I took two for one. I tried to explain,but he was in a passion, and gave me a blow. The lady said somethingto him about his improper conduct, and he said that I was such acareless little rascal, that he lost all patience with me. Thathurt me a great deal more than the blow. It was a falsehood, and heknew it; but he wanted to excuse himself. I felt that I was goinginto a passion, too, but I thought of what you are always telling meabout patience and forbearance, and I kept down my passion; I knowhe was sorry for it after, from the way he spoke to me, though hedidn't say so."
"I have no doubt he suffered more than you, Stephen," said Mary; "hewould be vexed that he, had shown his temper before the lady, vexedthat he had told a lie, and vexed that he had hurt you when you boreit so patiently.
"Yes, mother, but that doesn't make it easier for me to bear his illtemper; I've borne it now for more than a year for your sake, and Ican bear it no longer. Surely I can get something to do; I'm sturdyand healthy, and willing to do any kind of work."
Mary shook her head, and remained for a long time silent andthoughtful. At length she said, with a solemn earnestness of mannerthat almost made poor Stephen cry,
"You say that, for my sake, you have borne your master's unkindtreatment for more than a year; for my sake, bear it longer,Stephen. Your patience must, and will be rewarded in the end. Youknow how I have worked, day and night, ever since your poor fatherdied, when you were only a little infant in the cradle, to feed andclothe you, and to pay for your schooling, for I was determined thatyou should have schooling; you know how I have been cheered in allmy toil by the hope of seeing you, one day, getting on in the world,And I know, Stephen, that you will get on. You are good, honest lad,and kind to your poor mother, and God will reward you. But not ifyou are hasty; not if you are impatient. You know how hard it wasfor me to get you this situation; you might not get another; youmust not leave; you must not break your indentures; you must bepatient and industrious still; you have a hard master, and, Godknows, it costs me many at heartache to think of what you have tosuffer; but bear with him, Stephen; bear with him, for my sake, afew years longer."
Stephen was now fairly crying and his mother kissed off his tears,while her own flowed freely. Her appeal to his affection was not invain. He soon smiled through his tears, as he said,
"Well, mother, you always know how to talk me over, When I came into-night I did think that I would never go the shop again. But Iwill promise you to be patient and industrious still. Consideringall that you have, done for me, this is little enough for me to dofor you. When I have a shop of my own, you shall live like a lady.I'll trust to your word that I shall be sure to get on, if I ampatient and industrious, though I don't see how it's to be.--It'snot so very bad to bear after all; and, bad as my master is, there'sone comfort, he lets me have my Saturday nights and blessed Sundayswith you. Well, I feel happier now, and I think I can eat my supper.We forgot that my porridge was getting cold all this time."
Stephen kept his word; day after day, and month after month, hispatience and industry never flagged. And plenty of trials, poorfellow, he had for his fortitude. His master, a small stationer in asmall country town, to whom Stephen was bound apprentice for fiveyears, with a salary barely sufficient to keep him in clothes, was alittle, spare, sharp-faced man, who seemed to have worn himself awaywith continual fretfulness and vexation. He was perpetuallyfretting, perpetually finding fault with something or other,perpetually thinking that everything was going wrong. Though he didcease to go into a passion with, and to strike Stephen, the poor ladwas an object always at hand, on which to vent his ill-humour, Many,many times was Stephen on the point of losing heart and temper; buthe was always able to control himself by thinking of his mother.And, as he said, there was always comfort in those Saturday nightsand blessed Sundays. A long walk in the country on those blessedSundays, and the Testament readings to his mother, would alwaysstrengthen his often wavering faith in her prophecies of good in theend, would cheer his spirits, and nerve him with a fresh resolutionfor the coming week. And what was it that the widow hoped wouldresult from this painful bondage? She did not know; she only hadfaith in her doctrine--that patience and industry would some time berewarded. How the reward was to come in her son's case, she couldnot see. It seemed likely, indeed, from all appearances, that thedoctrine in this case would prove false. But still she had faith.
It was now nearly four years since the conversation between motherand son before detailed. They were together again on the Saturdayevening. Stephen had grown into a tall, manly youth, with a gentle,kind, and thoughtful expression of countenance. Mary looked mucholder, thinner, paler, and more anxious. Both were at this momentlooking very downcast.
"I do not see that anything can be hoped from him," said Stephen,with a sigh. "I have now served him faithfully for five years; Ihave borne patiently all his ill-humour; I have never been absent amoment from my post; and during all that time, notwithstanding allthis, he has never thanked me, he has never so much as given me asingle kind word, nor even a kind look. He must know thatapprenticeships will be out on Tuesday, yet he never says a word tome about it, and I suppose I must just go without a word."
"You must speak to him," said Mary; "you cannot leave without sayingsomething; and tell him exactly how you are situated; he cannotrefuse to do something to help you."
"It is easy to talk of speaking to him, mother, but not so easy todo it. I have often before thought of speaking to him, of tellinghim how very, very poor we are, and begging a little more salary.But I never could do it when I came before him. I seemed to feelthat he would refuse me, and I felt somehow too proud to ask afavour that would most likely be refused. But it shall be done now,mother; I will not be a burthen upon you, if I can help it. I'dsooner do anything than that. He ought to do something for me, andthere's no one else that I know of that can. I will speak to him onMonday."
Monday evening was come; all day Stephen had been screwing up hiscourage for the task he had to do; of course it could not be donewhen his master and he were in the shop together, for there theywere liable at any moment to be interrupted. At dinner-time theyseparated; for they took the meal alternately, that the post in theshop might never be deserted. But now the day's work was over:everything was put away, and master and apprentice had retired intothe little back parlour a to take their tea. As usual, they werealone, for the stationer was a single man (which might account forthe sourness of his temper), and the meal was usually taken insilence, and soon after it was over they would both retire to bed,still in silence. Stephen's master had poured out for him his firstcup of tea, handed it to him without looking at him, and begun toswallow his own potion. Stephen allowed his cup to remain before himuntouched; he glanced timidly towards his master, drew a deepbreath, coloured slightly, and then began:--
"If you please, sir, I wish to speak to you."
His master looked up with a sudden jerk of the head, and fixed hiskeen gray eyes on poor Stephen's face. He did not seem at allsurprised, but said sharply (and he had a very sharp voice), "Well,sir, speak on."
Stephen was determined not to be discouraged, so he began to tellhis little tale. His voice faltered at first, but as he went on hebecame quite eloquent. He spoke with a boldness which astonishedhimself. He forgot his master, and thought only of his mother. Hetold all about her poverty, and struggles to get a living. He dweltstrongly, but modestly, on his own conduct during hisapprenticeship, and finished by entreating his master now to helphim to do something, for he had nothing in the world to turn to, nofriends, no money, no influence.
His master heard him to an end. He had soon withdrawn his eyes fromStephen's agitated face, then partially averted his own face, thenleft his seat, and advanced to a side table, where he began torummage among some papers, with his back to Stephen.
Stephen had ceased speaking some time before he made any reply. Thenstill without turning round, he spoke, beginning with a sort ofgrunting ejaculation--"Humph! so your mother gets her living bymangling, does she? and she thought that if she got you someschooling, and taught you to behave yourself, your fortune would bemade. Well, you will be free to-morrow; you may go to her and tellher she is a fool for her pains. Here are your indentures, andhere's the salary that's due to you. Now you may go to bed."
As he spoke the last words, he had taken the indentures from a desk,and the money from his purse. Stephen felt a choking sensation inhis throat as he took from his hands the paper and the money; hewould even have uttered the indignation he felt, but, before hecould speak, his master left the room. Disappointed and heart-sick,and feeling humiliated that he should have asked a favour of such aman, the poor lad retired to his garret, and it was almost time toget up in the morning before he could fall asleep. On the Tuesday,when the day's work was over, Stephen packed up his bundle ofclothes;--should he say good-bye to his master? Yes; he would not beungracious at the last. He opened the door of the back parlour, andstood just within the door-way, his bundle in his hand. His masterwas sitting, solitary, at the tea-table.
"I am going, sir, good-bye," said Stephen.
"Good-bye, sir," returned his master, without, looking at him. Andso they parted.
The result of the application told, the mother and the son sattogether that night in silence; their hearts were too full forwords. Mary sorrowed most, because she had hoped most. Bitter tearsrolled down her cheeks, as she sat brooding over her disappointment.Stephen looked more cheerful, for his mind was busy trying to formplans for the future--how he should go about to seek for anothersituation, &c. Bed-time came; both rose to retire to rest. Stephenhad pressed his mother's hand, and was retiring, saying as he went,"Never mind, mother, it'll all be right yet," when they werestartled by a loud rap at the door.
"Who's there?" shouted Stephen.
"A letter for you," was the reply.
Stephen thought there was some mistake, but he opened the door. Aletter was put into his hand, and the bearer disappeared. Surprised,Stephen held the letter close to the rush-light Mary was carrying.He became still more surprised; it was addressed to Mrs. Gray, thatwas his mother, and he thought he knew the handwriting; it was verylike his master's. Mary's look of wonder became suddenly brightenedby a flash of hope; she could not read writing--Stephen must read itfor her. He opened the letter, something like a banknote was thefirst thing he saw--he examined it--it was actually a ten pound Bankof England note; his heart beat rapidly, and so did his mother's;what could this mean? But there was a little note which wouldperhaps explain. Stephen's fingers trembled sadly as he opened it.There were not many words, but they were to the purpose. Stephenread them to himself before he read them aloud. And as he wasreading, his face turned very red, and how it did burn! But what wasthe meaning of tears, and he looking so pleased? Mary could notunderstand it.
"Do read up, Stephen," she exclaimed.
With a voice broken by the effort he had to make all the time tokeep from crying, Stephen read,
"MADAM--Put away your mangle-that son of yours is worth manglingfor; but it is time to rest now. The note is for your present wants;in future your son may supply you. I let him go to-night; but I didnot mean him to stay away, if he chooses to come back. I don't seethat I can do well without him. But I don't want him back if hewould rather go anywhere else; I know plenty that would be glad tohave him. He has been seen in the shop, and noticed, and such ladsare not always to be got. If he chooses to come back to me, he won'trepent. I've no sons of my own, thank God. He knows what I am; I ambetter than I was, and I may be better still. I've a queer way ofdoing things, but it is my way, and can't be helped. Tell him I'llbe glad to have him back to-morrow, if he likes. Yours,
"J. W."
"I knew it!" exclaimed Mary, triumphantly; "I always said so! I knewyou would get on!"
Stephen did go back to his eccentric master, and he never had anyreason to repent. He got on even beyond his mother's most soaringhopes. The shop eventually became his own, and he lived aflourishing and respected tradesman. We need scarcely add that hismother had no further use for her mangle, and that she was a veryproud and a very happy woman.
THE END.
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