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Words of Cheer for the Tempted, the Toiling, and the Sorrowing

T >> T.S. Arthur >> Words of Cheer for the Tempted, the Toiling, and the Sorrowing




"If you please, sir, I wish to speak to you."

His master looked up with a sudden jerk of the head, and fixed his
keen gray eyes on poor Stephen's face. He did not seem at all
surprised, 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 tell
his little tale. His voice faltered at first, but as he went on he
became quite eloquent. He spoke with a boldness which astonished
himself. He forgot his master, and thought only of his mother. He
told all about her poverty, and struggles to get a living. He dwelt
strongly, but modestly, on his own conduct during his
apprenticeship, and finished by entreating his master now to help
him to do something, for he had nothing in the world to turn to, no
friends, no money, no influence.

His master heard him to an end. He had soon withdrawn his eyes from
Stephen's agitated face, then partially averted his own face, then
left his seat, and advanced to a side table, where he began to
rummage among some papers, with his back to Stephen.

Stephen had ceased speaking some time before he made any reply. Then
still without turning round, he spoke, beginning with a sort of
grunting ejaculation--"Humph! so your mother gets her living by
mangling, does she? and she thought that if she got you some
schooling, and taught you to behave yourself, your fortune would be
made. Well, you will be free to-morrow; you may go to her and tell
her she is a fool for her pains. Here are your indentures, and
here'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 in
his throat as he took from his hands the paper and the money; he
would even have uttered the indignation he felt, but, before he
could speak, his master left the room. Disappointed and heart-sick,
and feeling humiliated that he should have asked a favour of such a
man, the poor lad retired to his garret, and it was almost time to
get up in the morning before he could fall asleep. On the Tuesday,
when the day's work was over, Stephen packed up his bundle of
clothes;--should he say good-bye to his master? Yes; he would not be
ungracious at the last. He opened the door of the back parlour, and
stood just within the door-way, his bundle in his hand. His master
was sitting, solitary, at the tea-table.

"I am going, sir, good-bye," said Stephen.

"Good-bye, sir," returned his master, without, looking at him. And
so they parted.

The result of the application told, the mother and the son sat
together that night in silence; their hearts were too full for
words. Mary sorrowed most, because she had hoped most. Bitter tears
rolled down her cheeks, as she sat brooding over her disappointment.
Stephen looked more cheerful, for his mind was busy trying to form
plans for the future--how he should go about to seek for another
situation, &c. Bed-time came; both rose to retire to rest. Stephen
had pressed his mother's hand, and was retiring, saying as he went,
"Never mind, mother, it'll all be right yet," when they were
startled 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. A
letter 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, that
was his mother, and he thought he knew the handwriting; it was very
like his master's. Mary's look of wonder became suddenly brightened
by a flash of hope; she could not read writing--Stephen must read it
for her. He opened the letter, something like a banknote was the
first thing he saw--he examined it--it was actually a ten pound Bank
of England note; his heart beat rapidly, and so did his mother's;
what could this mean? But there was a little note which would
perhaps explain. Stephen's fingers trembled sadly as he opened it.
There were not many words, but they were to the purpose. Stephen
read them to himself before he read them aloud. And as he was
reading, his face turned very red, and how it did burn! But what was
the meaning of tears, and he looking so pleased? Mary could not
understand it.

"Do read up, Stephen," she exclaimed.

With a voice broken by the effort he had to make all the time to
keep from crying, Stephen read,

"MADAM--Put away your mangle-that son of yours is worth mangling
for; 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 did
not mean him to stay away, if he chooses to come back. I don't see
that I can do well without him. But I don't want him back if he
would rather go anywhere else; I know plenty that would be glad to
have him. He has been seen in the shop, and noticed, and such lads
are not always to be got. If he chooses to come back to me, he won't
repent. I've no sons of my own, thank God. He knows what I am; I am
better than I was, and I may be better still. I've a queer way of
doing things, but it is my way, and can't be helped. Tell him I'll
be glad to have him back to-morrow, if he likes. Yours,

"J. W."

"I knew it!" exclaimed Mary, triumphantly; "I always said so! I knew
you would get on!"

Stephen did go back to his eccentric master, and he never had any
reason to repent. He _got on_ even beyond his mother's most soaring
hopes. The shop eventually became his own, and he lived a
flourishing and respected tradesman. We need scarcely add that his
mother had no further use for her mangle, and that she was a very
proud and a very happy woman.






DO THEY MISS ME?





Do they miss me at home? Do they miss me?
'Twould be an assurance most dear,
To know at this moment some loved one
Was saying, "I wish he was here!"
To feel that the group at the fireside
Were thinking of me as I roam!
Oh, yes! 'twould be joy beyond measure,
To know that they missed me at home.

When twilight approaches--the season
That ever was sacred to song--
Does some one repeat my name over,
And sigh that I tarry so long?
And is there a chord in the music,
That's missed when my voice is away?
And a chord in each glad heart that waketh
Regret at my wearisome stay?

Do they place me a chair at the table,
When evening's home pleasures are nigh!
And lamps are lit up in the parlour,
And stars in the calm azure sky?
And when the "Good Nights" are repeated,
And each lays them calmly to sleep,
Do they think of the absent, and waft me
A whispered "Good-Night" o'er the deep?

Do they miss me at home? do they miss me?
At morning, at noon, or at night,
And lingers one gloomy shade round them,
That only my presence can light?
Are joys less invitingly welcomed,
Are pleasures less hailed than before,
Because one is missed from the circle?
Because I am with them no more?

Oh, yes! they do miss me! kind voices
Are calling me back as I roam,
And eyes are grown weary with weeping,
And watch but to welcome me home.
Kind friends, ye shall wait me no longer,
I'll hurry me back from the seas;
For how can I tarry when followed
By watchings and prayers such as these?

THE END.

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