a friend in need
hen i returned to my reason, it was with an inexpressible sense of weakness and weariness. the first thing i saw was dear violet’s face close to mine, her large, dark eyes fixed full upon me; and as soon as she saw that i knew her, she exclaims, “cherry, dear cherry! i thought i had no more tears left to shed, but i must cry again with pleasure now—” and wept over me.
i said, “is he come back yet?” she said, “you must only think of getting well now.”
168“ah,” i said, “i know he is not,” and turned my head away, and still felt her warm tears dropping over me. they seemed to heal where they fell; and presently, i shed tears too, which cleared my head, and somewhat relieved me; but oh! the weakness!—
i was very slow getting well. all the while, dear violet kept with me, read to me, cheered me, cherished me ... oh, what a friend! how trouble brings out the real good in people’s characters, if there be any!
before i was well able to sit up, master benskin sent in word he had something important to say to me as soon as i was equal to hearing it. i thought he might have got some clue to my father, and said i was quite equal to hearing anything he had to tell. then he came in, treading on tip-toe, and 169looking very awe-stricken; and, says he, “mistress cherry,”—taking a chair as he spoke, a good way off from me,—“the lamented event which we may now consider to have taken place....”
“no, master benskin, no,” interrupted i, faintly; “i still hope there has been no lamented event——”
“makes it my duty,” continued he, without minding me, “to tell you that you need be under no uneasiness about pecuniary circumstances.”
“i am not, i assure you,” said i. “oh that i had nothing worse to be uneasy about!”
“this house,” continued he, “was your father’s for ninety-nine years, and is now yours; and he moreover had saved six hundred pounds, three hundred of which he lent me, and three hundred hugh braidfoot, we paying 170him five per cent., which we will continue to pay you, or hand over to you the principal, whichever you like.”
“thank you, master benskin,” said i; “i should wish everything to continue just as it is.... i am sure my father’s money can’t be in better hands; and i shall recommence inquiring for him directly i am strong enough, which i almost am already.”
“ah,” said he, with a sorrowful smile and a shake of the head, “how slow women are to give up hope!... sure enough, ’tis one of the cardinal virtues; but they practise it as if ’twere their nature, without making a merit of it. i wish you well from my heart, miss cherry.”
all this while i was fretting to see master blower. i said often to violet, “i wish master blower would look in 171to see me, and talk to me and pray with me as he used to do with my mother. sure, i’m sick enow! and he might, for as long as he has known me, count me the same as one of his own congregation.”
and violet would make answer, “indeed, cherry, if you consider how the good man is wearing himself out among his own flock, going hither and thither without setting his life at a pin’s purchase, spending all his time in visitation that is not taken up with the services of the church, you need not be surprised he comes not so far as this, especially as he knows not of your affliction nor your illness.”
“how do you, that are not a church-woman, know he does all you say?” said i.
“i had it from the old woman that 172brings the curds and whey,” returned violet; “she, you know, is one of his parishioners; and, from what she says of him, it appears he could not do more if he were a dissenter.”
“a dissenter, indeed! i admire that!” said i. “if he were a slothful, timid, self-indulgent person, you would bestow all his faults on his church; but because his light shines before men, so that they cannot help glorifying his father which is in heaven, you say he could hardly do more if he were a dissenter!—i shall go to him as soon as ever i get well.”
and so i did; while, indeed, i was hardly strong enough for so long a walk; for i had a notion he would tell me where to find my father; or comfort me, maybe, if he thought he could not be found. it was now late in september.—his 173parish was one of the worst in whitechapel,—he lived in a roomy, gloomy old parsonage-house, too large for a single man, in a street that was now deserted and grass-grown. the first thing i saw was a watchman asleep on the steps, which gave me a pang; for, having heard master blower was so active in his parish, i somehow had never reckoned on his being among the sick, though that was a very just reason why he should be. i had thought so good a man would lead a charmed life, forgetful that in this world there is often one event to the righteous and to the wicked, and that if the good always escaped, no harm would have befallen my father. however, this sudden shock, for such it was, brought tears into my eyes, and i began to be at my wits’ end, who should tell me now where to find my father, and to 174lament over the illness of my good and dear friend, master blower. then i bethought me,—perhaps he is not in the house, but may have left it in charge of some woman, who is ill,—if i waken the watchman, he certainly will not let me in; the key is grasped firmly in his hand, so firmly that i dare not try to take it, but yet i must and will get in.—
then i observed that, in carelessly locking the door, the lock had overshot it, so that, in fact, the door, instead of being locked, would not even shut. so i stept lightly past the watchman and into the house; and the first thing within the threshold was a can of milk, turned quite sour, which shewed how long it must have stood without any body’s being able to fetch it. i closed the door softly after me, and went into all the ground-floor rooms; they were 175empty and close shuttered: the motes dancing in the sunbeams that came through the round holes in the shutters. then i went softly up stairs, and looked timidly into one or two chambers, not knowing what ghastly sight i might chance upon; but they were tenantless. as i stood at pause in the midst of one of them, which was a sitting-room, and had one or two chairs out of their places, as if it had been never set to rights since it was last in occupation, i was startled by hearing a man in the room beyond giving a loud, prolonged yawn, as though he were saying, “ho, ho, ho, ho, hum!” then all was silent again: i thought it must be master blower, and went forward, but paused, with my hand on the lock. then i thought i heard a murmuring voice within; and, softly opening the door and looking in, perceived 176a great four-post bed with dark green curtains drawn close all round it, standing in the midst of a dark oaken floor that had not been bees-waxed recently enough to be slippery. two or three tall, straight-backed chairs stood about; a hat upon one, a boot upon another, quite in the style of master blower; and close to the bed was a table with jugs, cups, and phials, and a night-lamp still burning, though ’twas broad day. the shutters also were partially shut, admitting only one long stream of slanting light over-against the bed; but whether any one were in the bed, i could not at first make out, for all was as still as death. presently, however, from within the curtains came a somewhat thick voice, exclaiming, “oh lord, my heart is ready, my heart is ready! i will sing and give praise 177with the best member that i have! awake, lute and harp! i myself will awake right early!”
here the dear good man fell a-coughing, as if something stuck in his throat; and i tip-toeing up to the bedside, withdrew the curtains and softly said, “master blower!”
178never shall i forget my first sight of him! there he lay on his back, with everything quite clean and fresh about him, not routed and tumbled as most men’s would have been, but as smooth as if just mangled:—his head, without e’er a nightcap, lying straight on his pillow, his face the mirror of composedness and peaceification, and his great, brown eyes, glowing with some steady, not feverish light, turned slowly round upon me, as if fresh from beholding some beatific, solemnifying sight.
“why, cherry,” says he, looking much pleased, “are you come to look on me before i die? i thought i had taken my last sight of all below,”—and reaching out his hand to me from under the bedclothes, i was shocked to perceive how it was wasted: every knuckle a perfect knob.
179“don’t touch me!” cries he, plucking it away again, and burying it out of sight,—“i forgot you hadn’t had the plague. what a selfish fellow i am!—how’s your dear father, cherry?”
i could not withhold myself from weeping, and was unable to answer.
“ah, i see how it is,” says he kindly; “poor cherry! poor cherry! ‘the righteous perish and no man layeth it to heart,’—i heard a voice say, ‘write: blessed are the dead which die in the lord. yea, saith the spirit, for they rest from their labours.’... i shall see him before you will, cherry. go home, child, go home, ... this air is fraught with danger.”
i said, “i am not afraid of it, sir,—i would rather stay a while with you.”
“well, then,” said he, “just give me a drink of water, or anything liquid 180you can find; for i have had nothing but what i could help myself to, these twenty-four hours. my throat is so bad, i cannot swallow anything solid.... oh! oh!—” and as he held back his throat to drink, i noticed the plague swellings.
“that will do nicely, now,” sighed he, when i had smoothed his pillow; “and now go, i prithee, dear cherry, and look after poor dorcas, who, i fear, must be dead or dying somewhere about the house.”
so i did as he bade me; and, as i knew she was not on the floor below, i went in quest of her up stairs. dorcas had lived with master blower ever since he commenced housekeeping; and had had the help of a younger maid, who now, it seemed, had left, or died. she was a widow-woman in her third score, 181eccentric, like her master, in some matters; but withal, of the sweetest, pleasantest countenance! and of pleasant conditions too, so that they were well matched. she preferred being called mistress peach; but master blower liked calling her dorcas, and carried his point.
i found her in the upper story, lying all across her bed, dressed, but more dead than alive. “alas! young woman,” says she.... “what! is it mistress cherry? heaven be praised! how is my master? doth he live yet?”
i said, yes, and i hoped was going on well.
“ah,” says she, “i left him at death’s door, but could no longer keep about myself; so, set him straight as well as i could, and then crawled up here, thinking to bundle my mattress down stairs, and at all events die within 182hearing of him. but ’twas quite beyond my strength.... i fell all along, and here i’ve been ever since.”
then she began to groan terribly, but i made her as comfortable as i could, dressed her throat, persuaded her to swallow a little cooling drink, and loosened her clothes; all which she took very thankfully, but then became restless about her master, and prayed me to go down to him, for he wanted me more than she did.
so i returned to master blower, whom i now found a good deal more suffering and feverish than when i left him, and beginning to toss about. i quite gave up all intention of leaving the house, yet thought violet might be uneasy about me; therefore i stepped down to beg the watchman to send a message to her; but found the house-door locked.
183on my rapping against it and calling, he unlocked it and looked in. “hallo, young woman,” says he, “how came you here?”
“i stepped in while you were asleep,” said i, “the door being ajar.”
“asleep? that’s a pretty tale to tell of me,” quoth he. “i wonder if you wouldn’t feel sleepy sometimes, sitting from morn to night on a door-step, full in the sun!”
“i want to tell no tales,” said i, “but only desire to send word to my friends on the bridge that i cannot return to them at present, being wanted here.”
“return? of course you cannot,” says he. “why, do you suppose persons are to be allowed to walk in and out of houses under visitation at their will? ’tis clear against my lord mayor’s orders.”
184this had escaped me; however, it made no difference; and he engaged to let violet know the cause of my detention. then i returned to my charges, and, to my great surprise, found dorcas had crawled nearly all down the flight of stairs between her and master blower, and was now lying all along. she said, “i thought i must see how master was ... if you will but tumble the mattress down, mistress cherry, i’ll lie just within his door,—then you won’t have to run up and down stairs so often.” it did, indeed, make it easier for me to attend to them both; and truly i never had such a night before nor since; for though my dear mother’s sufferings had been long drawn out and very sad to witness, they had never amounted to acute agony. the fever of both ran very high all night, and it seemed to 185me that master blower in his deliration went through the whole book of job in his head, from the disjointed fragments he uttered here and there. also he seemed much argufying with an impenitent sinner in his flock, his reasonings and tender persuasives with whom were enough to have melted a stone. as to mistress peach, i must say her thoughts ran mostly on her jams, ... she conceited herself opening pot after pot and finding every one fermented; and kept exclaiming in a doleful voice, “oh dear, here’s another bishop’s wig!” so that, what with being ready to laugh at her, and to cry over him, i was quite carried out of myself, and away from my own troubles. towards day-dawn they both became quiet; i fumigated the room, bathed their temples with vinegar, moistened their mouths, and then 186knelt down in a corner to pray; after which, i dozed a little. i had heard the death-cart going its melancholy round during the night; and had felt thankful we had no dead to be carried out.
in the morning, both my patients seemed bettering. dorcas, with my help, got to her master’s bedside, and looked in on him. “dear sir,” says she, “how are you now?”
“somewhat easier, but very thirsty, mistress peach,” says he.
“oh dear, sir,” says she, “don’t call me mistress peach, or i shall think you’re going to die. i like dorcas best now. what a mercy it was, sir, mistress cherry came in as she did, for we were both at death’s door. i dare say, sir, you missed me?”
“how should i do otherwise?” said he, speaking very thick, and with evident 187pain.... “i’ve got a wasp’s nest in my throat, i think.... how should i do otherwise, i say, when no one came near me for twenty-four hours?”
“ah, sir,” says she, “i’m sure i beg your pardon for behaving so ill,—for being so ill, that is; but indeed i could not help it. i thought,” continues she, turning to me, “i wouldn’t die, as ’twere, just under his nose, so crawled out of sight; but put everything near him that he could want before i took the liberty of leaving him; and did the best thing i could for him at parting, by putting a fine drawing plaster round his throat.... pray, sir, did it draw?”
“draw?” cries he, with the first indignant flash i ever saw from his pleasant eyes ... and ’twas half humourous, too,—“like a cart-horse! i should have 188been dead hours ago, you woman, had i kept it on!”
sorrowful as i was, i could not help bursting out a-laughing, and he did so too, when suddenly stopping short and looking very odd,—“i don’t know whatever has given way in my throat,” says he, “but verily i think that laugh has saved me! here! give me some water, or milk, or anything to drink, for i can swallow now.”
so i gave him some water, and ran down stairs for some milk, the night-watchman having promised to set some within the door. when i got back, there was quite another expression on his face; composed and thankful. dorcas was shedding tears as she tended him, quite thoughtless of herself.
“now, cherry,” says he, “do persuade this dear woman to lie down and take 189care of herself, for she has had faith enough in her famous plasters to have put one about her own throat, and i know what she must be suffering, or will have to suffer.”
so i gently led her back to her mattress, and then, sitting down by master blower, fed him with some sponge-cake that was none the worse for being stale when sopped in milk, warm from the cow. he took it with great satisfaction, and said he hoped i should not think him greedy when i remembered how long he had fasted. then he would not be peaceified till i went down stairs and breakfasted by myself: telling me his mind to him a kingdom was, or somewhat to that effect, which i could thoroughly believe. when i came back, dorcas seemed sleeping soundly, though not very easily. master blower had got 190the same heavenly look as when i first saw him. i asked him if there were anything i could do for him. he said, yes, i could read him the fortieth psalm. when i had done so, he said, “and now you can read me the hundred and sixteenth.” that, he said, would do to reflect upon, and i might go my ways now; he should want nothing more for a good while. so i sat down in a great arm-chair with a tall back, wherein, the chair being mighty comfortable, and i somewhat o’erwearied with watching, (not being very strong yet,) or ever i was aware i fell asleep, which certainly was not very good nursing nor good manners.
when i woke up, which may perhaps have been not so soon as it seemed to me, “well, mistress cherry,” says master blower, somewhat ironically, “i hope 191you have had a good nap. a penny for your dream.”
i said it had been a wonderful pleasant one ... too wonderful, i feared, to come true.
“well, let’s have it, nevertheless,” says he; “i like hearing wonderful dreams sometimes, when i’ve nothing better to do. so, now for it.”
—when i came to think it over, however, it seemed so different, waking and sleeping, that i despaired of making it seem to him anything like what it had seemed to me.
“come,” said he, “you’re making a new one.”
“oh no, sir!” said i, “i would not do such a thing on any account.—my dream was this;—only i fear you’ll call it a comical one.... methought i was walking with 192you, sir, (i beg your pardon for dreaming of you, which i should not have done if i had not been nursing of you, i dare say)——”
“pardon’s granted,” says he. “go on.”
“i thought, sir, i was walking with you in a garden all full of roses, pinks, crownations, columbines, jolly-flowers, heartsease, and—and....”
“a kiss behind the garden-gate,” says he.
i was quite thrown out; and said, i did not believe there was such a flower.
“oh yes, there is,” says he,—“well but the rest of your dream——”
“that’s all, sir.”
“all?” cries he.
“yes, sir; only that we went on walking and walking, and the garden was so mighty pleasant.”
193“why, you told me there was something wonderful in it!” says he.
i said it had seemed wonderful at the time——
“that there was not a kiss behind the garden-gate,” says he, laughing. “o fie, cherry!”
i felt quite ashamed; and said it was very silly to tell dreams, or to believe in them.
“why, yes,” said he seriously, “it is foolish to believe in the disjointed images thrown together by a distempered fancy; though aforetime it oft pleased our heavenly father to communicate his will to his servants through the avenues of their sleeping senses. how should you and i be walking in a garden together? there are no gardens in whitechapel, cherry. in berkshire, indeed, 194my brother the squire has a garden something like what you describe, full of roses, pinks, and gilly-flowers, with great, flourished iron gates, and broad, turfen walks, and arbours, like green wigs, and clipped hedges full of snails, and ponds full of fish. if i go down there to get well, cherry, as peradventure i may, for i shall want setting up again before i’m fit for work—(i’ve fallen away till i’m as thin as don quixote!) i’ll ask his wife to invite you down, cherry, to see the garden; and then we’ll look up all those flowers we were talking about.”
“thank you kindly, sir,” said i, sorrowfully, “but i don’t think i can go.... i must be looking for my father.”
“your father!” cries he, in amaze. 195“why, dear cherry, i thought you told me he was dead!”
i tried to answer him, but could not, and fell a-sobbing.
“come,” says he, quite moved, “i want to hear all this sad story.”
when i was composed enough to tell it him, he listened with deep attention, and i saw a tear steal down his cheek.
“cherry,” says he at length, “you must give over hoping he will return, my dear. there is not a likelihood of it. consider how long a time has elapsed since he went forth; and how many, as dear to their families as your father to you, have been cut off in the streets at a moment’s notice, and carried off to the dead-pits before they were recognised. for such awful casualties the good are not unprepared. instead of carrying back infection and desolation 196to his home, and lingering for hours and days in unspeakable agonies, the good man was doubtless carried at once to the bosom of his god.”
then he spake words that killed hope, and yet brought healing; and after weeping long and plentifully, i began to see things as he did, and to feel convinced i should see my father’s face no more: which, indeed, i never did.
