CHAPTER II.

What spirit e’er so gentle shall be found, So softly reared in humble privacy; What form so fragile on wide earth’s vast round, Shrinking from every blast beneath the sky, That will not brave severest destiny. Bear, uncomplaining, want and cruel wrong, And look on danger with unblenching eye, If love have made that gentle spirit strong, Love, pure, approved by Heav’n, led that frail form along.

_Manuscript Poems._

Lucy would not hear of going to bed till she had heard the rest of Milly’s adventures.

“You must go on, nurse. I cannot let you stop—you know I love any story, and you know I love you, and so you may guess how much I must be interested.”

“You are very good, Miss, to say so. Mine’s a very plain homely tale, but you always was a kind young lady, and somehow, when I have got over the first talking about my poor husband, and all our troubles, I can’t say but there is a kind of pleasure, like, in going over it all again.”

“Now there’s a good nurse, mind you tell me every thing. What had happened when you got to your brother-in-law’s?”

“Ah! poor man! he was dead—dead and buried. He died just three weeks after he wrote to John; and, though the widow kept on the shop, she could not do for us as he would have done. Poor soul! she was left with five young children, and she was almost beside herself with care and trouble. However, she took us in, and told us we should not have to pay for lodging while we stayed there, but she could not afford to keep us. She told John who was the proper person to apply to, to get what they call a grant of land, and he went next day to see about it, for he was loth to be a burthen to the poor widow.

“He found he could not get any garden nor any land near the town, but he must go a great way off to the back woods, where there were new settlers, and where he must cut down the trees and dig up the soil fresh for himself. This was a great disappointment, and he lost a deal of time trying if he could not get something that would suit better. But you see, ma’am, every thing goes by interest in one country just like another; and now his brother was gone he had nobody to put in a good word for him, and he found there was no use in haggling on any longer. So he set about buying the goods and the tools which they said were quite necessary for a new settler, and by the time he had got his grant of land, and had bought his things, all our money was pretty well gone, and I was not in a way to be much of a help to him. Poor John! He said he would not have me begin a long journey in this condition, and when I got to the end of it have no roof over my head, and be in a lonesome place with nobody to do for me when the time of my trouble came. My sister-in-law was very good, and she promised to take care of me. She got me needlework, and I could earn enough for my own keep; and so John set off all alone to this land that was to be his. He was to get the trees felled, and a log-house built, and some ground trenched, and every thing quite comfortable in a manner; and he was to come back for me in the spring. I did not half like this. As long as I was with him I felt as if I could do any thing; but when he was gone, I don’t know how it was, but I had no spirit to any thing. But he would not let me go. He said, ‘No! he had told father I should be treated tenderly, and he would never let me be worse off than the very gipsies in Old England.’

“The autumn seemed very long to me; but I worked hard, and earned enough to get every thing nice for my baby, and to have a few household things ready to take with me when the spring came. After my child was born, I began to grow quite happy with thinking how pleased John would be to see it. I had got together all my little goods, and had packed them up, and I was waiting every day for him to come. I thought every step I heard at the door might be him; for there was no post in those outlandish parts, and I had only heard from him twice by a private hand since he went. One day I was startled by hearing a strange voice ask for me. It was not John, I knew well enough; and there came such a fright over me I could not answer, nor I could not go to the door. Though I was always wishing John would come, and wondering he did not, yet it never before came into my head to be frightened, I felt so sure he would come at last; but I don’t know how it was, I thought now there was something bad in store for me.

“My sister-in-law went to the door, and she brought me up a letter. It was in his own hand-writing. But when I had got it, I could hardly read it, I was in such a hurry, and all over in such a tremble. However, it told me he had been very ill; he had had a bad rheumatic fever, and was not able to come for me yet; but he was getting better, and hoped to be able to set off before summer came. I made up my mind directly what I would do—to set off the next day as ever came, and go to him. So I went down stairs to the man as brought me the letter, and I asked him which was the road, and what were the names of the places I had to go through, and how I was to find out his settlement. I was a pretty middling scholar, so I wrote it all down from his mouth. That night I packed up my bundle, and I sold the linen and things I had bought, for I could not carry them, and I knew I should want the money. My sister-in-law lent me a little she was able to spare, and next morning I set out. I reckoned I could walk fifteen miles a-day, and that, as it was three hundred miles up the country, it would take me about three weeks to get to him. I was very tired the first day, for I had to carry my bundle on my back, and my child in my arms; but I did not care. I thought so of getting to John, I hardly knew that I was tired. I found a decent little inn, and a civil woman, who made me pretty comfortable that night, and I had nothing to complain of for several days more; but after a week or thereabouts, the country was very bare, and there were but few houses to be seen. One day I had to walk better than twenty miles before I could get taken in, and, after all, the place was a miserable hovel, and the woman as kept it was so old, and dirty, and smoky, and she spoke so short to me, and looked at me so sharp, that I felt frightened, and almost sorry, when, after a little haggling, she let me into the hut. It seemed to belong to her; but some men who came in after me, ordered her about as if they were masters of her and all she had; and she did not think of refusing them any thing, and they swore at her terribly, and made themselves quite at home. I had got away into the inner room when I saw them coming, and I never went back into the kitchen. The old woman seemed no ways anxious that I should. I begged her to let me lie down, and she said I might do as I would; so I tried to get some rest; but I could see these men through the chinks of the logs, and I could hear most of what they said. They drank, and they sang, and, by their way of talking, I think they led a rough sort of robber-like life; but I could not half understand what they said. At last they rolled themselves up on the floor, and went to sleep, and I went to sleep too. All my little stock of money, which was getting very low, but which was my only dependence for reaching my poor husband, was under my pillow, and I resolved I would not part with it if I could help it. In the middle of the night my child began to cry; I felt sure these strange men would wake and rob me, and perhaps murder me too. I heard one move, and I could see him sit up, rub his eyes, stretch himself, and he wondered what the noise could be; but I managed to pacify the child, and he settled himself again. To be sure, I was glad when I heard him breathe quite hard! I did not sleep any more that night, and by day-break the hunters (for they had guns, and powder-pouches, and bags—so I suppose they were hunters) were astir, and left the hut. I asked the old woman who they were, and which way they were likely to take; but she did not like being questioned, and so, when I thought they had been gone about an hour, I set out again on my lonesome journey.

“That day the road lay through a great forest of very tall trees, taller than any trees we have here. I never did feel so lonesome before; there was not a creature to be seen anywhere, and the tall trees made the road so dreary, and it was all dark and hollow each side; for in those great woods the trees stand clear of each other, and there is no underwood, nor bushes, nor briers, but the boles go up straight, and the branches meet at top, and one may go miles and miles and never see the blue sky over one’s head. There was no telling what might come out from those dismal hollows, and I kept looking round every minute, and trying to see into them, but ’twas impossible: I could see the trunks of the trees for a little way, and then ’twas all as black as night. It made one feel so alone, and yet one did not know what might be near one; and I thought what would become of me if I was benighted in this dreary place; and I thought of the wild Indians, and of the bears, and of my poor innocent babe; but then I thought again of my husband on his sick-bed, and I took courage.

“It was past the middle of the day, and the sun had sunk some way below those tall dark trees, when I sat down to rest myself, and to drink from a clear stream by the roadside. I was wondering how much farther it could be to the end of the forest, where I had been told I should find something of a decent hut, when I was startled at hearing voices and the report of a gun; and presently three of the men who had passed the night in the old woman’s hovel came out from among the gloomy trees on the other side.

“They looked surprised to see me, and came straight up to me. I don’t know how it was, but when the time came I did not seem so timid as I thought I should. I remembered how poor I was, and it could not be no object to any body to rob me; and I knew I was doing my duty in going to my husband, and I thought God would protect me. I sat quite still, and did not tremble nor shake. One of them asked me how I came there? So I told him the truth, and spoke quite civil, and yet, as it were, bold and steady, that I was walking from Halifax to my husband at the far settlement. So another of the men said, quite sharp—‘If you have got a husband, he had better keep a sharper look-out after such a tight lass as you are.’

“The first man said—‘You have got a long journey before you, my girl.’

“And I answered, ‘Yes, sir; but I have got safe through more than half of it, and I hope, with the blessing of God, to get safe through the rest of it to my husband, to nurse him in his illness.’

“‘Oh! he’s ill, that’s it,’ said the second.

“‘Well, you can’t be travelling all this way without money,’ says the third, who had not spoken yet.

“‘Come, come, poor girl,’ interrupted the first, and gave a wink to the last speaker, ‘we won’t hinder your journey any longer: you had better push on, or you’ll be in the dark.’ And he took the other by the arm, and he seemed to persuade them both to go away; and when I saw them go off into the woods again, I thanked God for his goodness, and thought he was indeed a Father to the fatherless, and that he never did desert them as put their trust in him in the time of their need.

“I hugged my baby close, and quite forgot how tired I had been a little while before, and walked and ran till it was nearly dark, when the trees grew thinner, and I thought I could see lights glimmer in the distance. I made all the haste I could, and at last I got to a small settlement of half a dozen log-houses. I stopped at the first door, and I never felt so happy as when I saw a light, and a fire, and a woman’s face again. She had a child in her arms too, and I felt quite safe.

“Next day I was very tired, and the woman at the little inn wished me to stay all day, and rest myself; but when I was walking and toiling, I did not feel so much about John: the moment I was still, I thought how ill he might be, and I could not bear to keep quiet. Besides, the woman’s husband was going part of the same road, to make a bargain about some furs; so he kept me company through the rest of the forest, and he begged the fur-merchants, as he came to speak to, that they would see me safe to the village where I was to stop that night. This day my baby began to grow fretful, and no wonder; for, though I did the best I could for it, ’twas next to impossible to get any thing fit for a baby at the places I stopped at, and I lived so hard myself that I made but a poor nurse.

“My shoes were quite worn out, and my feet were so sore, I thought I must afford myself a pair of shoes, as I should not have another opportunity. They were very dear, for every thing was brought from Halifax. I was sorry afterwards I did not make shift without them. Next morning my baby was so ill I went to the doctor, for there was a doctor there, and they said he was the only real doctor anywhere for miles and miles. He gave me something as quieted the child; but, when I had paid for this too, my purse was so low, I began to fear I should not have enough to buy me any thing to eat after the two next days; and as for begging, I had never been brought up to think of such a thing. I touched nothing but the coarsest and cheapest food I could get, and drank nothing but cold water, and I walked farther each day to get sooner to the end of my journey. I was almost worn out, and (as I reckoned) I had still three days’ travelling between me and my husband when I paid away my last farthing. I scarcely hoped ever to reach him, but I walked on till I got to a small settlement, and then I sat down by the way-side, and thought what should I do?

“I could not help crying, and thinking what would father say if he could see me then; and it hurt me so! for I knew he would feel angry with John, and fancy it was through him his child was brought into such trouble, and forced to beg her bread; for there was no help for it, if I wished to see my husband, and not to let my baby die, I must that night ask charity of strangers. So I knocked at the nearest door, and I told my story, and asked for food and lodging. I have often thought, a mother with her infant in her arms has something which goes to the hearts of their fellow-creatures, if they have any kindness left in them. I’m sure I never see a poor beggar-woman with a baby at the door but I think of myself that weary night, and I never have the heart to send them away without some little trifle, though, maybe, I’m often imposed upon.

“Well! the man as opened the door took pity upon us directly, and bade me come in and sit by the fire. His daughter, a nice girl of fourteen, brought us some potatoes and some milk, and let me share her bed. They would have given me enough to pay my way for the next two days if they had had it to give; but I was forced to ask charity again that night, but it did not seem to give me such a choking in the throat as it did the first time; and I thought how soon we lose our spirit when we get low in the world, and how easy it is to go on from bad to worse! The next night I hoped to get to my husband. They told me to keep along the banks of a great river on my left, where there was something of a path, but ’twas so overgrown with the long rank grass, ’twas not easy to find. The new settlement was near the river-side, for the trees, which the settlers cut some way higher up, drifted down the river till they came to this place, where the ground was particular rich, and then they pulled them ashore, and built themselves log-houses. There were about seven families together, as they told me, and my husband’s house was the farthest but one. How my poor heart did beat all the way I went! I longed so to get there, and I dreaded it so too. I walked on and on, and still I saw no people, nor no huts, nor no fields, and I began to think I must have come wrong; for, though it was all open and flat, I could not see very far before me, for the grass was long, and the rushes very tall, sometimes, by the river-side. Of all the day’s journeys I had come, this did seem to me the longest; but I suppose ’twas only because I was so impatient to get to the end of it. I looked at the sun, and it was not above half-way down. Just then there was a rise in the road, and I could see some smoke, and the roofs of some low huts, and some little patches of ground that were cultivated, and I strained my eyes to try and make out the last but one. I don’t know how I got over the ground, but I soon did reach the first house, and I saw a child at play, and I asked him which was John Roberts’s. I could hardly breathe while he answered, ‘He lives out yonder.’ He lives! and when I heard him say that, I first knew I had been afraid of never seeing John again.

“I ran as well as I could to the hut. It looked wretched and half finished; the door was ajar—I pushed it open—there was nobody in the kitchen—I heard no noise—I listened—I did not dare step on. Just then my child cried, and a voice from within said, in a hollow tone, ‘Who’s there?’ I ran into the bed-room, and there lay my husband, sick, pale, and weak, but it was my husband alive, and all seemed well.”

“Oh, nurse,” exclaimed Lucy, “I never heard any thing half so interesting in my life. Poor souls! and how was your husband? He got well?”

“Yes, Miss, he did get well after a time. He fretted so much to think he could not go for me, that it had kept him back, and he had nobody to make him any thing nice, nor to do for him; leastways not to do for him as I could, though the neighbours looked in now and then and made his bed, and boiled his potatoes for him, and such like. Sure! how overjoyed he was to see me, and how pleased he was to see the babe. He soon began to mend, and then he was so vexed to think he had not been able to get the place to rights a bit before I came.

“The fence outside was all broken down, and the garden was only half-planted; but I had not been there a fortnight before I got it all to look quite different. I cleaned up the house, and settled the few things he had got in it, and I helped him to mend the fence, and he was soon able to dig again, and the things grow very quick in that rich soil, and our house and garden were quite decent, and we were so glad to be together again, that we did not see no faults in any thing.

“In the winter-time John had been lucky in shooting, and had sold some furs for enough to buy him a cow, and some chickens; and then, being a pretty middling gardener, he had helped his neighbours, and put them in the way to crop their gardens as they should be; and most of them gave him a trifle, some one thing and some another, so that now he was pretty well, and I was there to keep matters tidy, we were very comfortable. The winter was cold and long, and in the spring he had another touch of that nasty fever, as was so common in them low swampy grounds. In the summer I had my Betsy—you know my Betsy, as is married to Farmer Crofts?—some of the neighbours were very kind to me, and I got over it pretty well. Of a Sunday we used to read our Bible together, and think how true John’s saying was, when we came out of church at Liverpool, that there was no knowing what places of worship we might find where we were going to. But John often said all places might be made places of worship if one had but the mind to it, whether it was a real church, or the tall, dark, still woods, or the damp wide savannah, or our own log-hut; and so, I hope, when we read our prayers there, it did us as much good as if there had been a minister and a pulpit, and all as it should be.

“I believe I was too happy then for it to last. With the spring came the rheumatic fever again, and my poor husband was quite laid up. He could not do any thing, and he fretted so to think his land was not trenched, nor any thing seen to! and, what with the children, and the house, and the cow, and the things out of doors, and poor John to nurse, I had more than one pair of hands could well do. This would not have signified if John had but mended when the summer came, but he got worse and worse. He was so weak, and he suffered a deal of pain, and there was no doctor. Then I did wish we had never left England, and I thought it would have been better we should both have worked and laboured in our own country, till we had got old, and earned enough to marry upon. But we did for the best; and if John was so set upon coming, even without me, why, then, it was best I came too, for he had some one to do for him. It was all written, I suppose; and perhaps ’twas for our good—but this was hard, very hard to bear.

“One evening I had got the children off to sleep, and I had taken my bit of work, and was sitting by John’s bedside, when he said to me—

“‘Milly, you must not stay here when I am gone. If you sell all the little matters we have got together here, you’ll have enough to pay your journey to Halifax, and your passage home too, as I reckon. Your father will be good to you, I think—I hope. Tell him I meant for the best when I persuaded you to come.’

“Oh, Miss Lucy, I never thought to see that day: I had always hoped I should have been the first to go. But it pleased God otherwise.”

The poor old woman sat with her apron to her eyes, in quiet, silent tears. Lucy took one of her withered hands, and pressing it between her own, told her, with tears in her eyes, how much she felt for her, and how much she admired her husband’s kind and manly character. She found this was the chord to which, after so many years, the old nurse’s heart still vibrated.

“Yes, Miss Lucy,” and her faded eyes flashed with almost youthful brightness; “he was the kindest-hearted, the truest-hearted, and the bravest-hearted man as ever lived. He feared nothing, but to do wrong, and to part with me. His thoughts were always on me; and when he was taken, the last words he ever spoke were, ‘my own Milly,’ and the last look he ever gave was for me, and my hand felt the last pressure his ever gave.”

Lucy’s tears flowed fast. She had read many novels, but the fictitious woes of their heroines did not seem to her half so touching as her old nurse’s plain story.

“Well, Miss Lucy, I buried him there; he lies by the banks of that great river, and there’s the roaring sea, and miles and miles of dreary land between me and my poor John; and, what’s more, when I die, we shan’t lie near each other; that frets me sadly sometimes; but he told me to come home, and so, Miss, I could not do no other. I thought when I turned my back on the log-hut, where we had passed some such happy days together, and when I passed by the place where he was buried, at the other end of the settlement, I thought my heart must have broke; and, if it had not been for the children, I should have thought it a mercy if it had.

“There was some people going to Halifax, and I travelled with them. I fancied myself in trouble when I went that road before, but now I thought how happy I was then, for I was going to see my husband’s face again. But God is very merciful, he never gives us more than we can bear. I bore it all, and I got to Halifax, and I went to my sister-in-law. She was a kind woman, and she was sorry for me, for she knew what it was to be a widow. I took my passage on board a vessel for England, and I and my two children left America. Though my husband’s grave was so far up the country, I felt when I left the land, as if I was more parted from him than ever. But ’twas on board ship that I learned to be thankful to God for what was left, and not to grieve too much for any of his creatures. My little boy sickened and died, and he was not buried, decently buried in the earth, but my poor child was thrown into the sea. I could not get over that for a long time. It did seem so unnatural like. But I learned then never to think myself so low, but what God might afflict me more, and I learned to be grateful for my Betsy. And she has been a blessing to me—a kind and a dutiful girl—and one as will never let her old mother come to want, as she gets in years.”

“My poor, dear nurse,” exclaimed Lucy, “I can’t bear to think I should ever have been a naughty pettish child, and have plagued and worried you when I was little, and you with all these heavy afflictions on your mind.”

“Lord bless your sweet heart! you never plagued me; and, as for your little vagaries, I believe they made me love you all the better.”