CHAPTER V.

Sickness and Sorrow.

A TIME of heavy tribulation to the widow followed the horrors of that night. John Carey was not indeed killed, the spark of life glimmered still, but he lay for weeks in a dangerous state, sometimes buried in stupor, sometimes raving with fever, never able to give a clear account of what had occurred.

It was evident that he had been the victim to violence; the fact of his having gone to London to cash a cheque for a considerable sum was soon known far and wide, and it was, of course, concluded that the "young lion" had been waylaid on his return home, and robbed of the money.

Search was made at once for the man who had committed the crime, a reward was offered for his apprehension. Suspicion fell upon Soames, who was proved to have heard from John's own lips of the cheque, and whose character and wretched circumstances made him appear one not unlikely to have committed an act of violence to save himself from destitution. The sudden disappearance of Soames from the neighbourhood confirmed the suspicion; but the wretched man succeeded in eluding pursuit; he was reserved to suffer, at a later period, the punishment due for other crimes.

In anguish, the widow watched and prayed by the bedside of her suffering son, imploring God, day and night, to spare his life and his reason. The crisis was over at length; the fever was subdued, consciousness returned, but the once powerful young man lay weak and helpless as a child. His tawny locks shorn away, the bandage over his brow, his eye dim, his cheek hollow, who, in that languid invalid, would have recognised the "young lion!"

The doctor forbade any subject being mentioned to John that could produce excitement; he must be kept as quiet as possible, and have as much good wine and generous nourishment as he could take to restore his exhausted strength. Good wine, generous nourishment! How were they to be procured? That question which she could not answer, went to the mother's heart. Mrs. Carey had earned her livelihood by charing and washing, but during her son's illness she had been unable to earn a sixpence by either, nursing him had engaged all her time, and taxed her utmost strength.

During the first fortnight, his mother had felt the press of poverty but little; John could hardly touch food, the doctor had not sent in his bill, much interest was excited in the neighbourhood, little presents were received, and the few tradesmen who supplied necessaries let their accounts run up, without troubling the afflicted mother for immediate payment. Thus for a while, as has been said, Mrs. Carey, watching by the sick-bed of John, and absorbed by the anxiety caused by his critical state, felt no actual want of money. But this did not last very long.

When John was once known to be likely to recover, interest in his case grew weaker, while the need for help grew greater. The hunger of convalescence began just when the shelf was empty; and bills came dropping in when not a sixpence was left in the purse. The baker, who had at first been all sympathy and bustling kindness, shrugged his shoulders, and threw out hints that a man in receipt of wages was bound to subscribe to a club, and not leave the burden of his support during sickness to a widowed mother, and neighbours who were willing enough to help, but who had to care for families of their own.

Dick Brace, over his glass of foaming ale, observed that John Carey had been a simpleton to travel at night with thirty pounds in his pocket, and doubly a simpleton for having given notice in a low inn that he intended to do so.

Mrs. Carey, worn out with anxiety and watching, her nerves shaken by lack of sleep, her spirits depressed by debt and difficulties which thickened around her, found it hard indeed to let patience have its perfect work, and to place firm trust in the changeless love of Him who so sorely tried her.

There are times in the experience of most Pilgrims to Heaven when darkness seems to be above and around them, and the Tempter whispers into their troubled ears, "God hath forgotten to be gracious." The feeble body weighs down the soul, the spirit can scarcely rise in prayer. In such seasons of weakness and gloom, how soothing these words of Scripture! "Who is among you that feareth the Lord, that obeyeth the voice of His servant, that walketh, in darkness and hath no light? let him trust in the name of the Lord, and stay upon his God." *

* Isaiah l. 10.

The widow could better have borne her outward trials, her son's illness, and the poverty which it brought with it, had she been able to see any spiritual good arising from them to one who was dearer to her than life. But it did not seem to Mrs. Carey that affliction had brought John nearer to God. When his brain had been excited by fever, it was about Dinah that he had raved; and now, though he spoke but little, John had more than once dropped words which shewed that he had not given up his scheme of partnership with Brace, that he still looked forward to being joint-landlord with him of the little public-house near the brick field. This grieved the widow beyond everything else.

She did not, indeed, fear that either Dick or Dinah would have much to do with a penniless man who might—and probably would—be unable to work for months yet to come; but that John after all that had happened—after what seemed to his mother like a solemn warning from Heaven—should persist in going on his own wilful way against the wishes of a parent who had almost broken down her health in nursing him, nearly crushed his mother with grief.

One day (it was the first day on which John had been able to sit up in a chair), Mrs. Carey placed before him the little dinner which she had obtained with difficulty, and had prepared with the greatest care. The pale, gaunt man, who looked the wreck of what he had been, felt that strong craving for food which often follows long illness, and the slender repast which his mother brought excited his impatience and scorn.

"Why, mother, you must think me a baby still," exclaimed the invalid almost with anger. "Is that spoonful of minced meat a dinner to put before a man who could devour a sirloin of beef? And where is the wine which the doctor said I must have?" added John, glancing impatiently round him.

"My son," answered the widow meekly, "I give you what I can, not what I would?"

She had herself not tasted meat for a fortnight.

"What do you mean?" cried John. "You know as well as I do that I've plenty of money—there's all the legacy left by my uncle."

Another pang to the heart of the mother! She had often noticed before that John's illness had affected his memory, but she had hoped of late that this was improving. It was a bitter disappointment to find him thus, as she thought, forgetting the fact that he had been robbed as well as almost murdered.

"What do you mean?" repeated the sick man with petulance. "And why do you look so sad?"

"My boy, you know that you were robbed of your all six weeks ago," said the widow.

"Not of a farthing!" cried John. "Surely you cannot have gone on all this time without asking for the money?"

He looked eagerly into the face of his mother, who could hardly bear to meet his excited gaze.

"You applied for it yourself, dear John, on that dreadful Monday," said she.

"And got a cheque—but the cheque was not signed, I could not cash it, I could not get a farthing of the money!" exclaimed John, with unusual animation. "Go, mother, go directly to the Justice, ask him for the legacy which he has in charge—tell him that the cheque was not worth a nettle-leaf!"

John's manner was becoming more excited, for he read in his mother's face that she either did not understand, or did not believe him.

"I cannot go to Justice Burns and ask him for—for—" Mrs. Carey did not finish the sentence aloud, but thought "for money which he doubtless has paid already."

The simple widow knew nothing about cheques, had never seen one in her life, and she feared that her son's fever was returning upon him.

"If you do not go, I must, and will!" exclaimed John, by a desperate effort starting to his feet, and then sinking back exhausted on his seat.

"Oh! My son, I will do what you wish, anything that you wish!" cried the anxious mother. "Only promise that you will keep quiet, and I will go at once to the Justice."