Paul Prescott's Charge

VI

PAUL’S DETERMINATION

At the close of the last chapter it was stated that Paul had come to a determination.

This was,—TO RUN AWAY.

That he had good reason for this we have already seen.

He was now improving rapidly, and only waited till he was well enough to put his design into execution.

“Aunt Lucy,” said he one day, “I’ve got something to tell you.”

The old lady looked up inquiringly.

“It’s something I’ve been thinking of a long time,—at least most of the time since I’ve been sick. It isn’t pleasant for me to stay here, and I’ve pretty much made up my mind that I sha’n’t.”

“Where will you go?” asked the old lady, dropping her work in surprise.

“I don’t know of any particular place, but I should be better off most anywhere than here.”

“But you are so young, Paul.”

“God will take care of me, Aunt Lucy,—mother used to tell me that. Besides, here I have no hope of learning anything or improving my condition. Then again, if I stay here, I can never do what father wished me to do.”

“What is that, Paul?”

Paul told the story of his father’s indebtedness to Squire Conant, and the cruel letter which the Squire had written.

“I mean to pay that debt,” he concluded firmly. “I won’t let anybody say that my father kept them out of their money. There is no chance here; somewhere else I may find work and money.”

“It is a great undertaking for a boy like you, Paul,” said Aunt Lucy, thoughtfully. “To whom is the money due?”

“Squire Conant of Cedarville.”

Aunt Lucy seemed surprised and agitated by the mention of this name.

“Paul,” said she, “Squire Conant is my brother.”

“Your brother!” repeated he in great surprise. “Then why does he allow you to live here? He is rich enough to take care of you.”

“It is a long story,” said the old lady, sadly. “All that you will be interested to know is that I married against the wishes of my family. My husband died and I was left destitute. My brother has never noticed me since.”

“It is a great shame,” said Paul.

“We won’t judge him, Paul. Have you fixed upon any time to go?”

“I shall wait a few days till I get stronger. Can you tell me how far it is to New York?”

“O, a great distance; a hundred miles at least. You can’t think of going so far as that?”

“I think it would be the best plan,” said Paul. “In a great city like New York there must be a great many things to do which I can’t do here. I don’t feel strong enough to work on a farm. Besides, I don’t like it. O, it must be a fine thing to live in a great city. Then too,” pursued Paul, his face lighting up with the hopeful confidence of youth, “I may become rich. If I do, Aunt Lucy, I will build a fine house, and you shall come and live with me.”

Aunt Lucy had seen more of life than Paul, and was less sanguine. The thought came to her that her life was already declining while his was but just begun, and in the course of nature, even if his bright dreams should be realized, she could hardly hope to live long enough to see it. But of this she said nothing. She would not for the world have dimmed the brightness of his anticipations by the expression of a single doubt.

“I wish you all success, Paul, and I thank you for wishing me to share in your good fortune. God helps those who help themselves, and he will help you if you only deserve it. I shall miss you very much when you are gone. It will seem more lonely than ever.”

“If it were not for you, Aunt Lucy, I should not mind going at all, but I shall be sorry to leave you behind.”

“God will care for both of us, my dear boy. I shall hope to hear from you now and then, and if I learn that you are prosperous and happy, I shall be better contented with my own lot. But have you thought of all the labor and weariness that you will have to encounter? It is best to consider well all this, before entering upon such an undertaking.”

“I have thought of all that, and if there were any prospect of my being happy here, I might stay for the present. But you know how Mrs. Mudge has treated me, and how she feels towards me now.”

“I acknowledge, Paul, that it has proved a hard apprenticeship, and perhaps it might be made yet harder if you should stay longer. You must let me know when you are going, I shall want to bid you good-by.”

“No fear that I shall forget that, Aunt Lucy. Next to my mother you have been most kind to me, and I love you for it.”

Lightly pressing her lips to Paul’s forehead Aunt Lucy left the room to conceal the emotion called forth by his approaching departure. Of all the inmates of the establishment she had felt most closely drawn to the orphan boy, whose loneliness and bereavement had appealed to her woman’s heart. This feeling had been strengthened by the care she had been called to bestow upon him in his illness, for it is natural to love those whom we have benefited. But Aunt Lucy was the most unselfish of living creatures, and the idea of dissuading Paul from a course which he felt was right never occurred to her. She determined that she would do what she could to further his plans, now that he had decided to go. Accordingly she commenced knitting him a pair of stockings, knowing that this would prove a useful present. This came near being the means of discovering Paul’s plan to Mrs. Mudge The latter, who notwithstanding her numerous duties, managed to see everything that was going on, had her attention directed to Aunt Lucy’s work.

“Have you finished the stockings that I set you to knitting for Mr. Mudge?” she asked.

“No,” said Aunt Lucy, in some confusion.

“Then whose are those, I should like to know? Somebody of more importance than my husband, I suppose.”

“They are for Paul,” returned the old lady, in some uneasiness.

“Paul!” repeated Mrs. Mudge, in her haste putting a double quantity of salaeratus into the bread she was mixing; “Paul’s are they? And who asked you to knit him a pair, I should like to be informed?”

“No one.”

“Then what are you doing it for?”

“I thought he might want them.”

“Mighty considerate, I declare. And I shouldn’t be at all surprised if you were knitting them with the yarn I gave you for Mr. Mudge’s stockings.”

“You are mistaken,” said Aunt Lucy, shortly.

“Oh, you’re putting on your airs, are you? I’ll tell you what, Madam, you’d better put those stockings away in double-quick time, and finish my husband’s, or I’ll throw them into the fire, and Paul Prescott may wait till he goes barefoot before he gets them.”

There was no alternative. Aunt Lucy was obliged to obey, at least while her persecutor was in the room. When alone for any length of time she took out Paul’s stockings from under her apron, and worked on them till the approaching steps of Mrs. Mudge warned her to desist.

Three days passed. The shadows of twilight were already upon the earth. The paupers were collected in the common room appropriated to their use. Aunt Lucy had suspended her work in consequence of the darkness, for in this economical household a lamp was considered a useless piece of extravagance. Paul crept quietly to her side, and whispered in tones audible to her alone, “I AM GOING TO-MORROW.”

“To-morrow! so soon?”

“Yes,” said Paul, “I am as ready now as I shall ever be. I wanted to tell you, because I thought maybe you might like to know that this is the last evening we shall spend together at present.”

“Do you go in the morning?”

“Yes, Aunt Lucy, early in the morning. Mr. Mudge usually calls me at five; I must be gone an hour before that time. I suppose I must bid you good-by to-night.”

“Not to-night, Paul; I shall be up in the morning to see you go.”

“But if Mrs. Mudge finds it out she will abuse you.”

“I am used to that, Paul,” said Aunt Lucy, with a sorrowful smile. “I have borne it many times, and I can again. But I can’t lie quiet and let you go without one word of parting. You are quite determined to go?”

“Quite, Aunt Lucy. I never could stay here. There is no pleasure in the present, and no hope for the future. I want to see something of life,” and Paul’s boyish figure dilated with enthusiasm.

“God grant that you do not see too much!” said Aunt Lucy, half to herself.

“Is the world then, so very sad a place?” asked Paul.

“Both joy and sorrow are mingled in the cup of human life,” said Aunt Lucy, solemnly:

“Which shall preponderate it is partly in our power to determine. He who follows the path of duty steadfastly, cannot be wholly miserable, whatever misfortunes may come upon him. He will be sustained by the conviction that his own errors have not brought them upon him.”

“I will try to do right,” said Paul, placing his hand in that of his companion, “and if ever I am tempted to do wrong, I will think of you and of my mother, and that thought shall restrain me.”

“It’s time to go bed, folks,” proclaimed Mrs Mudge, appearing at the door. “I can’t have you sitting up all night, as I’ve no doubt you’d like to do.”

It was only eight o’clock, but no one thought of interposing an objection. The word of Mrs. Mudge was law in her household, as even her husband was sometimes made aware.

All quietly rose from their seats and repaired to bed. It was an affecting sight to watch the tottering gait of those on whose heads the snows of many winters had drifted heavily, as they meekly obeyed the behest of one whose coarse nature forbade her sympathizing with them in their clouded age, and many infirmities.

“Come,” said she, impatient of their slow movements, “move a little quicker, if it’s perfectly convenient. Anybody’d think you’d been hard at work all day, as I have. You’re about the laziest set I ever had anything to do with. I’ve got to be up early in the morning, and can’t stay here dawdling.”

“She’s got a sweet temper,” said Paul, in a whisper, to Aunt Lucy.

“Hush!” said the old lady. “She may hear you.”

“What’s that you’re whispering about?” said Mrs. Mudge, suspiciously. “Something you’re ashamed to have heard, most likely.”

Paul thought it best to remain silent.

“To-morrow morning at four!” he whispered to Aunt Lucy, as he pressed her hand in the darkness.

VII

PAUL BEGINS HIS JOURNEY

Paul ascended the stairs to his hard pallet for the last time. For the last time! There is sadness in the thought, even when the future which lies before us glows with brighter colors than the past has ever worn. But to Paul, whose future was veiled in uncertainty, and who was about to part with the only friend who felt an interest in his welfare, this thought brought increased sorrow.

He stood before the dirt-begrimed window through which alone the struggling sunbeams found an inlet into the gloomy little attic, and looked wistfully out upon the barren fields that surrounded the poorhouse. Where would he be on the morrow at that time? He did not know. He knew little or nothing of the great world without, yet his resolution did not for an instant falter. If it had, the thought of Mrs. Mudge would have been enough to remove all his hesitation.

He threw himself on his hard bed, and a few minutes brought him that dreamless sleep which comes so easily to the young.

Meanwhile Aunt Lucy, whose thoughts were also occupied with Paul’s approaching departure, had taken from the pocket of her OTHER dress—for she had but two—something wrapped in a piece of brown paper. One by one she removed the many folds in which it was enveloped, and came at length to the contents.

It was a coin.

“Paul will need some money, poor boy,” said she, softly to herself, “I will give him this. It will never do me any good, and it may be of some service to him.”

So saying she looked carefully at the coin in the moonlight.

But what made her start, and utter a half exclamation?

Instead of the gold eagle, the accumulation of many years, which she had been saving for some extraordinary occasion like the presents she held in her hand—a copper cent.

“I have been robbed,” she exclaimed indignantly in the suddenness of her surprise.

“What’s the matter now?” inquired Mrs Mudge, appearing at the door, “Why are you not in bed, Aunt Lucy Lee? How dare you disobey my orders?”

“I have been robbed,” exclaimed the old lady in unwonted excitement.

“Of what, pray?” asked Mrs. Mudge, with a sneer.

“I had a gold eagle wrapped up in that paper,” returned Aunt Lucy, pointing to the fragments on the floor, “and now, to-night, when I come to open it, I find but this cent.”

“A likely story,” retorted Mrs. Mudge, “very likely, indeed, that a common pauper should have a gold eagle. If you found a cent in the paper, most likely that’s what you put there. You’re growing old and forgetful, so don’t get foolish and flighty. You’d better go to bed.”

“But I did have the gold, and it’s been stolen,” persisted Aunt Lucy, whose disappointment was the greater because she intended the money for Paul.

“Again!” exclaimed Mrs. Mudge. “Will you never have done with this folly? Even if you did have the gold, which I don’t for an instant believe, you couldn’t keep it. A pauper has no right to hold property.”

“Then why did the one who stole the little I had leave me this?” said the old lady, scornfully, holding up the cent which had been substituted for the gold.

“How should I know?” exclaimed Mrs. Mudge, wrathfully. “You talk as if you thought I had taken your trumpery money.”

“So you did!” chimed in an unexpected voice, which made Mrs. Mudge start nervously.

It was the young woman already mentioned, who was bereft of reason, but who at times, as often happens in such cases, seemed gifted with preternatural acuteness.

“So you did. I saw you, I did; I saw you creep up when you thought nobody was looking, and search her pocket. You opened that paper and took out the bright yellow piece, and put in another. You didn’t think I was looking at you, ha! ha! How I laughed as I stood behind the door and saw you tremble for fear some one would catch you thieving. You didn’t think of me, dear, did you?”

And the wild creature burst into an unmeaning laugh.

Mrs. Mudge stood for a moment mute, overwhelmed by this sudden revelation. But for the darkness, Aunt Lucy could have seen the sudden flush which overspread her face with the crimson hue of detected guilt. But this was only for a moment. It was quickly succeeded by a feeling of intense anger towards the unhappy creature who had been the means of exposing her.

“I’ll teach you to slander your betters, you crazy fool,” she exclaimed, in a voice almost inarticulate with passion, as she seized her rudely by the arm, and dragged her violently from the room.

She returned immediately.

“I suppose,” said she, abruptly, confronting Aunt Lucy, “that you are fool enough to believe her ravings?”

“I bring no accusation,” said the old lady, calmly, “If your conscience acquits you, it is not for me to accuse you.”

“But what do you think?” persisted Mrs. Mudge, whose consciousness of guilt did not leave her quite at ease.

“I cannot read the heart,” said Aunt Lucy, composedly. “I can only say, that, pauper as I am, I would not exchange places with the one who has done this deed.”

“Do you mean me?” demanded Mrs. Mudge.

“You can tell best.”

“I tell you what, Aunt Lucy Lee,” said Mrs. Mudge, her eyes blazing with anger, “If you dare insinuate to any living soul that I stole your paltry money, which I don’t believe you ever had, I will be bitterly revenged upon you.”

She flaunted out of the room, and Aunt Lucy, the first bitterness of her disappointment over, retired to bed, and slept more tranquilly than the unscrupulous woman who had robbed her.

At a quarter before four Paul started from his humble couch, and hastily dressed himself, took up a little bundle containing all his scanty stock of clothing, and noiselessly descended the two flights of stairs which separated him from the lower story. Here he paused a moment for Aunt Lucy to appear. Her sharp ears had distinguished his stealthy steps as he passed her door, and she came down to bid him good-by. She had in her hands a pair of stockings which she slipped into his bundle.

“I wish I had something else to give you, Paul,” she said, “but you know that I am not very rich.”

“Dear Aunt Lucy,” said Paul, kissing her, “you are my only friend on earth. You have been very kind to me, and I never will forget you, NEVER! By-and-by, when I am rich, I will build a fine house, and you will come and live with me, won’t you?”

Paul’s bright anticipations, improbable as they were, had the effect of turning his companion’s thoughts into a more cheerful channel.

She bent down and kissed him, whispering softly, “Yes, I will, Paul.”

“Then it’s a bargain,” said he, joyously, “Mind you don’t forget it. I shall come for you one of these days when you least expect it.”

“Have you any money?” inquired Aunt Lucy.

Paul shook his head.

“Then,” said she, drawing from her finger a gold ring which had held its place for many long years, “here is something which will bring you a little money if you are ever in distress.”

Paul hung back.

“I would rather not take it, indeed I would,” he said, earnestly, “I would rather go hungry for two or three days than sell your ring. Besides, I shall not need it; God will provide for me.”

“But you need not sell it,” urged Aunt Lucy, “unless it is absolutely necessary. You can take it and keep it in remembrance of me. Keep it till you see me again, Paul. It will be a pledge to me that you will come back again some day.”

“On that condition I will take it,” said Paul, “and some day I will bring it back.”

A slight noise above, as of some one stirring in sleep, excited the apprehensions of the two, and warned them that it was imprudent for them to remain longer in conversation.

After a hurried good-by, Aunt Lucy quietly went upstairs again, and Paul, shouldering his bundle, walked rapidly away.

The birds, awakening from their night’s repose, were beginning to carol forth their rich songs of thanksgiving for the blessing of a new day. From the flowers beneath his feet and the blossom-laden branches above his head, a delicious perfume floated out upon the morning air, and filled the heart of the young wanderer with a sense of the joyousness of existence, and inspired him with a hopeful confidence in the future.

For the first time he felt that he belonged to himself. At the age of thirteen he had taken his fortune in his own hand, and was about to mold it as best he might.

There were care, and toil, and privations before him, no doubt, but in that bright morning hour he could harbor only cheerful and trusting thoughts. Hopefully he looked forward to the time when he could fulfil his father’s dying injunction, and lift from his name the burden of a debt unpaid. Then his mind reverting to another thought, he could not help smiling at the surprise and anger of Mr. Mudge, when he should find that his assistant had taken French leave. He thought he should like to be concealed somewhere where he could witness the commotion excited by his own departure. But as he could not be in two places at the same time, he must lose that satisfaction. He had cut loose from the Mudge household, as he trusted, forever. He felt that a new and brighter life was opening before him.

VIII

A FRIEND IN NEED

Our hero did not stop till he had put a good five miles between himself and the poorhouse. He knew that it would not be long before Mr. Mudge would discover his absence, and the thought of being carried back was doubly distasteful to him now that he had, even for a short time, felt the joy of being his own master. His hurried walk, taken in the fresh morning air, gave him quite a sharp appetite. Luckily he had the means of gratifying it. The night before he had secreted half his supper, knowing that he should need it more the next morning. He thought he might now venture to sit down and eat it.

At a little distance from the road was a spring, doubtless used for cattle, since it was situated at the lower end of a pasture. Close beside and bending over it was a broad, branching oak, which promised a cool and comfortable shelter.

“That’s just the place for me,” thought Paul, who felt thirsty as well as hungry, “I think I will take breakfast here and rest awhile before I go any farther.”

So saying he leaped lightly over the rail fence, and making his way to the place indicated, sat down in the shadow of the tree. Scooping up some water in the hollow of his hand, he drank a deep and refreshing draught. He next proceeded to pull out of his pocket a small package, which proved to contain two small pieces of bread. His long morning walk had given him such an appetite that he was not long in despatching all he had. It is said by some learned physicians, who no doubt understand the matter, that we should always rise from the table with an appetite. Probably Paul had never heard of this rule. Nevertheless, he seemed in a fair way of putting it into practice, for the best of reasons, because he could not help it.

His breakfast, though not the most inviting, being simply unbuttered bread and rather dry at that, seemed more delicious than ever before, but unfortunately there was not enough of it. However, as there seemed likely to be no more forthcoming, he concluded in default of breakfast to lie down under the tree for a few minutes before resuming his walk. Though he could not help wondering vaguely where his dinner was to come from, as that time was several hours distant, he wisely decided not to anticipate trouble till it came.