University of Virginia Library

Whom should I meet to-day but Meredith!
My washerwoman, Ellen Blount, is ill,
So ill I fear she never will be well.
'T is the old story, every day renewed:
A little humble, tender-hearted woman,
Tied to a husband whom to call a brute
Would be to vilify the quadrupeds!
A fellow, who must have his pipe, his whiskey,
And his good dinner, let what may befall
His wife and children. He could take the pittance
She got from her hard toil, and spend it on
Himself and his companions of the jug.
When out of work, as he would often be,
Then double toil for her! with peevish words
From him, the sole requital of it all!
Child after child she bore him; but, compelled
Too quickly after childbirth to return
To the old wash-tub, all her sufferings
Reacted on the children, and they died,
Haply in infancy the most of them,—
Until but one was left,—a little boy,
Puny and pale, gentle and uncomplaining,
With all the mother staring from his eyes
In hollow, anxious, pitiful appeal.
In this one relic all her love and hope
And all that made her life endurable
At length were centred. She had saved a dollar
To buy for him a pair of overshoes;
But, as she went to get them, Blount waylaid her,
Learnt that she had the money, forced it from her.
Poor Teddy had to go without his shoes.
'T was when the January thaw had made
The streets a-reek with mud and melting snow.
Poor Teddy wet his feet, took cold, and died.
“Come soon, mamma,” were his last feeble words.
Blount was a cunning ruffian; well he knew
How far to go, and where and when to pause.
Fluent and specious with his tongue, he kept,
In his small sphere, a certain show of credit;
And he could blow in tune for mother church,
Though few the pennies he himself would give her.
“Cast off the wretch,” was my advice to Ellen.
She loved him not; she might as well have tried
To love a load that galled and wearied her.
But custom, social fear, and, above all,
Those sacramental manacles the church
Had bound her in, and to the end would keep,
Forbade the poor, scared, helpless little woman
To free herself, by one condign resolve,
From the foul incubus that sucked her life.
So a false sense of duty kept her tied,
Feeding in him all that was pitiless.
And now she 's dying. I had gone to-day
To take some little dainties, cream and fruit,
And there, administering consolation,
Was Meredith.
Hearing his tones of faith,
Seeing his saintly look of sympathy,
I felt, there being between us no dissent
In spirit, dogmas were of small account:
And so I knelt and listened to his prayer.
At length he noticed me, and recognized.
“Miss Percival!” he cried; “can this be you?
But when and why did you return from England?”
“I 've never been in England, never been
Out of my native country,” I replied.
“But that is unaccountable,” said he;
“For I've seen letters, written as from you,
Signed with your name, acknowledging receipts
Of certain sums of money, dated London.”
“No money have I had but what I 've earned,”
Was my reply; “and who should send me money?”
Said he: “I have a carriage at the door;
I would learn more of this; you'll not object
To take a seat with me? Thank you; that 's right.”

Leaving the patient in good hands, we went,
And through the noisy streets drove to the Park.
Then all I 'd ever known about my parents
He drew from me; and all my history
Since I had parted from him; noted down
Carefully my address, and gave me his.
Then to my lodgings driving with me back,
He left me with a Benedicite!
He 's rich: has he been sending money, then?
What means it all? Conjecture finds no clew.