4. CHAPTER IV.
THE KILBY STREET MERCHANT.
He was a man, take him for all in all,
We shall not look upon his like again.
A few days after this scene, poor Henry
was called to witness another, far more harrowing.
Mrs. Martin, the friend and benefactress
of his childhood; she, who had
watched and guided him, and his helpless
sister, for three years, was laid low on the
bed of pain, with few hopes of ever rising
from it. The affliction of Henry was extreme;
she had been to him more than a
mother, and, but for her, he had long since
been turned on the world, to battle with
labor for his daily bread. But she never
reproached him; and when, a year before,
the orphan had expressed a desire to do
something which would relieve her of the
burden of his support, his request was received
almost as an insult.
“No, my boy,” said she, “go to your
school—you will never regret it; but I shall,
if I take you away. Go, and when my poor
body is in the grave, you will bless the lowly
widow's heart!”
And Henry did bless her, many and many
a time; and now, when he was called upon
to resign her—when she was to be taken
from the humble sphere of usefulness which
she occupied—he felt again the bitterness of
losing a friend—the second death of his heart.
Again he would be left, without protection,
to buffet the wild waves of the world's sea
as he could; but he cared not for himself;
the declining widow and her children, and
his own dear little sister, claimed all his
sympathies.
But Providence never deserts the good;
the charity of the poor widow was an enduring
monument—and the God who witnessed
it, would not abandon her helpless
offspring to the miseries from which she had
shielded another's.
A friend now appeared, in the person of
the father of William Abbot; and never
came a friend more opportunely, and never
came a kindlier one.
Mr. Abbot was a man of high and honorable
feelings, and therein his son resembled
him. And our friend the schoolmaster knew
this, when William threatened to inform him
of the affair with Haywood. This may account
for his desire to settle the difficulty
amicably. But William was not deceived,
and he, at an early period, related the circumstance
to his father. The surprise of Mr.
Abbot was extreme, for he had supposed
that in a public school all who attended were
considered, in point of rank, as equals. And
that had been one reason why he had permitted
William to attend it, rather than a
private school; for, free from the vulgar
vanity which would despise honest poverty,
he wished his son should also be; and supposed
that a school founded on the very
principles of equality, would be the most
suitable place to attain his object. He little
knew the injury which an ill-directed mind
placed in the situation of preceptor of a public
school, could inflict. He little knew,
that though no overt act of injustice might
be done, a system of persecution could be
carried on, calculated to break the proudest
spirit—to dampen the most generous ardor.
Nor had he reflected, that the conduct of the
schoolmaster is the model which the pupils
follow; that where vanity, and regard for
extraneous things, is encouraged by the
teacher, the scholars, apt in all things, will
not fail to learn a lesson which will prove
their bane and ruin.
When, however, he had learned the truth,
he resolved that his son should no longer be
subjected to the influence of such a man;
and accordingly removed him from the school.
At the same time he expressed a wish to see
Henry, for whom William had conceived
such a friendship. William went at once to
seek his friend. He found him at the bedside
of his benefactress; she was extremely
ill—indeed, it was apparent that she would
not recover, and bitterly was the poor woman's
heart wrung at the thought of leaving
her children. But she trusted in God—that
he would not desert her; and she looked
back with satisfaction on the good she had
done. William was deeply shocked at the
sad scene.
“Come with me, Henry,” said he; “my
father must know this.” And the two friends
left the house, Henry promising to return as
soon as possible.
When arrived at Mr. Abbot's, a splendid
mansion in Collonade Row, William at once
informed his father of the scene he had just
witnessed, and Mr. Abbot requested a recital
of the story from Henry.
The orphan with a swelling heart related
it. He told his own sad story; the generous
conduct of the poor widow, and her untiring
exertions in supporting and shielding the orphan
children. He spoke of the poor woman's
sorrow at leaving her offspring alone
in the world, and concluded with—
“But they shall never want; if I work
day and night to support them, they shall
never have it to say that Henry Fowler is
ungrateful!”
“You are a noble boy,” said the merchant,
gazing with interest on the pale but animated
countenance of Henry; “but you shall never
work night and day; your friend shall not
want, nor shall her children be deserted.”
The good merchant then left the room
rather cheerfully, and Henry thought he observed
a tear to glisten in his eye, while
William, taking his hand, cried, “There,
Harry, I knew father would love you, so
never fear; all will be well.”
Mr. Abbot soon returned, and telling Henry
he would call on the morrow, with Wil
liam, kindly bade him good-bye, and Henry
returned to the bedside of his benefactress,
to convey the welcome tidings of a friend.
“Blessed be God,” said Mrs. Martin, devoutly;
“He deserts not the widow in her
sore need!”
