Rocks and Roses; or Phases of Life

Front matter

ROCKS AND ROSES: OR, PHASES OF LIFE. BY VINCENT ROBINSON, AUTHOR OF "HENRI HORACE, &C. LONDON : WILLIAM POOLE, 12A, Paternoster Row E.C. CONTENTS. Page Shipwreck ... ... ... ... .... ... : The Strolling Juggler ... I2 The Children in the Wood 32 Castle Building ... ... ... ... ... . r0 On the Common ... 58 The Report ... yi The "Swinging Key Inn," ... 85 Little Trill 95 In which some effects are sold by the Town Auctioneer 106 A Revelation 131 Morning ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 154 Afternoon ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 182 An Evening Party ... ... ... ... ... ... 197 Light and Shadow ... 213 The Estate ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 239 Dan O'Duffy's Lodge 256 A Key Found ... ... ... ... ... ... 272 The Expedition ... 285 The Funeral .. ... ... ... ... ... ... 305 Gone ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 319 Mother and Son 341 Lines in Unpleasant Places ... 355 Old Scores ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 372 To-morrow ... ... ... ... ' ... ... ... 385 The Last Voyage Over ... ... 396 A Mistake 408 At the Cottage ... ... 419 Hugh Villa ... 425 Breakfast Time ... .. ... ... 439 Conclusion ...

Chapter I. Shipwreck

P"|s2sr5|\TE hot June day a middle-aged man and g&§|g his son walked hand in hand through a churchyard about three leagues from New York. The boy was about nine years old, his bright animated face suffused with every sign of health and vigour, plainly showing that every thing that could conduce to his comfort and happiness had been lavished upon him. None of the marks of the harsh world were discernable upon his sunny countenance which may so often be seen upon the faces of ill-fed, sickly children in our large towns. Thus far his life had been not unlike that of the butterfly, which flutters A amid sweet roses on a summer day ! As he walked by his father's side a gleam of mischief now and again was apparent in his beautiful eyes. Very few boys in passing through a churchyard go direct along the beaten path.

They generally select a circuitous route, and vary a walk which would be, in most instances too monotonous, by jumping over grave stones and moss-grown mounds, as if those memorials had been set up, not so much to sacredly mark the resting places of departed souls as for the purpose of athletic sports. Evidently little Arthur Dibit (or Arty as he was usually called) looked upon tomb-stones from this stand-point, for no sooner had his father turned aside to look upon a portion of the quaint old church for a moment when he made a bound over an infant's grave, and went rolling over into the long dry grass. For a while his father heeded him not, but stood reverentially gazing upon the edifice as if listening to a sermon from its rugged walls. Truly none but the reverential soul can ever hear sweet angels speaking through the masonry of the house of God !

Lofty is the hearing of him who can catch a sermon from pillars of stone ; noble and scholarly is the nature that can read instructive pages in the SHIPWRECK. flowing streamlet ! But let us not digress, though numerous thoughts of this kind traversed through Mr. Godfrey Dibit's mind as he looked upon the church. He was on a visit with his son from England, and was returning in a few days, having spent three months in America. It was purely for the sake of recruiting his health that he had taken the voyage and not for any commercial end, he being a wealthy landowner in Kent. His wife was dead, and Arty was his only son and heir. Well, he was just turning away from his dreamv speculations about the old building before him, when his son gave a sharp tug at his coat, and looking somewhat mysteriously into his face said, "Come and look here, father, I believe I've seen a ghost."

The idea of seeing a ghost in the blaze of noon was a thing so novel to Godfrey that he could not refrain from smiling, notwithstanding that he had been full of deep and solemn meditation a few minutes before. So he followed his son through the long scorched grass — a little curiously indeed — to the scene of the avowed spectre : and there, under the shadow of a lichen-covered grave-stone, overhung by the delicate, drooping branches of a willow tree, was a poorly clad boy sast asleep. His hair was jet black, and hung loosely over his forehead, and his features were so pale that one could almost see in them the marks of those who rested in their tombs, — more akin, indeed, to death than life. While they were looking upon the little sleeper they heard footsteps just behind them, and turning quickly round were surprised to see the captain of the ship, by which they were soon to return, smoking a cigar.

He was a sturdy-looking man, with a complexion as brown as a nut, and kindly blue eyes that at once gave you assurance of a generous heart. He raised his cap to Mr. Godfrey Dibit as he approached, and then his eyes fell upon the lad, who lay unconscious that any living soul was near him. "I've seen that boy before," said the captain, " in the dockyard, and a sharp, intelligent little fellow I am sure he is, poor lad; but I don't think he's much cared for." " Shall I wake him, sir ? " said Arty, looking up into the captain's face. "No, don't do so," interposed his father, " but put this money gently into his waistcoat pocket and let us leave him." SHIPWRECK. 5 Arty was delighted beyond measure at this suggestion, and gentle placed the coin his father gave him into the lad's pocket. " That's a good boy," said the captain to Arty, " when I see him in the dockyard again I must have a word with him."

" Won't he be pleased when he wakes up ? " said Arty. With this they all three left the poor little fellow to finish his sleep under the cool shadow of the willow tree. The sun had gone down when he awoke, to find himself thus mysteriously possessed of half-a crown. He had heard of visiting angels, but had never experienced a practical visit of this kind ; so before leaving the churchyard he looked up to the sky and down upon the earth and behind all the grave-stones to find, if possible, the giver ; but no living object was near. Failing, therefore, to find anybody to thank in the flesh, he looked up again to the sky, a tear coursing down his little pale face as he did so, and then hastened off to buy some food. Tim Wittypinch, for that was the lad's name, was an orphan, his father and mother having been burnt to death in Virginia.

He was too young to know anything of the sad affair when it happened, and like all other poor creatures who have the misfortune to lose their parents in infancy, knew not the value of what he had lost. He was now fifteen years old, and though so poor and friendless he had a contented disposition which very much lightened his troubles. He would often amuse the dockyard men and boys by feats of sleight of hand, which he accomplished with great dexterity, turning marbles into buttons without detection and kindred tricks. It was not long after the episode in the churchyard that the captain found, upon enquiry, that the lad picked up commissions, when he could, to go errands, or made himself useful in some of the warehouses when opportunity offered. Tim informed him that he slept in a field close by when he could not obtain money enough for a bed.

Much taken with him, and linking this information on to what he and Godfrey Dibit had recently witnessed for themselves, the captain resolved to take him to England. Tim knew nothing of this resolution until a few days after the first interview, when the captain again saw him throwing pieces of coal into the SHIPWRECK. 7 air and catching them in his mouth, much to the edification of some of his personal friends. "What are you boys doing here?" said he, looking hard at Tim. Tim colored up when the great man with the gold lace round his cap and the big shiny buttons on his coat thus interrogated him, and let the pieces of coal fall to the ground. All the other lads turned round in amazement. " I say what are you little lazy rascals doing here ?" repeated the captain. " We're not lazy," replied Tim, blushing still more, " at least, I mean, they're not lazy, sir; they go to work, sir, when the bell rings."

" Yes, that's right sir," chimed in one of Tim's audience in support, " we only come to see young flash o' lightning in the dinner time. There's the bell, sir ! " and off ran all the lads to the great building, at the top of which the big bell was ringing — except poor Tim who remained looking intently at the captain. "And so you have nothing to do?" asked the captain, looking at him kindly. " I had something to do this morning, sir, next door to them boys, sir," replied Tim. " It was marking some sacks with a black cross, sir, and a O at the top and a 5 and a 2 and a 7 at the bot tom. But the master's a nigger sir; at least a black man with a frizzley wig, and so when I'd done about fifty sacks for him, he came up to me and said, cGit along out dar you young debil — you sp'ile all dem sacks — git along — git along.' " The captain smiled at the boy's description of his colored master, and then asked Tim about his father and mother, of whom he could give but a vague account.

"Well then, I'll take you to England with me, and you shall be my cabin boy if you like," said the captain, when he had gathered the lad's account of his lonely position in life. Tim could not express his gratitude ; his young heart beat with joy, and we can hardly describe the delight with which he pranced about, when he first boarded the " Pride of the Ocean" in his new capacity. Once under weigh, the crew speedily became as fond of him as the captain, and Tim Wittypinch for the first time in his life was in a fair way for a successful career. The vessel moved steadily along, favorable winds and a calm sea assisting her as she plowed SHIPWRECK. 9 majestically through the azure highway. From the time of their putting out of the harbour, all had thus far gone well with the ship. Apart from occasionally tacking, the men had little to do.

The life-boats hung quietly by the vessel's stately sides and were looked upon as ornaments, which they might have left behind, so lovely was the weather ; every day the sky was blue without a cloud upon it — every night the stars sparkled brightly without so much as a mist to intercept the view. But it was after the sun had sunk one evening below the horizon, when the ship was but a few hundred miles from port, that the aspect was strangely altered, and the crew were one and all looking with saddened faces as they leaned over the bulwarks and watched the changing scene. For ten sunny days mirth, good humour, and thankfulness had prevailed ; but it was that one evening when the light of day seemed to leave them unkindly, — it was the eleventh night that changed their destiny. The sea-fowls went screech ing over the surface of the water, the clouds instead of solacing them with their usual twilight smile, frowned blackly at them, and sent an ominous whistling wind from behind their dark curtain, at which the sea began to ruffle, foam, and swell !

A fearful storm was imminent. They could hear the rumbling of distant thunder, and see the light ning flash with terrible vividness in the black sky which had now gathered all round them. The men made the hatchways as secure as possible, for the waves were soon lashing furiously over the bulwarks, and the vessel was tossed wildly to and fro. They now flew to the life-boats they had estimated so lightly a short time ago, to see that the ropes which held them were secure. But the hurricane grew in intensity and fierceness ; tons ot water dashed on deck, making the hatchways shake, and causing them all to tremble for the engines below. To make matters worse, in the midst of it all, the lightning shivered the main mast and took away much of the rigging. Three men were lashed to the helm, but the violence of the storm rendered it of little use.

The captain at last saw that all human effort was hopeless, and gave orders to lower the boats. He had scarcely given the command when little Tim, who was standing near one of the hatchways, cried out, " Captain ! Captain ! it's smashed — it's smashed !" and as he looked down where the lad stood, he saw the water gushing in, and knew that the engines would soon be stopped. " The boats ! the boats ! " SHIPWRECK. 11 was his instant cry. But alas ! one of them had been torn away. They frantically seized upon the other, and some of the crew lowered it and jumped in. The captain stood his ground, and little Tim crouched by his side, trembling. " Tim ! rush to the boat and save thyself — go quickly — go ! " shouted the captain in a voice of despair. The men in the boat called for the boy. He grasped his master's hand at last, whilst the men breathlessly awaited him in the boat — and look ing into his face, said, " Captain, let me stay here with you !"

But the captain ordered him into the boat. Tim's eyes filled with tears, and he had scarce kissed the captain's cheek, and with " God bless you, sir, " been lowered almost senseless to the men in the boat, when the " Pride of the Ocean " gave one terrible plunge and was seen no more. There was another boy tossed about on the black, wild waters, clinging to his father's neck in a life-boat, and that was little Arty. But no human eye could see him in the darkness.

Chapter II. The Strolling Juggler

FAIRS and feasts — from the time the old Saxon nobles contested for the mastery, as to who could drink the deepest measure of wine, and who display the most skilful archery, and who march off with the laurels of the tournament — have been most memorable in England, as well as other parts of the world. They have differed in their range and beauty, from Venetian carnivals down to the penny trumpet stalls and other gew-gaws. Then we are told of the higher forms of fair and feast the gods enjoyed ; the golden couches on which their celestial forms reclined, and the nectral springs at which they quenched their thirst. But the class of fair and feast to which our present at tention is directed is by no means of the Venetian stamp, with a silver moon shedding its rays upon the flowing stream and lighting up the flower meads, where the dance and song of gay revellers may be heard.

Nor have we to do with Juno's reposing or Minerva's charms ; our attention at present being especially directed to the showman's booth and penny trumpet order of fair and feast. Therefore, ladies and gentlemen, adopting the words of the exhibitor of natural history, we must ask you to walk in — we're just going to commence — as they are all to be seen alive inside — and judge for yourselves. Skirting the Ungrel Woods, in the North of England, was Ringhurst, a small manufacturing town, in which many enterprising Yorkshiremen had made their fortunes. Adjacent to Ringhurst was Ringhurst Common, the town dividing the Ungrel Woods from that part. For many years the caravans— full of wild beasts, and strolling players, and various other mysterious objects of interest those conveyances embrace — had been permitted to take up their positions in the widest thoroughfares of Ringhurst, where they hoisted their respective gongs, and marvellous canvas pictures, one of which represented a Kaffir keeping five tigers at bay, without appearing in the least disturbed, and several others of a similar character descriptive of the wonderful courage wild men possess in Timbuctoo.

But as the town increased in commercial importance, and, as by degrees refinement crept in (or rather the sons of the homespun Yorkshiremen returned full of starch and dandyism from college) and raised objections to such low proceedings being allowed to taint the thoroughfares, the caravans were requested by the Board (consisting of three shoddy merchants) to hold their annual meeting on the Common. The first of the three shoddv vendors having wisely argued, with a chuckle, that it would be the most respectable way they could possibly adopt of starv ing such scum out altogether, at which the hanging flesh on the cheeks of the other two shook violently in recognition. Thus the act was passed at an hotel over some whisky punch by three of the above-named manufacturers. We will not dwell, therefore, on how, in a few years, the caravans became less and less in number, and the whole thing dwindled; and the young gentlemen of Ringhurst were enabled to enjoy themselves shooting rabbits on the Common, and to inaugurate matches for the destruction of harmless birds.

All this soon followed. Yet like all customs the fair on the Common died a hard death. No parent (however rough and uncultured the nature), can give up a darling child readily; and even the strolling players could but slowly reconcile themselves to the desertion of a place which had patronized them so long. Nature was shedding her foliage, the verdant clothing of the trees was dropping off and they were beginning to show their bare arms, and as a bright September morning was breaking, there stood alone, far on Ringhurst Common, a square tent. The last of the dusky booths. How lone its appearance ! At one end was a chimney, out of which the smoke was curling in the morning light. The canvas was tightly drawn over the flimsy framework, and with the ropes which held it down, appeared in a very dilapidated condition.

In the front was painted, boldly in yellow letters on a large piece of weather-beaten board, the fol lowing announcement: — " Fanchoo Portawny the Great Chinese Juggler." This was the entrance ; and the canvas, over which hung the board, was tightly drawn together. The whole place, as the early morning was breaking, looked glum and comfortless enough outside. Let us now take a glimpse at the interior. Entering from the front, we see ranged from the door ten or a dozen low wooden seats, and partitioning off the back part is a red curtain, of a thin fabric, extending from the top of the tent to the ground. Before this curtain is a small platform with a table at one end covered also with red, and edged with coarse yellow fringe. Hanging at each end of the plat form are two oil lamps, and at the side a box organ supported by a tressel.

Behind this red partition is Fanchoo Portawny and his little circle. This portion of the tent is very contracted. The sire is burning brightly, and by its side is seated a little girl about thirteen years old, with a pale but intelligent face, and a boy a year or so older, who partakes largely of his sister's mild expression. The girl has a small book in her hand, turning over the pages quietly, whilst the boy is looking contemplatively into the fire. But the mother is sick, — lying upon a bed in one corner of the con tracted space. She is fair complexioned, with handsome, sharp cut features. Her eyes are closed in sleep, and by her side, finishing his scanty morning meal, from which the two children have risen, is Fanchoo Portawny, her husband. Fanchoo Portawny as we now see him, with last night's paint washed off, and the spangled dress dossed, and a pair of old tweed trousers on instead of tights, and the pigtail wig taken off, revealing his naturally fine black hair, and as we gaze upon his large dark eyes full of expression and intelligence, he looks anything but the Great Chinese Juggler the board outside announces him to be.

As he now sits beside the sick pillow of his wife, reflecting over the few hobble-de-hoys who the night before had applauded him, and thought of the cold way in which the world generally looked down upon him, he felt bitterly the mean and worthless life he was leading. The contempt in which he was held by the citizens of Ringhurst made the picture look darker still. He was daily tortured by their censuring gestures and speech, and had a sensitiveness about him that made him shrink from the cold and cynical criticism of the young men and maidens of the town. He loved his two children dearly, and they loved him. He thought with terror about their welfare, if they were compelled to lead the outcast's life he himself had been thrown into, and he shuddered again as he turned and looked on the sick pale face of his wife !

What if anything should happen to her ? With reflections of this kind crowding upon him he sat finishing his morning meal, when his daughter, looking up from her book, said suddenly, as if she had been endeavouring to solve the reason why her mother had grown so much worse the previous night, E " I think it was the clapping made mother worse last night, father, don't you ? " " No, Ruth, it was not the noise, she is used to that ; she as been getting sickly for the last day or two," he replied, looking into his little daughter's gentle face, " but she will soon be better, my dear." " If she is not better to night, shall you send for the doctor ? " was her next enquiry. " What doctor ? " asked her brother quickly, " we don't know one." " Why, Gurth," she answered, " didn't we see one when we went for some bread yesterday ?

" " Well, well, you need not be afraid, my children, we shall not want one ; so be quiet a little and let her sleep, — if you begin to talk you may wake her, and then she will perhaps be worse again," he said, wishing to stop their anxious enquiries, every one of which gave him pain. So Ruth turned to her book again, and Gurth resumed his meditative peering into the sire, both of them a little solaced to know that silence on their part would conduce to the restoration of their sick mother. The day was now at its fullest brightness, and the sun had warmed the air a little. The town of Ringhurst was alive with business activity ; few of the inhabitants thinking of the solitary tent on the Common, — except a man or a boy occasionally halting to make some rough remarks upon it, on their way to the Shoddy Mills.

It is quite true that great men (so called) sometimes have sumptuous luncheons at one o'clock in the day, which they could very well dispense with. They forget all about the poor wretches about them, who can hardly get a crust in the twenty-four hours. It is not untrue to say that men whose eyes stand out with fatness, and have more than heart could wish, are daily with holding from the poor, blessings which God the giver of all good gifts would have them bestow. Such men are utterly dead to common charity ; they are mortals to whom christian benevolence is a by-word, and the cry of famished ones the echo of a dying fool. These are the men that smite the poverty-stricken in the face and stamp arrogantly on the image of the Creator ; men who have made their fortunes before they knew how to make their letters, and who sit complacently on their rag-grinding thrones like so many Neros, whilst their fellow-men are consuming in the sire of hunger and oppression !

It is a grim victory which will one day recoil on their heads, and cause them to cry out for water from heaven to cool their once mocking tongues. Bad men ever will consume themselves, as the fascinated moth burns up its little life in the flame ! Ruth's conversation having been interrupted by her father as already detailed, kept them all in silence for some time ; when Gurth, who had been thoughtfully gazing into the fire, turned suddenly round for a moment on his stool, and said, " Isn't it wicked to tell a lie, father . " At this his sister looked up. " Why do you ask that ? " said his father, much astonished. " But we must not talk, because of mother," interrupted his daughter. " Yes we'll talk a little now, Ruth, but quietly," answered her father, and then urged Gurth to proceed, which he did by asking another question.

" You're not a Chinaman, are you father ? " he said, his face lighting as he saw his question excited a smile. " No, I'm not a Chinaman, Gurth," replied his father at once comprehending his son's first refer ence to the wickedness of lying. "And you don't talk Chinese properly, do you?" enquired Ruth. At this question, ill at ease as he was with his sick wife lying on the bed close by him, he gave vent to a short laugh, as he thought of the meaningless jargon he had knocked together and recited for years past, consisting of Hongs, to which he affixed as many rang-ting-tongs as he thought well. " Then it is not true, father," said Gurth, " and the gentleman in the class at Sunday School you sent us to, told us it was very wicked to tell a lie." "Oh, yes he did father," said Ruth coming to his side with her little book open, " and look what it says here."

It was a little bible she held up to him, and he read the words at which her little finger pointed. " Thou shalt not lie." He felt that he had been existing on a few tricks and lies as he patted his daughter's cheek and replied, " Yes, Ruth, that's a command; but you know people must live somehow, — though I don't mean either of you to live as I have done ; you shall be something better than an object of contempt and ridicule. But recollect I never had anybody to fake care of me as you have. I had no father or mother to talk to, or help me ; they both died when I was a very little boy." " Then isn't it wicked to tell a lie if you have no father or mother ? " asked Gurth, looking from his stool to his father and sister. " Yes it is always wrong ; but some are called white lies and others black."

" White and black ones ! " repeated his daughter, who had her^book resting on her father's knee, as she looked across at the sire, " which is the worst then ? because it says nothing about that in the bible." Gurth sat listening attentively for the answer his father would make to his sister's enquiry. " Black lies are the worst," he answered, looking at his little daughter's sweet face, " because they do so much harm. If you went about telling people your neighbour had robbed somebody, when you knew he was the most honest man in the world, that would be a very black lie ; and it would damage your neighbour very much." " Yes, I see father," said Gurth, who had walked from his stool and gone near to his mother's pillow, " that would be very wicked. But if you went and told the people he was a very good man when he wasn't, — what colored lie would that be ?

" " A white one, wouldn't it father?" asked Ruth anxiously. "That is a very uncommon lie," he replied, " but I think it would be anything but a black one. " Then when you say you're a Chinaman it isn't a black one, is it?" said Ruth, closing her little bible and kissing his cheek. "No love, it is not," he replied, stroking his hand through her hair. " Why," said Gurth, in a surprised voice, having gone close up to the bed-side, " mother is awake." " Do you feel any better, Mary ? " asked her husband in a gentle tone, as he took her thin hand in his own. "Yes, a little," she answered, in a feeble voice, turning her head languidly on the pillow, " you thought I was asleep, but I've heard all your talk." Who can describe the feelings that shot through the juggler's heart as he gazed at his poor wife, for since last night he could plainly see she had become weaker and weaker.