Antony : the deaf and dumb boy

Chapter I. An Introduction To Everybody, And Little People In Particular

Follow me, gentle reader, follow me with patience and kind forbearance, while, as in a moving panorama, I place before you scenes and interests which will be, I think, new to you. Let us now begin a pleasant companionship along a path which, 1 trust, you will not find too long or too gloomy. If you are a critic, I would request you to come unarmed for our ramble through a garden where truth and love are sown, or, if you must ever bear with you the knife which is the symbol of your profession, be at least kind and compassionate in your use of it there.

VOL. I. B

ANTOXY

If you are old, and contemplating with melancholy gaze the short and uneasy track of life still stretching before you, give me, for awhile, your attention ; for my tale may perhaps bring back to your fading memory, in bright, refreshing colours, some dear passages of your own childhood and youth.

If you are young, bounding gaily and thoughtlessly forward to meet an unknown future, it may ■ Iiot bfi /uiiint^reSsting to -you to watch how others have, before 'you,^ -stepped over the threshold of youth :ihfa.i:h4 -.ngi^y-wprld beyond, and what they have there found.

If you are a child of sorrow, lay by your own grief to sympathise in that of others, and find consolation in the hallowing influence of suffering.

If you are happy, the sorrows of my tale will give seriousness but not gloom to your gladness, and its joys will find an echo in your own spirit.

Whosoever and whatsoever and wheresoever you are, follow me, kind readers, and on the wings of fancy be transported with me to a valley in South Wales, around which stand hills, grouped gracefully together, lifting their sloping outlines into the quiet air, some crowned with woods, some marked over with the husbandman's varied chequers, while here and there a precipitous mountain raises far above them its barren and rugged form, lifting a bold front to meet the clouds. Through the valley flows a river, not wide, nor deep, but leaping and dashing with iron-grey waters through the village. To this little river we will give the name of the Erry, and that of Ponterry to the village, as the real titles of the places as well as of the persons introduced into our tale must be suppressed, for reasons which it is not now necessary to state.

Our tale, did I say ? let me rather call it our Life-, poem.

You ask, ^^ Why a poem ?"

Do we not designate by that nkme an illustration of what is beautiful and true, developed with power, and, in all its parts, growing into a perfect whole ; and may not a human life be the same ?

If then our narration will place before you the particulars of the existence here below of a fellow creature, unfolding, through the influence of time and events, into a noble monument of the good and the holy, then the name of a prose Life-poem may not be unsuitable.

The afternoon sun of an April day glows over the valley, and glistens on the young springing fohage that is moist with recent showers. The tneadows and the mountains are bathed in its light. Nature is robing herself gaily. The blue ether of the sky, and the green grass carpetting the earth, are brilliant. The village lies there, like a child in the lap of its mother catching and reflecting back her smiles. As we gaze on the neat tiles and the yellow thatch of

b2 the cottages, shining in the sunlight, how many a wondering thought springs up in our minds, speculating on what life-romance may be going on beneath each roof vonder ! what loves, what hates, what jealousies, what smiles, what tears, may be flowing from the hearts of the many dwellers there !

Let us enter the narrow streets. How much that we deemed beautiful from a distance loses its charm as we approach, like a hopeful future darkening as we near it I The pretty village reveals itself now to us as a very dirty village. A few pigs and old women appear here and there in the muddy streets — children come out pf small cbttages to caress the swine and lead them in to share their meals and their dwelling, while the roomy pigsties remain empty ; for it is a remarkable feature, characteristic of Welsh pigs and Welsh old women and children that, at home or abroad, they love to be in companionship. Here stands the church, with the peculiar grey square tower, which is found universally throughout Wales, and as we pass the churchyard, dotted with whitewashed grave-stones, and carefully-trimmed flower-beds, we observe close to us a three-storied house, painted as yellow as the daffbdils that nod in the garden plot before its front door, looking out with a considerate expression in its long eyes on the lowlier buildings which surround it. Surely that is the Parsonage.

Now we cross the bridge, from the arches of

ANTONY.

which hang fringes of petrified water, and of green graceful wreaths of the ivy that mantles its parapet. Passing another cluster of cottages, and a farm and well-filled rick-yard, we come to a picturesque building in the Gothic style, apparently of recent date. A neat garden surrounds it. A honeysuckle climbs over the porch, scattering here and there some of its first sweet blossoms, and stretching out its long arms tipped with opening buds towards the lattice window, on which they gently tap, as the breeze stirs them, as if asking for admittance. A low murmur is heard within, which we recognise as the hum of cliildren's voices. We read the superscription in English over the porch —

"Infant School — Established 18 — .^^

We will not refuse to enter the walls, where the freshness and beauty of childhood are to be found. Let us then rest within here awhile.

At the top of the long school-room sits the young teacher, Gladis Evans, with pallid countenance, an a soft yet watchful expression in her eyes. The elder girls, none older than eight years, are seated on the upper steps at the further end of the apartment, working with downward bent heads. The elder boys, of the same age, are engaged opposite them, with slates ; the very little ones are murmuring over their spelling-books, and many are doing nothing, but trying to be still, which is, after all, the most difl&cult task that can be given to a child. One lovely little girl, of five years old, stands with her book on the knee of the schoolmistress, repeating to her the sentence, —

" We must all love God/'

The child stops and looks thoughtfully up ; "Please, ma'am, does God wear a blue coat or a black one ?"

" Neither the one nor the other, my dear,'' is the reply. " Go on, Rachel, spell the next sentence."!

But the child looks up again with an expression of surprise and enquiry, saying, timidly, "Then does he not wear a coat ?"

The teacher can with difficulty suppress a momentary smile ; then with a grave expression she bends forwards, softly draws the little one nearer to her, strokes back the hair from her brow, and with earnest voice begins to impart to the young mind an idea of the Invisibility of that One who is everywhere present, and pervades all things, and yet who at one time walked upon the earth in the form of man, and wore the garb of poverty.

ANTONY.

Chapter II. In Which A Visitor Introduces Himself

Gladis Evans was here suddenly interrupted by the falling of a shower of primroses over her shoulders into her lap. Some fell on the head of the little Rachel, and more caught in her curling hair ; the child looked laughing up, fresh and glowing as the blossoms — she and they were all alike — early spring flowers.

A loud peal of laughter burst from the other scholars at the same moment, together with shouts of, '' The deaf and dumb young gentleman ! Master Antony ! Master Antony ?'

Gladis hastily looked round for the one whose hands had thus sweetly baptized her with April blossoms, and she saw that a visitor had entered the school. Indeed, the new comer had already stood there some minutes, while she had been too attentively engaged with Rachel to hear the sound of the latch and opening door, or to notice the gestures of her other pupils, who had watched the entrance with suppressed smiles and whispers.

Catching the flowers in her apron as she quickly rose, Gladis dropt a curtsy to Master Antony, and oflfered him her seat; but, waving his hand in token that she should remain undisturbed, he placed himself on a low wooden stool at the further end of the apartment.

Antony Nayton, the deaf and dumb pupil of the clergyman of Ponterry, or " Master Antony, ^^ as he was called by the servants of the parsonage, and by many of the people of the village, appeared about fifteen years of age ; black hair hung over the projecting brow, from beneath which glanced dark and penetrating eyes. His whole countenance wore a wild expression, frequently clouded with melancholy. Sometimes, however, a beautiful smile curled his lips, lighting up the face with that brightness which springs from the inmost soul ; then it would soon die away, and despondency seem once more to overshadow him. Alas ! poor youth ! for him no voice spoke words of love, — to his spirit no music breathed its consolations.

He gazed with apparent delight at the group of cheerful faces before him, and presently taking a small drawing-book from his pocket, he began to form rude sketches of the children, as they continued

ANTONY.

their studies. The little Rachel more particularly attracted his gaze, and long employed his pencil. They were all evidently not surprised at his occupation, for Master Antony was wont frequently to visit the school, and thus spend an hour or two in this silent amusement, undisturbed, and undisturbing. The wild sketches he usually made, however, were so incomprehensible to Gladis, and all who saw them, that they did but strengthen the general opinion that Master Antoriy was deficient in mental power.

At length the hour of freedom for the little scholars approached, and they rose spontaneously to join in the hymn appointed to be sung before they dispersed. Sweetly flowed upwards the chorus of these young voices, while the Mute gazed earnestly at the parted lips of the singers, till his own eyes overflowed with tears. He pressed his hand upon his brows, as if to restrain them, but they still gushed forth, — and before the hymn was ended. Master Antony had quitted the house. Now came the noise and bustle of the breaking up of the school ; boys rushed to seize their caps, tumbling over one another in their haste, laughing and calling each other's names loudly; girls grouped together less noisily, — elder sisters reaching down to the younger ones the hats and hoods, which they then carefully fastened on the little upturned heads, and soon all were ready. Then with the clamorous tread of so many thick and

b3 nailed shoes, boys and girls all ran from the room, each stopping however as they passed the teacher, to receive her last word of injunction or advice, and give the quick bow or bob-curtsy, which was their mark of respect, and acknowledgment of her authority over them. Then, when fairly outside the schoolhouse, how joyfully did the young feet bound along the pathway, towards the wicket-gate which led into the road. Close beyond it, a narrow plank was thrown across one of those fresh running streams which form a small but very general characteristic of Welsh scenery. This was a fresh source of amusement to the children. With shouts and cries of enjoyment, the boys leaped over the brook, vying with one another in the height and vigour of the leap ; and their pleasure was increased two-fold, when on looking up they saw their triumphs were witnessed by Master Antony, who, leaning against the garden-railings, watched their gambols with smiling countenance. No trace of a tear was now in his eyes ; they sparkled in sympathy with the many glances that met them from the children, and frequently he clapped his hands loudly, to encourage their sport, which called forth a still louder shout from the happy troop.

He was interested in observing the care with which some, even of the most boisterous, would come back to help their little brothers and sisters over the plank. Presently the little Rachel caught his attention. They were all gone on, and she was the last. She approached the stream with hesitating step, looking frightened into the bubbling water, and almost trembling as she put her small foot upon the narrow bridge. In a moment she felt kind arms around her ; one bound, and she was transported to the other side, and carefully set down on the turf by Master Antony ; but he could not disengage her from him, her little hands, entwined round his arm, still clung to him, as if she would thus express to him the thanks which she knew he could not hear. Her simple face and large blue eyes were turned with a grateful look towards him. He .was touched — he caught her up and kissed the pretty round cheeks, he put her down, then again raised her in his arms, and looked lovingly into the young dimpled countenance, whilst she smilingly played with his dark hair. It seemed as if he longed to speak, to give utterance if it were only to a single word. A low murmur proceeded from his parted lips — Rachel w^as frightened — she struggled from him, and then fled away, and was received into her mo therms open arms at the first cottage door.

" Thus all fly from me, when they begin to know me,^^ thought the Mute ; but the bitterness of expression with whicb he watched the little one's retreating steps, passed soon away, and pleasant thoughts seemed to follow. Surely the child must have awakened in his mind some sweet or holy feeling, or recalled some fair recollection ; for now the lips relax into a smile ; his gaze is at vacancy, he is dwelling in the past.

Master Antony sat down on the turf bank opposite the gate, and, opening his sketch book, turned to the drawing of Rachel, beneath which he wrote, — " Sweet sister Kathleen V and sank again into an apparently agreeable reverie.

While thus occupied, a little scene, which for us may possess some interest, was passing very near him.

The doors of the infant school had been closed and locked, and Gladis Evans has retired to the back part of the dwelling, where two or three comfortable rooms were neatly arranged, and where she and her mother dwelt.

From an open window the head of Gladis might now and then have been seen looking out towards the lane, as if in expectation of some arrival in that direction. Sometimes appeared the neat cap of Mrs. Evans, at the same window, as she stood arranging the primroses in a jar, which she placed where the soft air would breathe on them. Presently both mother and daughter emerged from the porch, and sauntered along the garden path, talking of the setting sun and the freshness of the evening breeze, while their thoughts were in reality occupied with other subjects ; for Gladis^ attention was still directed towards the lane, and that of the mother was concentrated on the small flower garden lying

AXTONY. 13

around her. She was the personification of neatness, and one of those tidy gardeners who love not so much the presence of flowers as the absence of weeds.

She was constantly stopping to train the young rose branches aright, or lift a stone oif the neatly dressed flower plot. And now the heart of Gladis beat quicker and quicker, as quicker and quicker came a footstep she well knew, along the lane. A young labourer laid down his working implements at the gate, entered the garden, and advanced towards them with a hearty " Good evening" on his lips for both.

"What! Howel Philips, is it you?'' said the mother, in Welsh; "and how come you here so early, for the sun is not down yet ; and surely your work is not over ?"

Just now a shoot of bindweed caught her eye, stealthily creeping round a gooseberry bush, and she started ofi^ hastily to pluck it away, while Howel Philips' eyes and thoughts were fixed on her daughter, and Gladis stood silent and motionless before him. " She was now no longer the pale teacher we saw in the school; fresh' crimson roses bloomed in her cheek, and a new fire gleamed from beneath the lids of the downward bent eyes.

"It is a wicked little plant that," cried Mrs. Evans, as she tore up the root of the delicate white convolvulus; "how cunningly it winds itself round and round the stem of the poor bush, looking too gentle and fragile to harm it, yet clinging so tightly I can scarce tear it away/^

Ah ! little did she think that at that moment a gentle and clinging thought was, like the plant, entwining itself with firm grasp around her daughter's heart, which it would be as cruel as difficult to tear away.

Mrs. Evans now repeated her questioning, and roused Huwel Philips' attention to herself.

'* I am not much earlier this evening than usual,'^ he said, in his own language, which, for the edification of our readers, shall be translated ; " but th6 sun is later, and I have run hither quickly from the works that I might have a chat with you, and — and with Gladis, before my companions come to the farm-house. They will be up with me directly, and then I must on with them without delay, for this is pay night, and I expect, perhaps, a row among the men."

*^What is the matter, then?" asked both the women.

"The labourers working at the Bog Canal have agreed to strike for higher wages. I know, however. Farmer San ford, like all the Englishmen, is a stingy fellow, and will not, I expect, add a penny to our payment, though wages are higher all the country round."

"They will do wrong, however, to leave the works/' leturned Mrs. Evans ; "for no farmers will employ at this season so many hands as Sanford wants at that large bog to make the canal. Have you tried to dissuade them, Philips? you are their overseer, and should have influence with the men ?^* •

" I will take care there is no violence, which they once threatened, but at their request I have agreed to make the demand.^'

^^ You were not wise to do that. Philips,^' said the prudent Mrs. Evans. " Thirty men, once roused, are difficult to be quieted again. Why not try to keep them content with what they have ?'^

" That was impossible ; that fellow Morgan is one of them — his spirit is up, and he has excited them. I too must take my stand with them, or I shall lose all power of keeping order among them. So I will state their grievance to old Sanford with some boldness, for the demand is a just one, and I owe it to them as well as to myself to represent to our employer our wants and our dues. He cannot expect us to stay in his service for lower pay than we get from other rich men in the county."

" But remember. Philips, if you lose this employment, you may not find another, and it will be hard for you, and for your poor parents who are now so infirm, if you are out of work,'' interposed Mrs. Evans.

" I could get double the money at the coal mines, or the ironworks at Swansea, any day," said the

IG ANTONY.

young man ; " so I shall perhaps try my fortune there/'

Now Swansea was at least thirty or forty miles off, which appeared to Gladis a fearful distance, and the idea of the coal mines filled her mind with terror.

She looked up quickly at Philips with an expression of alarm, saying, in a tone of regret, ^^ But that will be so far away ! will you indeed go ?"

Her glance was all eloquent. Philips caught her hand with an unusual eagerness : *^ No, sure and I cannot leave Ponterry,'' he cried ; and though nothing more was said, Gladis soon knew well enough he would not wish to go far away from her.

The information was silently and rapidly carried to her through the eye, that electric telegraph between kindred minds, by which so much intelligence is conveyed. This was perhaps the first assurance Howel had received that his stay or departure was a matter of interest to her.

Meanwhile the good mother was blind and deaf to anything that passed between the two young people, and busied herself putting her white collar smooth, and pinning her tippet straight. She was glad to see Howel and liked him, as being an honest steady young man, in whom she was interested, because she had known him from a boy, and cared for his parents; but that Howel had ventured to look on her daughter with any thought of affection, or that Gladis could stoop to return such a feeling, she never imagined. She was conning over in her mind something he had said, and presently remarked,

"So Morgan is among the discontented set, is he? You will have some trouble with him. He is so passionate and obstinate.'^

" Ay, and insolent, too," interrupted Howel, " if it be true_, as they say it is in the village, that he has thought to make the first flower in Ponterry his own;" and here he cast a searching glance at Gladis, who again blushed crimson.

"Why, how heard you of that?" asked the mother, inquisitively.

" All the village are talking of it. It is then true? He had boasted he would have your pretty rose for his wife, but we laid a bet he would not win her."

" Well, say nothing of it,^^ continued the matron, mysteriously. "' It is true he gave my dear Gladis some trouble and me some anxiety, for he is a violent man, and too often in the ale-house. Now, I think, we are rid of him, for he knows Gladis^ mind."

" I am glad of it, and he knows mine, too ; we are no friends — he is jealous of my being his overseer, and is always trying to quarrel. We shall all have a hearty laugh at him for this matter. But who is that leaning over the gate and overhearing our chat?"

" One," said Gladis, " who is harmless and helpless, and will tell no tales, for he can neither hear nor speak."

"Ahl now he turns his face I know the poor young gentleman/^ returned Howel, " he has been up many times at the bog, watching our work. He and I are the best friends, and sometimes he loves to take the spade and work for an hour at a time. With him I have no need to try speaking my poor English, and, though lie cannot talk Welsh, we can understand one another. His ways are so gentlemanlike, and he has so comely a face, it is difficult for me to believe he is but half-witted, as the clergyman says. he is.^^

" But Mr. Donought must surely know well enough,^^ said Mrs. Evans, " for he has the trouble of his education ; and I have heard say, it is a trying task to teach the poor lad.''

"He has such strange black eyes," observed Gladis, " they seem to look one through and through. They show he cannot be quite in his right mind. See, he has been looking at us for the last few minutes with that earnestness which sometimes brings tears and sometimes smiles to his face. Ah ! it is the smile now ; he is waving his hands to us to wish us a good evening, and now he is gone."

" Poor soul ! poor soul 1" sighed Mrs. Evans, in a tone of compassion. " How sad it must be to have only half one's wits, and not understand what is going on 1"

"Come, come, he is perhaps, after all, not so much to be pitied as ourselves," cried Howel ; " he is at least free from many troubles we who have more feeling know too well/^

Gladis nodded approval to this observation, which she thought remarkably sensible, and here their chat was interrupted.

" How noisily the men are coming along the lane/^ said Howel ; " they have been stopping at the alehouse^ I guess, upon the way.^^

" And there is Morgan/' added Mrs. Evans, " sure you can read in his face he's after even worse mischief than ever, to-day."

A troop of about thirty labouring men now approached a gate close by the garden, leading into a large farm-yard that adjoined the back of the schoolhouse. The noise and shouting appeared to proceed from only a few of them. One of these, a short, dark- looking man, with a strikingly unpleasant coimtenance, was in the act, on perceiving the women, of springing over the fence into the garden, but on catching sight of Philips he passed on, with angry gestures, shaking his fist over the railing, and uttering a loud oath. Gladis withdrew, frightened, behind Philips. " I must follow them," said Philips ; " good bye to you."

" Good bye, then. Philips ; I hope you will persuade the men to be quiet ; good bye," said Mrs. Evans, leading her daughter into the porch.

" Ay, take her into the house, for the sun is gone down, and the air is getting cold," said Howel;

and then whispered a farewell in the ear of Gladis. How wistfully he looked back at the two as he left them.

" Come in this evening, Howel, and tell us all that happens before you go home/' said the mother; "come in and have supper with us, will you V'

" Thank you — thank you, I w^ill be back with you before the moon is up," cried Howel, and disappeared among the farm buildings.

Chapter III. Where An Agreeable Proposal Is Made

" How beautiful it must be to love and to be loved !" thought Master Antony, as awakening from the dream of other days, into which the recollection of his young sister had plunged him, he gazed on Howel Philips and Gladis Evans, as they stood together in the garden, and read in their looks and manner, even at that distance, by a quick power of discernment which was peculiar to him, that they were lovers.

It is a holy enjoyment to the lonely and suffering heart to w^itness the happiness of others, and it was a balm to the wounded spirit of him who contemplated them, to watch love floating between the two young peasants.

•■'May fortune smile on your true, simple, and tender hearts V' he thought, as he turned away, and sighs burst from him while he began to retrace his steps through the village.

" Ah ! when will any heart bless mine with its love ? Mine, that has so rich a store for others !"

Thus we learn already that Howel Philips was as much mistaken as the compassionate Mrs. Evans, in his judgment of the deaf mute, and we shall probably find that there were others who were so likewise.

Master Antony, "the half-witted,^^ as she had styled him, had been quicker than Mrs. Evans herself in discerning the secret of her daughter's heart ; and at the time the young labourer pronounc^ him happy in being devoid of feeling, the spirit of the lonely one had vibrated with emotions of such warmth and intensity as perhaps are experienced by but a small number among the vast swarms of men. Ah ! thus also few of us are correct in our judgment of one another.

And, now, I would pause for a moment to ask of my readers if there be not, amongst them, some in whom, an almost personal interest and sympathy may be excited for the fate of the deaf and the dumb Antony ? since are there not, in the masses of mankind, many who, figuratively speaking, are deaf^ because locked out from the world and the world^s joys, by seclusion, or poverty, or affliction; and many also that are dumh^ because the desolate and suffering spirit, surrounded by its unkind or unsympathising fellows can give no utterance to its longings, but remains ever closed and silent ?

As Master ifcitony approached the bridge he encountered the troop of labourers already mentioned on their way to Sanford^s farm, and as he passed among them, the impatient gestures of some of the men, but particularly the strange manner and angry looks of Morgan, caught his attention. They met each other on the path, and the man brushed by Antony so closely and so heedlessly, that his elbow struck the drawing-book from his hand. Antony lifted it from the ground, but did not lose sight of Morgan, on whom he had fixed one of those penetrating looks which were peculiar and of important use to the deaf youth. He was surprised to observe Morgan and a few others pick up stones of some weight, and carry them on with them, and curious to know their purpose, he followed them back till he saw them enter Sanford's farmpremises, depositing the stones quietly in a heap by the gate as they went in. This circumstance, together with the appearance and countenance of the man whom we know by the name of Morgan, made a strong impression on Master Antony. He had seen there an expression of wild passions which formed for him a striking contrast to those happy and gentle characters he had been contemplating only a few minutes previously. Pondering over these little events he wandered back to his home;