Evening at Home 77

Evening at Home 77

A FRIEND IN NEED.

 

 

George Cornish, a native of London, was brought up to the sea. After

making several voyages to the East Indies in the capacity of mate, he

obtained the command of a ship in the country-trade there, and passed

many years of his life in sailing from one port to another of the

Company’s different settlements, and residing at intervals on shore with

the superintendence of their commercial concerns. Having by these means

raised a moderate fortune, and being now beyond the meridian of life, he

felt a strong desire of returning to his native country, and seeing his

family and friends, concerning whom he had received no tidings for a

long time. He realized his property, settled his affairs, and taking his

passage for England, arrived in the Downs after an absence of sixteen

years.

 

He immediately repaired to London, and went to the house of an only

brother whom he had left possessed of a genteel place in a public

office. He found that his brother was dead, and the family broken up;

and he was directed to the house of one of his nieces, who was married

and settled at a small distance from town. On making himself known, he

was received with great respect and affection by the married niece, and

a single sister who resided with her; to which good reception the idea

of his bringing back with him a large fortune did not a little

contribute. They pressed him in the most urgent manner to take up his

abode there, and omitted nothing that could testify their dutiful regard

to so near a relation. On his part, he was sincerely glad to see them,

and presented them with some valuable Indian commodities which he had

brought with him. They soon fell into conversation concerning the family

events that had taken place during his long absence. Mutual condolences

passed on the death of the father; the mother had been dead long before.

The captain, in the warmth of his heart, declared his intention of

befriending the survivors of the family, and his wishes of seeing the

second sister as comfortably settled in the world as the first seemed to

be.

 

“But,” said he, “are you two the only ones left? What is become of my

little smiling playfellow Amelia? I remember her as if it were

yesterday, coming behind my chair, and giving me a sly pull, and then

running away that I might follow her for a kiss. I should be sorry if

anything had happened to her.”—“Alas! sir,” said the eldest niece, “she

has been the cause of an infinite deal of trouble to her friends! She

was always a giddy girl, and her misconduct has proved her ruin. It

would be happy if we could all forget her!”—“What, then,” said the

uncle, “has she dishonoured herself? Poor creature!”—“I cannot say,”

replied the niece, “that she has done so in the worst sense of the word;

but she has disgraced herself and her family by a hasty foolish match

with one beneath her, and it is ended, as might have been expected, in

poverty and wretchedness.”—“I am glad,” returned the captain, “that it

is no worse; for though I much disapprove of improper matches, yet young

girls may fall into still greater evils, and where there is no crime,

there can be no irreparable disgrace. But who was the man, and what did

my brother say to it?”—“Why, sir, I cannot say but it was partly my

father’s own fault; for he took a sort of liking to the young man, who

was a drawing-master employed in the family, and would not forbid him

the house, after we had informed him of the danger of an attachment

between Amelia and him. So when it was too late, he fell into a violent

passion about it, which had no other effect than to drive the girl

directly into her lover’s arms. They married, and soon fell into

difficulties. My father of course would do nothing for them; and when he

died, he not only disinherited her, but made us promise no longer to

look upon her as a sister.”—“And you _did_ make that promise?” said the

captain, in a tone of surprise and displeasure. “We could not disobey

our parent,” replied the other sister; “but we have several times sent

her relief in her necessities, though it was improper for us to see

her.”—“And pray, what has become of her at last—where is she

now?”—“Really, she and her husband have shifted their lodgings so often,

that it is sometime since we heard anything about them.”—“Sometime! how

long?”—“Perhaps half a year or more.”—“Poor outcast!” cried the captain,

in a sort of muttered half-voice; “_I_ have made no promise, however, to

renounce thee. Be pleased, madam,” he continued, addressing himself

gravely to the married niece, “to favour me with the last direction you

had to this unfortunate sister.” She blushed and looked confused; and at

length, after a good deal of searching, presented it to her uncle. “But,

my dear sir,” said she, “you will not think of leaving us to-day? My

servant shall make all the inquiries you choose, and save you the

trouble; and to-morrow you can ride to town, and do as you think

proper.”—“My good niece,” said the captain, “I am but an indifferent

sleeper, and I am afraid things would run in my head and keep me awake.

Besides, I am naturally impatient, and love to do my business myself.

You will excuse me.”—So saying, he took up his hat, and without much

ceremony, went out of the house, and took the road to town on foot,

leaving his two nieces somewhat disconcerted.

 

When he arrived, he went without delay to the place mentioned, which was

a by-street near Soho. The people who kept the lodgings informed him,

that the persons he inquired after had left them several months, and

they did not know what was become of them. This threw the captain into

great perplexity; but while he was considering what he should do next,

the woman of the house recollected that Mr. Bland (that was the

drawing-master’s name) had been employed at a certain school, where

information about him might possibly be obtained. Captain Cornish

hastened away to the place, and was informed by the master of the school

that such a man had, indeed, been engaged there, but had ceased to

attend for some time past. “He was a very well-behaved, industrious

young man,” added the master, “but in distressed circumstances, which

prevented him from making that genteel appearance which we expect in all

who attend our school; so I was obliged to dismiss him. It was a great

force upon my _feelings_, I assure you, sir, to do so; but you know the

thing could not be helped.” The captain eyed him with indignant

contempt, and said, “I suppose, then, sir, your _feelings_ never

suffered you to inquire where this poor creature lodged, or what became

of him afterward?”—“As to that,” replied the master, “every man knows

his own business best, and my time is fully taken up with my own

concerns; but I believe I have a note of the lodgings he then

occupied—here it is.” The captain took it, and turning on his heel,

withdrew in silence.

 

He posted away to the place, but there, too, had the mortification of

learning that he was too late. The people, however, told him that they

believed he might find the family he was seeking in a neighbouring

alley, at a lodging up three pair of stairs. The captain’s heart sunk

within him; however, taking a boy as a guide, he proceeded immediately

to the spot. On going up the narrow creaking staircase, he met a man

coming down with a bed on his shoulders. At the top of the landing stood

another with a bundle of blankets and sheets. A woman with a child in

her arms was expostulating with him, and he heard her exclaim, “Cruel!

not to leave me _one_ bed for myself and my poor children!”—“Stop,” said

the captain to the man, “set down those things.” The man hesitated. The

captain renewed his command in a peremptory tone, and then advanced

towards the woman. They looked earnestly at each other. Through her pale

and emaciated features he saw something of his little smiler; and at

length, in a faint voice, he addressed her, “Are you Amelia

Cornish?”—“That _was_ my name,” she replied. “I am your uncle,” he

cried, clasping her in his arms, and sobbing as if his heart would

break. “My uncle!” said she, and fainted. He was just able to set her

down on the only remaining chair, and take her child from her. Two other

young children came running up, and began to scream with terror. Amelia

recovered herself. “Oh, sir, what a situation you see me in!”—“A

situation, indeed!” said he. “Poor forsaken creature! but you have _one_

friend left!”

 

He then asked what was become of her husband? She told him, that having

fatigued himself with walking every day to a great distance for a little

employment that scarcely afforded them bread, he had fallen ill, and was

now in an hospital, and that after having been obliged to sell most of

their little furniture and clothes for present subsistence, their

landlord had just seized their only remaining bed for some arrears of

rent. The captain immediately discharged the debt, and causing the bed

to be brought up again, dismissed the man. He then entered into a

conversation with his niece about the events that had befallen her.

“Alas! sir,” said she, “I am sensible I was greatly to blame in

disobeying my father, and leaving his roof as I did; but perhaps

something might be alleged in my excuse—at least, years of calamity and

distress may be an expiation. As to my husband, however, he has never

given me the least cause of complaint—he has ever been kind and good,

and what we have suffered has been through misfortune, and not fault. To

be sure, when we married, we did not know how a family was to be

maintained. His was a poor employment, and sickness and other accidents

soon brought us to a state of poverty, from which we could never

retrieve ourselves. He, poor man! was never idle when he could help it,

and denied himself every indulgence in order to provide for the wants of

me and the children. I did my part too as well as I was able. But my

father’s unrelenting severity made me quite heart-broken; and though my

sisters two or three times gave us a little relief in our pressing

necessities—for nothing else could have made me ask in the manner I

did—yet they would never permit me to see them, and for some time past

have entirely abandoned us. I thought Heaven had abandoned us too. The

hour of extremest distress was come; but you have been sent for our

comfort.”—“And your comfort, please God! I will be,” cried the captain