VI.
PAUL'S DETERMINATION
At the close of the last chapter it was stated that Paul had come to adetermination.
This was,--TO RUN AWAY.
That he had good reason for this we have already seen.
He was now improving rapidly, and only waited till he was well enough toput his design into execution.
"Aunt Lucy," said he one day, "I've got something to tell you."
The old lady looked up inquiringly.
"It's something I've been thinking of a long time,--at least most of thetime since I've been sick. It isn't pleasant for me to stay here, andI've pretty much made up my mind that I sha'n't."
"Where will you go?" asked the old lady, dropping her work in surprise.
"I don't know of any particular place, but I should be better off mostanywhere than here."
"But you are so young, Paul."
"God will take care of me, Aunt Lucy,--mother used to tell me that.Besides, here I have no hope of learning anything or improving mycondition. Then again, if I stay here, I can never do what father wishedme to do."
"What is that, Paul?"
Paul told the story of his father's indebtedness to Squire Conant, andthe cruel letter which the Squire had written.
"I mean to pay that debt," he concluded firmly. "I won't let anybody saythat my father kept them out of their money. There is no chance here;somewhere else I may find work and money."
"It is a great undertaking for a boy like you, Paul," said Aunt Lucy,thoughtfully. "To whom is the money due?"
"Squire Conant of Cedarville."
Aunt Lucy seemed surprised and agitated by the mention of this name.
"Paul," said she, "Squire Conant is my brother."
"Your brother!" repeated he in great surprise. "Then why does he allowyou to live here? He is rich enough to take care of you."
"It is a long story," said the old lady, sadly. "All that you will beinterested to know is that I married against the wishes of my family. Myhusband died and I was left destitute. My brother has never noticed mesince."
"It is a great shame," said Paul.
"We won't judge him, Paul. Have you fixed upon any time to go?"
"I shall wait a few days till I get stronger. Can you tell me how far itis to New York?"
"O, a great distance; a hundred miles at least. You can't think of goingso far as that?"
"I think it would be the best plan," said Paul. "In a great city likeNew York there must be a great many things to do which I can't do here.I don't feel strong enough to work on a farm. Besides, I don't like it.O, it must be a fine thing to live in a great city. Then too," pursuedPaul, his face lighting up with the hopeful confidence of youth, "Imay become rich. If I do, Aunt Lucy, I will build a fine house, and youshall come and live with me."
Aunt Lucy had seen more of life than Paul, and was less sanguine. Thethought came to her that her life was already declining while his wasbut just begun, and in the course of nature, even if his bright dreamsshould be realized, she could hardly hope to live long enough to see it.But of this she said nothing. She would not for the world have dimmedthe brightness of his anticipations by the expression of a single doubt.
"I wish you all success, Paul, and I thank you for wishing me to sharein your good fortune. God helps those who help themselves, and he willhelp you if you only deserve it. I shall miss you very much when you aregone. It will seem more lonely than ever."
"If it were not for you, Aunt Lucy, I should not mind going at all, butI shall be sorry to leave you behind."
"God will care for both of us, my dear boy. I shall hope to hear fromyou now and then, and if I learn that you are prosperous and happy, Ishall be better contented with my own lot. But have you thought of allthe labor and weariness that you will have to encounter? It is best toconsider well all this, before entering upon such an undertaking."
"I have thought of all that, and if there were any prospect of my beinghappy here, I might stay for the present. But you know how Mrs. Mudgehas treated me, and how she feels towards me now."
"I acknowledge, Paul, that it has proved a hard apprenticeship, andperhaps it might be made yet harder if you should stay longer. You mustlet me know when you are going, I shall want to bid you good-by."
"No fear that I shall forget that, Aunt Lucy. Next to my mother you havebeen most kind to me, and I love you for it."
Lightly pressing her lips to Paul's forehead Aunt Lucy left the room toconceal the emotion called forth by his approaching departure. Of allthe inmates of the establishment she had felt most closely drawn to theorphan boy, whose loneliness and bereavement had appealed to her woman'sheart. This feeling had been strengthened by the care she had beencalled to bestow upon him in his illness, for it is natural to lovethose whom we have benefited. But Aunt Lucy was the most unselfish ofliving creatures, and the idea of dissuading Paul from a course which hefelt was right never occurred to her. She determined that she woulddo what she could to further his plans, now that he had decided to go.Accordingly she commenced knitting him a pair of stockings, knowing thatthis would prove a useful present. This came near being the means ofdiscovering Paul's plan to Mrs. Mudge The latter, who notwithstandingher numerous duties, managed to see everything that was going on, hadher attention directed to Aunt Lucy's work.
"Have you finished the stockings that I set you to knitting for Mr.Mudge?" she asked.
"No," said Aunt Lucy, in some confusion.
"Then whose are those, I should like to know? Somebody of moreimportance than my husband, I suppose."
"They are for Paul," returned the old lady, in some uneasiness.
"Paul!" repeated Mrs. Mudge, in her haste putting a double quantityof salaeratus into the bread she was mixing; "Paul's are they? And whoasked you to knit him a pair, I should like to be informed?"
"No one."
"Then what are you doing it for?"
"I thought he might want them."
"Mighty considerate, I declare. And I shouldn't be at all surprisedif you were knitting them with the yarn I gave you for Mr. Mudge'sstockings."
"You are mistaken," said Aunt Lucy, shortly.
"Oh, you're putting on your airs, are you? I'll tell you what, Madam,you'd better put those stockings away in double-quick time, and finishmy husband's, or I'll throw them into the fire, and Paul Prescott maywait till he goes barefoot before he gets them."
There was no alternative. Aunt Lucy was obliged to obey, at least whileher persecutor was in the room. When alone for any length of time shetook out Paul's stockings from under her apron, and worked on them tillthe approaching steps of Mrs. Mudge warned her to desist.
*****
Three days passed. The shadows of twilight were already upon the earth.The paupers were collected in the common room appropriated to their use.Aunt Lucy had suspended her work in consequence of the darkness, forin this economical household a lamp was considered a useless piece ofextravagance. Paul crept quietly to her side, and whispered in tonesaudible to her alone, "I AM GOING TO-MORROW."
"To-morrow! so soon?"
"Yes," said Paul, "I am as ready now as I shall ever be. I wanted totell you, because I thought maybe you might like to know that this isthe last evening we shall spend together at present."
"Do you go in the morning?"
"Yes, Aunt Lucy, early in the morning. Mr. Mudge usually calls me atfive; I must be gone an hour before that time. I suppose I must bid yougood-by to-night."
"Not to-night, Paul; I shall be up in the morning to see you go."
"But if Mrs. Mudge finds it out she will abuse you."
"I am used to that, Paul," said Aunt Lucy, with a sorrowful smile. "Ihave borne it many times, and I can again. But I can't lie quiet and letyou go without one word of parting. You are quite determined to go?"
"Quite, Aunt Lucy. I never could stay here. There is no pleasure in thepresent, and no hope for the future. I want to see something of life,"and Paul's boyish figure dilated with enthusiasm.
"Is the world then, so very sad a place?" asked Paul.
"Both joy and sorrow are mingled in the cup of human life," said AuntLucy, solemnly:
"Which shall preponderate it is partly in our power to determine. Hewho follows the path of duty steadfastly, cannot be wholly miserable,whatever misfortunes may come upon him. He will be sustained by theconviction that his own errors have not brought them upon him."
"I will try to do right," said Paul, placing his hand in that of hiscompanion, "and if ever I am tempted to do wrong, I will think of youand of my mother, and that thought shall restrain me."
"It's time to go bed, folks," proclaimed Mrs Mudge, appearing at thedoor. "I can't have you sitting up all night, as I've no doubt you'dlike to do."
It was only eight o'clock, but no one thought of interposing anobjection. The word of Mrs. Mudge was law in her household, as even herhusband was sometimes made aware.
All quietly rose from their seats and repaired to bed. It was anaffecting sight to watch the tottering gait of those on whose heads thesnows of many winters had drifted heavily, as they meekly obeyed thebehest of one whose coarse nature forbade her sympathizing with them intheir clouded age, and many infirmities.
"Come," said she, impatient of their slow movements, "move a littlequicker, if it's perfectly convenient. Anybody'd think you'd been hardat work all day, as I have. You're about the laziest set I ever hadanything to do with. I've got to be up early in the morning, and can'tstay here dawdling."
"She's got a sweet temper," said Paul, in a whisper, to Aunt Lucy.
"Hush!" said the old lady. "She may hear you."
"What's that you're whispering about?" said Mrs. Mudge, suspiciously."Something you're ashamed to have heard, most likely."
Paul thought it best to remain silent.
"To-morrow morning at four!" he whispered to Aunt Lucy, as he pressedher hand in the darkness.
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