The Crock of Gold | Page 4

coloured, highly
varnished, looking with arched eye-brows of astonishment on their
uninviting palace, and royally contrasting with the sombre hue of
poverty on all things else. The pictures had belonged to Mary, no small
portion of her virgin wealth; and as for the statuary, those two busts had
cost loyal Roger far more in comparison than any corporation has given
to P.R.A., for majesty and consortship in full. There is, moreover, in
the room, by way of household furniture, a ricketty, triangular, and

tri-legged table, a bench, two old chairs with rush-bottoms, and a yard
or two of matting that the sexton gave when the chancel was new laid. I
don't know that there is any thing else to mention, unless it be a gaunt
lurcher belonging to Ben Burke, and with all a dog's resemblance to his
master, who lies stretched before the hearth where the peaty embers
never quite die out, but smoulder away to a heap of white ashes; over
these is hanging a black boiler, the cook of the family; and beside them,
on a substratum of dry heather, and wrapped about with an old blanket,
nearly companioned by his friend, the dog, snores Thomas Acton, still
fast asleep, after his usual extemporaneous fashion.
As to the up-stairs apartment, it contained little or nothing but its living
inmates, their bedsteads and tattered coverlids, and had an air of even
more penury and discomfort than the room below; so that, what with
squalling children, a scolding wife, and empty stomach, and that cold
and wet March morning, it is little wonder maybe (though no small
blame), that Roger Acton had not enough of religion or philosophy to
rise and thank his Maker for the blessings of existence.
He had just been dreaming of great good luck. Poor people often do so;
just as Ugolino dreamt of imperial feasts, and Bruce, in his delirious
thirst on the Sahara, could not banish from his mind the cool fountains
of Shiraz, and the luxurious waters of old Nile. Roger had
unfortunately dreamt of having found a crock of gold--I dare say he
will tell us his dream anon--and just as he was counting out his treasure,
that blessed beautiful heap of shining money--cruel habit roused him up
before the dawn, and his wealth faded from his fancy. So he awoke at
five, anything but cheerfully.
It was Grace's habit, good girl, to read to her father in the morning a
few verses from the volume she best loved: she always woke betimes
when she heard him getting up, and he could hear her easily from her
little flock-bed behind the lath partition; and many a time had her dear
religious tongue, uttering the words of peace, soothed her father's mind,
and strengthened him to meet the day's affliction; many times it raised
his thoughts from the heavy cares of life to the buoyant hopes of
immortality. Hitherto, Roger had owed half his meek contentedness to

those sweet lessons from a daughter's lips, and knew that he was
reaping, as he heard, the harvest of his own paternal care, and
heaven-blest instructions. However, upon this dark morning, he was
full of other thoughts, murmurings, and doubts, and poverty, and riches.
So, when Grace, after her usual affectionate salutations, gently began to
read,
"The sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with
the glory--"
Her father strangely stopped her on a sudden with--
"Enough, enough, my girl! God wot, the sufferings are grievous, and
the glory long a-coming."
Then he heavily went down stairs, and left Grace crying.
CHAPTER III.
THE CONTRAST.
THUS, full of carking care, while he pushed aside the proffered
consolation, Roger Acton walked abroad. There was yet but a glimmer
of faint light, and the twittering of birds told more assuringly of
morning than any cheerful symptom on the sky: however, it had pretty
well ceased raining, that was one comfort, and, as Roger, shouldering
his spade, and with the day's provision in a handkerchief, trudged out
upon his daily duty, those good old thoughts of thankfulness came upon
his mind, and he forgot awhile the dream that had unstrung him.
Turning for a moment to look upon his hovel, and bless its inmates
with a prayer, he half resolved to run back, and hear a few more words,
if only not to vex his darling child: but there was now no time to spare;
and then, as he gazed upon her desolate abode--so foul a casket for so
fair a jewel--his bitter thoughts returned to him again, and he strode
away, repining.
Acton's cottage was one of those doubtful domiciles, whose only
recommendation it is, that they are picturesque in summer. At present

we behold a reeking rotting mass of black thatch in a cheerless swamp;