CHAPTER III.
A BURDEN MAKES A ROUGH ROAD ROUGHER.
It was little more than four hours since the hooker had sailed from thecreek of Portland, leaving the boy on the shore. During the long hourssince he had been deserted, and had been journeying onwards, he had metbut three persons of that human society into which he was, perchance,about to enter--a man, the man on the hill; a woman, the woman in thesnow; and the little girl whom he was carrying in his arms.
He was exhausted by fatigue and hunger, yet advanced more resolutelythan ever, with less strength and an added burden. He was now almostnaked. The few rags which remained to him, hardened by the frost, weresharp as glass, and cut his skin. He became colder, but the infant waswarmer. That which he lost was not thrown away, but was gained by her.He found out that the poor infant enjoyed the comfort which was to herthe renewal of life. He continued to advance.
From time to time, still holding her securely, he bent down, and takinga handful of snow he rubbed his feet with it, to prevent their beingfrost-bitten. At other times, his throat feeling as if it were on fire,he put a little snow in his mouth and sucked it; this for a momentassuaged his thirst, but changed it into fever--a relief which was anaggravation.
The storm had become shapeless from its violence. Deluges of snow arepossible. This was one. The paroxysm scourged the shore at the same timethat it uptore the depths of ocean. This was, perhaps, the moment whenthe distracted hooker was going to pieces in the battle of the breakers.
He travelled under this north wind, still towards the east, over widesurfaces of snow. He knew not how the hours had passed. For a long timehe had ceased to see the smoke. Such indications are soon effaced in thenight; besides, it was past the hour when fires are put out. Or he had,perhaps, made a mistake, and it was possible that neither town norvillage existed in the direction in which he was travelling. Doubting,he yet persevered.
Two or three times the little infant cried. Then he adopted in his gaita rocking movement, and the child was soothed and silenced. She ended byfalling into a sound sleep. Shivering himself, he felt her warm. Hefrequently tightened the folds of the jacket round the babe's neck, sothat the frost should not get in through any opening, and that no meltedsnow should drop between the garment and the child.
The plain was unequal. In the declivities into which it sloped the snow,driven by the wind into the dips of the ground, was so deep, incomparison with a child so small, that it almost engulfed him, and hehad to struggle through it half buried. He walked on, working away thesnow with his knees.
Having cleared the ravine, he reached the high lands swept by the winds,where the snow lay thin. Then he found the surface a sheet of ice. Thelittle girl's lukewarm breath, playing on his face, warmed it for amoment, then lingered, and froze in his hair, stiffening it intoicicles.
He felt the approach of another danger. He could not afford to fall. Heknew that if he did so he should never rise again. He was overcome byfatigue, and the weight of the darkness would, as with the dead woman,have held him to the ground, and the ice glued him alive to the earth.
He had tripped upon the slopes of precipices, and had recovered himself;he had stumbled into holes, and had got out again. Thenceforward theslightest fall would be death; a false step opened for him a tomb. Hemust not slip. He had not strength to rise even to his knees. Noweverything was slippery; everywhere there was rime and frozen snow. Thelittle creature whom he carried made his progress fearfully difficult.She was not only a burden, which his weariness and exhaustion madeexcessive, but was also an embarrassment. She occupied both his arms,and to him who walks over ice both arms are a natural and necessarybalancing power.
He was obliged to do without this balance.
He did without it and advanced, bending under his burden, not knowingwhat would become of him.
This little infant was the drop causing the cup of distress to overflow.
He advanced, reeling at every step, as if on a spring board, andaccomplishing, without spectators, miracles of equilibrium. Let usrepeat that he was, perhaps, followed on this path of pain by eyesunsleeping in the distances of the shadows--the eyes of the mother andthe eyes of God. He staggered, slipped, recovered himself, took care ofthe infant, and, gathering the jacket about her, he covered up her head;staggered again, advanced, slipped, then drew himself up. The cowardlywind drove against him. Apparently, he made much more way than wasnecessary. He was, to all appearance, on the plains where BincleavesFarm was afterwards established, between what are now called SpringGardens and the Parsonage House. Homesteads and cottages occupy theplace of waste lands. Sometimes less than a century separates a steppefrom a city.
Suddenly, a lull having occurred in the icy blast which was blindinghim, he perceived, at a short distance in front of him, a cluster ofgables and of chimneys shown in relief by the snow. The reverse of asilhouette--a city painted in white on a black horizon, something likewhat we call nowadays a negative proof. Roofs--dwellings--shelter! Hehad arrived somewhere at last. He felt the ineffable encouragement ofhope. The watch of a ship which has wandered from her course feels somesuch emotion when he cries, "Land ho!"
He hurried his steps.
At length, then, he was near mankind. He would soon be amidst livingcreatures. There was no longer anything to fear. There glowed within himthat sudden warmth--security; that out of which he was emerging wasover; thenceforward there would no longer be night, nor winter, nortempest. It seemed to him that he had left all evil chances behind him.The infant was no longer a burden. He almost ran.
His eyes were fixed on the roofs. There was life there. He never tookhis eyes off them. A dead man might gaze thus on what might appearthrough the half-opened lid of his sepulchre. There were the chimneys ofwhich he had seen the smoke.
No smoke arose from them now. He was not long before he reached thehouses. He came to the outskirts of a town--an open street. At thatperiod bars to streets were falling into disuse.
The street began by two houses. In those two houses neither candle norlamp was to be seen; nor in the whole street; nor in the whole town, sofar as eye could reach. The house to the right was a roof rather than ahouse; nothing could be more mean. The walls were of mud, the roof wasof straw, and there was more thatch than wall. A large nettle, springingfrom the bottom of the wall, reached the roof. The hovel had but onedoor, which was like that of a dog-kennel; and a window, which was but ahole. All was shut up. At the side an inhabited pig-sty told that thehouse was also inhabited.
The house on the left was large, high, built entirely of stone, with aslated roof. It was also closed. It was the rich man's home, opposite tothat of the pauper.
The boy did not hesitate. He approached the great mansion. The doublefolding-door of massive oak, studded with large nails, was of the kindthat leads one to expect that behind it there is a stout armoury ofbolts and locks. An iron knocker was attached to it. He raised theknocker with some difficulty, for his benumbed hands were stumps ratherthan hands. He knocked once.
No answer.
He struck again, and two knocks.
No movement was heard in the house.
He knocked a third time.
There was no sound. He saw that they were all asleep, and did not careto get up.
Then he turned to the hovel. He picked up a pebble from the snow, andknocked against the low door.
There was no answer.
He raised himself on tiptoe, and knocked with his pebble against thepane too softly to break the glass, but loud enough to be heard.
No voice was heard; no step moved; no candle was lighted.
He saw that there, as well, they did not care to awake.
The house of stone and the thatched hovel were equally deaf to thewretched.
The boy decided on pushing on further, and penetrating the strait ofhouses which stretched away in front of him, so dark that it seemed morelike a gulf between two cliffs than the entrance to a town.