rgued the
propriety of engaging any further in the business of a man whom I had
known only a few hours, and whose acquaintance had been made, certainly,
not under the most favourable circumstances. It is a good thing to obey
an instinct, if it be stimulated toward that which is honourable or good
for man to do; yes, though cold deliberation will not give it sanction.
It was an urging of this kind that led me on. Convinced that I had done
enough for this unhappy man, I was provoked, importuned to believe that I
ought to do still more. "It may be"--the words forced their way into my
ears--"that the interest which has been excited in me for this family, is
not the result of a mere accident. Providence may have led me to their
rescue, and confided their future welfare to my conduct. _He_ is an
outcast--isolated amongst men--may be a worthy and deserving creature,
crushed and kept down by his misfortunes. Is a trifling exertion enough
to raise him, and shall I not give it to him?" Then passed before my eyes
visions, the possibility of realizing which, made me blush with shame for
a moment's indecision or delay. First, I pictured myself applying to my
friend Pennyfeather, who lives in that dark court near the Bank of
England, and sleeps in Paradise at his charming villa in Kent, and
gaining through his powerful interest a situation--say of eighty pounds
per annum--for the father of the family; then visiting that incomparable
and gentle lady, Mrs Pennyfeather, whose woman's heart opens to a tale of
sorrow, as flowers turn their beauty to the sun, and obtaining a firm
promise touching the needle-work for Mrs Warton. And then the scene
changed altogether, and I was walking in the gayest spirits, whistling
and singing through Camden town on my way to their snug lodgings in the
vale of Hampstead heath--and the time is twilight. And first I meet the
children, neatly dressed, clean, and wholesome looking, jumping and
leaping about the heather at no particular sport, but in the very joy and
healthiness of their young blood--and they catch sight of me, and rush to
greet me, one and all. They lead me to their mother. How beautiful she
has become in the subsidence of mental tumult, in quiet, grateful labour,
and, more than all, in the sunlight of her husband's gradual restoration!
She is busy with her needle, and her chair is at the window, so that she
may watch the youngsters even whilst she works; and near her is the
table, already cove