Of no account

HOW MRS. LIVESEY "GAVE UP."

"I DON'T know why you should trouble yourself to come after me. I'm o' no account. What matter does it make whether a poor chap like me spends his Sundays at home or in the streets, at church or in a church with a chimney?"

The speaker, Adam Livesey, was a man whose appearance suggested that the world had dealt hardly with him, and that he had found life, regarded as a journey, very rough travelling.

He was spare of form, rugged of feature, not given to much talking, but usually civil spoken, and not unpleasant in manner. There was, however, one exception. Adam Livesey was deemed surly by those who ventured to interfere with what he considered his strictly private affairs. He might not say in so many words, "Mind your own business, and let mine alone. It's a hard case that a quiet fellow cannot be left to himself by folk that are nothing to him. I wasn't meddling with you." But he looked all this and more.

If Adam could have been induced to open his mind to anybody, he would have summed up his experience by saying that, all through life, he had received "more kicks than ha'pence."

A clever lad, he would have done credit to good schooling, but could not get it. Just as he was beginning to understand the value of learning, his father died, and Adam had to go to work. The years that followed were marked by scanty fare, rough treatment, and small wages, which went to the support of those at home, who were younger and more helpless than himself.

In after days, Adam seldom spoke of his mother, but the neighbours described her as being "of a sour sort."

Mrs. Livesey was always engaged in a struggle for bare bread, so had little time, even if she felt the inclination, to indulge in acts of motherly tenderness. The house was cheerless, for she went out washing and cleaning. There was no girl to attend to it and the younger boys, so the place looked desolate to the weary lad when he returned from work before his mother's arrival.

It had been different when the father was living, but then Mrs. Livesey had only to stay with her children and use for the common benefit good wages, regularly placed in her hands.

With a husband to lean on and look up to, she stood firmly enough. Without him, she was like a climbing plant from which the prop has been withdrawn. She became limp and comparatively lifeless.

But the plant which has lost its first support often stretches out new shoots in search of a fresh one, and throws its clinging tendrils round some new source of strength, which will lift it from the ground.

Not so Mrs. Livesey. To use her own words, "When my husband died, I just gave up. I've never had a bit of spirit for anything since. I drag on somehow, and that's all I can say."

It was the giving up and the "dragging on somehow" which was so terrible to the young ones, especially Adam, who had a great capacity for tenderness, but was shy at showing his affection. He fairly hungered for love and sympathy, and the one of all others, his mother—who should have shown both—gave neither.

The sweetness had been taken out of one portion of Mrs. Livesey's daily life, and she sought none elsewhere. She toiled hard enough to secure bread and shelter for their bodies, but these children's hearts were famished for want of what she might have bestowed if only she had not "given up." Home was brightest when the mother was out of it; for, though the children were neither beaten nor ill-treated—though she gave them the best she could, the presence of the grave, silent woman was like a wet blanket to them all.

Dear mothers, if you could only understand how much it is in your power to brighten your children's lives, you would surely do it. If Adam Livesey's mother had met him with a smile when he came in, and told him that she thanked God for having left her such a helper in her boy! If she had put her arms round his neck and given him a loving kiss, as she took his hardly-won wages, or said she was sorry he had so heavy a weight to carry while still so young! If she had gone with him and her other children to the throne of grace, and there and with them made her requests known unto God, and taught them that, though this may be a world of toil and trial, there is something better beyond! If she had put into their young hearts the precious, cheering thought that, though the earthly father had been taken, they had a Father in heaven, who had given sweet and precious promises to cheer the widow and the orphan! If she had done these things, toil would have been lightened, her children's lives made happier, their yearning for a mother's love satisfied, and within them would have been planted good seeds which, by God's grace, would have doubtless brought forth good fruit in their lives.

She did none of these things, and she reaped fruit of another kind. As the younger boys grew old enough, they went to work, and as soon as they could severed the tie between themselves and the home that had no brightness in it.

All went but Adam. Perhaps he had suffered most, because he was the only one who was old enough to remember the better days during his father's life. He, too, had a trial which the younger boys were spared, for the cup of learning had been snatched from his lips as he was beginning to taste its sweetness. Often was he sorely vexed, when he saw lads with no yearnings after knowledge waste the opportunities he would have prized. But there seemed no help for it.

Years passed, and Adam's boyhood was gone. "Too old to learn now, if I had the chance," he murmured. "I'm o' no account in the world, and I never shall be. I've got nothing to do, but to hammer away until I have struck my last stroke, and then—"

Adam often said these words, but he never finished his sentence. He stopped with "and then," seeming unable to look beyond the moment when, his last day's work on earth being done, some one else would have to lift the tool which his arm could raise no longer.

Adam's work was that of "striker" in a foundry. He had never been apprenticed to any mechanical trade, and his calling was one which required little beyond strength and adroitness. Though wiry, he was very strong, and, happily for him, his depressing surroundings had never driven him to drink.

His mother's last days were free from toil, for, when the other two lads had crossed the ocean and found homes in far-away lands, Adam stayed by her and worked for her. Before Mrs. Livesey died, she seemed to realize that she might have made her children happier, and that she herself might have found a good deal of sweetness towards the bottom of life's cup, if she had not closed her lips against what was left, because of the one bitter draught she had been compelled to drink.

"You'll do better without me, Adam," she said. "I've been nothing but a clog to you all your days. I wish I'd been a bit brighter, but after father died I had hard lines, and I gave up."

Adam would have liked to say something cheerful if he could, but he could not at the moment think of anything to say, because his mother's words were true. Before an answer came from him she had given up her last breath, and the young man, always lonely enough, felt a little more lonely than before.

It was some comfort to think of those last words of his mother, and to know that the grave, unsympathetic woman had in her heart recognised his devotion.

She had owned, after her fashion, that if she had done her part towards Adam as faithfully as he had performed his to herself, both their lives might have been happier. This was a crumb of comfort to feed upon, and threw just a ray of light across that death-bed, not for the departing soul, but for the watcher beside it; and Adam rejoiced that he had "stuck by mother to the last."

"Poor soul! I reckon she couldn't help feeling so down-hearted and dull. Dulness is catching, and I've got a good deal into mother's ways with being so much along with her. However, I'm glad I haven't got to look back and think that I left her to shift for herself, as Ned and Tom did."

Adam, you see, had done his duty according to his light, and this thought was the best comforter he had, as he sat by his solitary hearth that night, thinking of the past, and wondering how he should shape his future. Often and often had he rebelled in spirit against the monotony of his work and its hopeless character. He asked himself—Would it be possible for him to make a fresh start, now he had only himself to work for?