Grip was by no means an idle or unprofitable member of the humblehousehold. Partly by dint of Barnaby"s tuition, and partly bypursuing a species of self-instruction common to his tribe, andexerting his powers of observation to the utmost, he had acquired adegree of sagacity which rendered him famous for miles round. Hisconversational powers and surprising performances were theuniversal theme: and as many persons came to see the wonderfulraven, and none left his exertions unrewarded--when he condescendedto exhibit, which was not always, for genius is capricious--hisearnings formed an important item in the common stock. Indeed, thebird himself appeared to know his value well; for though he was perfectly free and unrestrained in the presence of Barnaby and hismother, he maintained in public an amazing gravity, and neverstooped to any other gratuitous performances than biting the anklesof vagabond boys (an exercise in which he much delighted), killinga fowl or two occasionally, and swallowing the dinners of variousneighbouring dogs, of whom the boldest held him in great awe anddread.
Time had glided on in this way, and nothing had happened to disturbor change their mode of life, when, one summer"s night in June,they were in their little garden, resting from the labours of theday. The widow"s work was yet upon her knee, and strewn upon theground about her; and Barnaby stood leaning on his spade, gazing atthe brightness in the west, and singing softly to himself.
"A brave evening, mother! If we had, chinking in our pockets, buta few specks of that gold which is piled up yonder in the sky, weshould be rich for life."
"We are better as we are," returned the widow with a quiet smile.
"Let us be contented, and we do not want and need not care to haveit, though it lay shining at our feet."
"Ay!" said Barnaby, resting with crossed arms on his spade, andlooking wistfully at the sunset, that"s well enough, mother; butgold"s a good thing to have. I wish that I knew where to find it.
Grip and I could do much with gold, be sure of that."
"What would you do?" she asked.
"What! A world of things. We"d dress finely--you and I, I mean;not Grip--keep horses, dogs, wear bright colours and feathers, dono more work, live delicately and at our ease. Oh, we"d find usesfor it, mother, and uses that would do us good. I would I knewwhere gold was buried. How hard I"d work to dig it up!"
"You do not know," said his mother, rising from her seat and layingher hand upon his shoulder, "what men have done to win it, and howthey have found, too late, that it glitters brightest at adistance, and turns quite dim and dull when handled."
"Ay, ay; so you say; so you think," he answered, still lookingeagerly in the same direction. "For all that, mother, I shouldlike to try."
"Do you not see," she said, "how red it is? Nothing bears so many stains of blood, as gold. Avoid it. None have such cause to hateits name as we have. Do not so much as think of it, dear love. Ithas brought such misery and suffering on your head and mine as fewhave known, and God grant few may have to undergo. I would ratherwe were dead and laid down in our graves, than you should ever cometo love it."
For a moment Barnaby withdrew his eyes and looked at her withwonder. Then, glancing from the redness in the sky to the markupon his wrist as if he would compare the two, he seemed about toquestion her with earnestness, when a new object caught hiswandering attention, and made him quite forgetful of his purpose.
This was a man with dusty feet and garments, who stood, bareheaded,behind the hedge that divided their patch of garden fromthe pathway, and leant meekly forward as if he sought to minglewith their conversation, and waited for his time to speak. Hisface was turned towards the brightness, too, but the light thatfell upon it showed that he was blind, and saw it not.
"A blessing on those voices!" said the wayfarer. "I feel thebeauty of the night more keenly, when I hear them. They are likeeyes to me. Will they speak again, and cheer the heart of a poor traveller?"
"Have you no guide?" asked the widow, after a moment"s pause.
"None but that," he answered, pointing with his staff towards thesun; "and sometimes a milder one at night, but she is idle now."
"Have you travelled far?"
"A weary way and long," rejoined the traveller as he shook hishead. "A weary, weary, way. I struck my stick just now upon thebucket of your well--be pleased to let me have a draught of water,lady."
"Why do you call me lady?" she returned. "I am as poor as you."
"Your speech is soft and gentle, and I judge by that," replied theman. "The coarsest stuffs and finest silks, are--apart from thesense of touch--alike to me. I cannot judge you by your dress."
"Come round this way," said Barnaby, who had passed out at thegarden-gate and now stood close beside him. "Put your hand inmine. You"re blind and always in the dark, eh? Are you frightened in the dark? Do you see great crowds of faces, now? Do they grinand chatter?"
"Alas!" returned the other, "I see nothing. Waking or sleeping,nothing."
Barnaby looked curiously at his eyes, and touching them with hisfingers, as an inquisitive child might, led him towards the house.
"You have come a long distance, "said the widow, meeting him at thedoor. "How have you found your way so far?"
"Use and necessity are good teachers, as I have heard--the best ofany," said the blind man, sitting down upon the chair to whichBarnaby had led him, and putting his hat and stick upon the red-tiled floor. "May neither you nor your son ever learn under them.
They are rough masters."
"You have wandered from the road, too," said the widow, in a toneof pity.
"Maybe, maybe," returned the blind man with a sigh, and yet withsomething of a smile upon his face, "that"s likely. Handposts and milestones are dumb, indeed, to me. Thank you the more for thisrest, and this refreshing drink!"
As he spoke, he raised the mug of water to his mouth. It wasclear, and cold, and sparkling, but not to his taste nevertheless,or his thirst was not very great, for he only wetted his lips andput it down again.