TRYING AGAIN.
ABBEY took her work and went down into the kitchen, where Mrs. Ward
was mixing her bread. She was not in the least ruffled by the events
of the morning, and thought it very strange that any one else should
be. What was the use? She made various remarks by way of beginning a
conversation, to which she got very short answers, or none at all.
Presently she began to sing.
"Don't sing, Abbey: attend to your work," said Mrs. Ward, shortly. "I
do think one reason why you never have your mind upon what you are
about is that you are always singing. The sound serves you instead of
thought."
This was quite true in Abbey's case, and I have no doubt it is true of
many others. The poet says of some one that,—
"He whistled as he went, for want of thought."
Abbey sung for want of thought. Being now, however, reduced to silence,
she was obliged to think a little, and her reflections were not
remarkably pleasant. She could not but confess to herself that it would
not be very convenient to lose her place again and have to go home in
disgrace for the fourth time in as many months, while her next youngest
sister, who was only twelve, had been living with one lady for nearly
a year, and had lately had her wages raised. She had spoiled her best
frock by washing dishes in it at her last place. Her second-best was
rapidly becoming shabby; and Mr. Jenkins declared that he would not buy
her another,—she should earn it herself, and then she would know the
value of it; nor would he allow Elvira to divide her wages with her
sister.
"You think I am hard upon the girl," he said to his wife, "and I dare
say other people have plenty to say about the matter. But I tell you
that she will never be good for any thing till she finds out that she
is dependent on her own exertions for her living."
"I believe you are right," said Mrs. Jenkins, sighing, "but I begin to
be afraid she will never learn any thing. The trouble is, that she does
not care. No fault-finding disturbs her in the least."
"Exactly so. But she likes to dress well and to have plenty to eat, and
she 'will' care when she finds that she is to have neither food nor
clothes unless she provides them for herself."
Abbey could not but admit to herself as she sat at work that if she
left Mrs. Ward in disgrace, the chances of her finding another place
were very small. Aunt Phœbe Ray, who got situations for half the girls
in Milby, declared positively that she would never recommend her again
if she failed this time. It was, no doubt, unreasonable in Mrs. Ward to
be so angry at an accident (so Abbey said to herself), but it was clear
that she was very much put out. Indeed, she had as good as told her
that she might go home. Certainly, the prospect was not a pleasant one.
"But there is no use in worrying," said Abbey. "I dare say something
will happen."
Meantime, Mrs. Ward had in some degree recovered her composure. She did
not regret the scolding she had given Abbey,—she knew very well that
hardly any thing would rouse her from her indifference. But she began
to think whether she had not better try her a little longer. She knew
how poor the family really were, and how hard both father and mother
worked to keep themselves out of debt and their children comfortable
and respectable, and to provide comforts and luxuries for the oldest
boy,—a poor little humpbacked cripple of ten years, who had never been
able to walk, and probably never would be. She remembered how glad Mrs.
Jenkins had been to procure the place for Abbey. And she finally made
up her mind to try the girl a little longer.
"After all, I suppose I may as well have patience with her as any one
else," said she to herself. "If Comfort had been obliged to live out, I
should have wanted people to have patience with her."
"Now, Abbey, I want you to attend, what I say," said Mrs. Ward, as
she finally took her sewing and sat down. "Don't let your mind wander
to the ends of the earth,—nor out of the window, either," she added,
with some sharpness, as she saw Abbey beginning in a dreamy manner to
contemplate some cows upon the common. "Listen to me."
Abbey had a habit, whenever any one began to reprove her,—or "lecture
her," as she said,—of at once beginning to think of something else.
Just at this time she had a perception that such a course would not be
very wise: so she brought in her eyes from the common, and her mind
from the day-dream she was just beginning, and prepared to give some
attention to what was said to her.
"Do you want to keep your place, Abbey?" asked Mrs. Ward.
"If I can suit you," said Abbey.
"Suppose you go away from here: what do you expect to do?"
"Go home, I suppose, and stay till I get another place," replied Abbey.
"It may not be so easy for you to find another place," said Mrs. Ward.
"Which of the ladies you have lived with during the last few months, do
you think, would recommend you?"
Abbey was silent.
"And, meantime, you will be at home, where you are not wanted, and be a
burden upon hands which are already more than full."
"I don't see how I can help it," said Abbey. "And I don't think it is
fair to twit me with it. I am sure you could tell any one that I was
neat and honest, and—"
"Look under that table, Abbey, and see the dust upon the legs,"
interrupted Mrs. Ward. "Look out of the window, and see those
coal-ashes. As for honesty, there are more ways of being dishonest than
merely stealing."
"I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Ward," said Abbey, now really
colouring and showing some signs of feeling.
"Well, Abbey, I will tell you what I mean. I give you good wages,—very
good for a girl of your age,—which I pay you every Saturday out of my
own and my husband's hard earnings. Do you take pains to earn those
wages? When I go to a store and lay out five dollars, I expect to get
the worth of my money. And if the tradesman gives me short measure or
an inferior article, I call him a dishonest man. If I pay a girl good
wages for doing my work, and she neglects it, or does it badly and in
such a manner as to bring loss upon me, I call her a dishonest girl,
whether she steals the value of a penny from me or not."
"I don't think I have done any thing so very bad," said Abbey. "Every
one makes mistakes sometimes."
"Listen, Abbey," replied Mrs. Ward, taking a paper from her
work-basket. "I have been making a little calculation as to what you
have cost me since you came here, a little more than four weeks ago. I
will read it to you:—
"Two cups broken, at 25c. each..........................$0.50
Tin basin forgotten and left on the stove to burn up.... .30
Diana grape-vine spoiled................................1.00
Fine rose-bushes spoiled................................1.00
Towel burned up......................................... .25
New water-pail spoiled..................................1.50
Parlour-ceiling spoiled.................................2.00
—————
$6.55
"There are six dollars and fifty-five cents, at the lowest calculation,
a dead loss; and all from the sheerest carelessness and indifference on
your part. Not one of these accidents was necessary. I say nothing of
the table-cloth, for no money will pay for that. And I have put down
the rose-bushes at just what I gave for them,—though I would not have
taken ten dollars apiece for them. The very last thing my daughter did
in the garden was to set out those two rose-bushes, which you destroyed
just because you would not pay attention and did not care whether you
did right or wrong."
For once, Abbey did not seem to have any thing to say for herself. She
was not used to be treated in this way. She had often been scolded
and fretted at, and she had intrenched herself in indifference and
inattention. But it was something new to have somebody sit down and
calmly compel her attention to a straightforward, business-like account
of her misdeeds.
She did not know how to meet it. And, for once in her life, she felt
ashamed and irritated. The feelings were not pleasant to her. Abbey
began to cry,—a very unusual thing with her.
"I am sure, Mrs. Ward, I did not mean any harm!" she sobbed. "I think
it is very hard to lay it all to me."
"Who shall we lay it to?—To me?" asked Mrs. Ward. "I don't suppose you
did mean to do wrong; but neither did you mean to do right. If you had,
you would have done right; for there was nothing to hinder you, but,
on the contrary, every thing to help you. You knew better than to do
any one of these things,—some of them because you were expressly told
at the time, and others because any person of common sense would know
better. You have caused me all this loss and discomfort in a perfectly
needless manner; you have slipped yourself out of every bit of work
that you could get rid of; and yet you expect me to pay you as much as
if you had done your work faithfully. Is that honest?"
For once, Abbey's conscience was touched. She could not get out of the
corner in which Mrs. Ward had placed her, and she dared not say "yes"
to the question.
"But there is another and a still more serious view of the matter,"
continued Mrs. Ward, after a little silence. "Abbey, do you ever
reflect that you are accountable to God for the way in which you spend
your time and your strength?"
Abbey did not answer aloud. But she said to herself, "Oh, dear! I do
wish she would not begin on that. A lecture is bad enough, without a
sermon."
"Do you remember the twenty-fifth chapter of the Gospel by Matthew?"
asked Mrs. Ward.
Abbey did not remember it particularly, though it had been read at
family worship only the day before.
"It contains very interesting and important instructions about the last
judgment," continued Mrs. Ward. "We have, first, the parable of the ten
virgins. How did the five foolish virgins come to be shut out from the
marriage supper? Was it because they broke their lamps, or made any bad
use of them?"
"It was because they took no oil," replied Abbey.
"And in the case of the unfaithful servant who was cast into outer
darkness, for what was he condemned? Did he spend his lord's money, or
waste it?"
"He hid it in the ground," replied Abbey.
"And what ought he to have done?"
"He ought to have traded with it, as the others did, I suppose," said
Abbey.
"Now we come to the account of the last judgment," said Mrs. Ward.
"Does our Lord say to those on his left hand that they had robbed, or
murdered, or done any thing of that sort, for which they were to be
condemned?"
Abbey was silent. She began to see the drift of the sermon, as she
called it.
"In every one of these instances," continued Mrs. Ward, "we find people
condemned for things which they had omitted. I do not suppose the
foolish virgins 'meant any harm,'—as you are so fond of saying. They
merely forgot to provide themselves with oil.
"The slothful servant, as I said, did not make any bad use of the
money committed to his charge. He was merely too lazy to use it at
all. Doubtless he might have doubled his talent, as well as his
fellow-servants; but that would have required thought and exertion and
watchfulness. He would have been obliged to get up early, and go into
the market, and keep himself informed as to the state of trade,—all
of which he thought too much trouble. It was easier to put the talent
out of sight and indulge his indolence, excusing himself to his own
conscience with the thought that his master was a hard man and would
not be pleased whatever he did, and that, after all, he was not so bad
as some other people, for he did not spend his talent for fine clothes
or strong drink.
"You see, Abbey, what I mean. God has given you more than one talent,
and of these talents, he will one day demand a strict account. He has
given you health and strength, and people who are willing to teach you.
And if you misuse all these things, or if you do not use them at all,
it will not excuse you, when he calls you to account, that you did not
mean any thing in particular, any more than the five foolish virgins
were excused."
"I am not a professor of religion," said Abbey.
"So much the worse for you, my child. If you were ten times a professor
of religion, you would be under no more obligation to serve God
than you are now. And you cannot get rid of your obligation by not
acknowledging it. You are only adding one more sin to all the others."
"I don't see how that is," said Abbey. "I think Christians ought to
be a great deal better than other people, for my part though I don't
see that they are. I am sure my father isn't. He is always reading the
Bible, and all that. And I don't see that he is any better-tempered for
that. And there is Elvie! She joined the church last fall. And what
good has it done her?"
"Why do you think your father is not a good man?" asked Mrs. Ward.
"He is always finding fault with me," said Abbey. "I have not had one
bit of comfort at home since he came there. Mother never said one word
about my living out, till he began to talk about it."
"But, Abbey, you must have known that you would have your own living to
earn some time. Who did you think was going to support you?"
Abbey did not know: only, she didn't see why she should have to work
for a living, more than other people. She didn't see why some one
shouldn't leave her a fortune. "Mrs. Frost's uncle had left one to her."
"Do you reflect, Abbey, that if such an event had taken place, it would
only have increased your responsibility? It would be another talent,
for the use of which you would have to answer to God. And if you hide
away and neglect the talents you have already, what reason have you to
think that you would do better with ten than with one?"
"I don't believe rich people trouble themselves about such things as
that," said Abbey. "They just have the money and spend it and take the
comfort of it."
"Many rich people do trouble themselves about such things," said Mrs.
Ward. "They consider themselves only as stewards of the wealth God has
given them, and use it for his service. You have heard of Miss Nancy
Wigglesworth, who founded the Old Ladies' Home and the Coloured Orphan
Asylum?"
"Folks say she was an old miser," said Abbey, "and that she used to
go looking like a fright, and would not give a beggar a bit of money
for any thing. I wouldn't be like that. I would take the comfort of my
money as I went along."
"People were very unjust to call Miss Wigglesworth a miser," said Mrs.
Ward. "She never spent one-quarter of her income upon herself. All the
rest went for religious and charitable uses. She used to help poor
people by lending them money as they needed it. Sometimes they would
neglect to pay her, when they were perfectly well able to do so; and
then, when they were compelled to pay, they railed at their benefactor
as a hard-hearted miser. Another way in which she got the name of being
stingy was that she never would give to an object of which she did not
approve. People used to go to her for all sorts of things, and when she
refused them, they abused her."
"That's just what I say," persisted Abbey. "What was the use, after
all? She might just as well have taken the comfort of her money as she
went along, instead of giving it away and getting no thanks for it."
"Miss Wigglesworth has been dead eighteen or twenty years," said Mrs.
Ward; "that is to say, she has been all that time in heaven. Do you
suppose she regrets now that she gave away her money and did not spend
it upon her own pleasures? I remember well going with my mother to see
her when she was ill with her last sickness. She suffered a long while,
and very terribly at times; but I shall never forget the peace and joy
in her face as she spoke of her own death, nor the tone in which she
repeated the words,—
"'I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept
the faith: Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness.'
"Do you think the rich man in the parable felt like that when God said
to him, 'Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee'?
"Yet all he meant to do was to have a good time as he went along."
Abbey writhed impatiently in her chair. She never could bear to think
of dying.
"Well, I am not rich, and I never shall be," said she: "so that is
nothing to me."
"You are mistaken, Abbey. It is every thing to you. You are not rich
in money,—that is true; but you are rich in what is worth far more,
in what money cannot buy,—in health, and strength, and chances of
usefulness. You may put aside all these gifts in a napkin; you may
employ them for your own selfish ends,—in merely 'having a good time,'
as you say. You may let them rust in idleness, or wear them out in
the service of self and the devil; but rest assured of this, that for
every one of them God will as surely bring you into judgment as you sit
there."
"Do you wish to stay here, Abbey?" asked Mrs. Ward, once more.
Abbey did not answer. She did "not" wish to stay, if she could help it;
but she did not see what else she was to do.
"You can take till to-night to think over the matter," continued
Mrs. Ward, "but I tell you plainly that, if you 'do' stay, it must
be on very different terms than heretofore. You must conduct very
differently. I shall charge you for every article that you break
or spoil, and I shall make you do over again every thing you leave
undone or half done. I am willing, for your mother's sake, to try you
a while longer on these terms; that is, if Mr. Ward will give his
consent,—for he will be very much vexed when he sees the condition of
the parlour-ceiling. As I said, you can take till night to consider
the matter. Now put away your sewing, take the dust-pan and brush, and
brush under every table in the room, and then rub all the chair-rounds
and table-legs with the cloth."
Abbey obeyed, feeling very ill used indeed. Her conscience, which she
had heretofore managed to keep pretty quiet, was at last awakened,
and it pricked her severely. Abbey did not like the feeling at all.
It irritated her, as any discomfort of body or mind always did. And
she felt provoked at Mrs. Ward for having given her this new and very
disagreeable sensation. She would have liked very much to throw up her
place and go home; but home was not likely to be any more agreeable to
her than her present situation, and she must earn something, or go in
rags.
"Dear me!" she said to herself, impatiently, "it does seem as if when
all we wanted was to live in peace and have a good time, one might be
let alone and allowed to have it; but it appears as though every thing
was dead set against me."
Even so, Abbey. The whole course of nature is "dead set" against any
one who will not work either with it or against it.
"I believe I will go and talk it over with Elvie this afternoon," said
Abbey. "She will think I am to blame, of course; but, then, she won't
scold and fume, like father, or sigh and look as if I had half-killed
her, as mother does every time I come home."
"Can I go over to Mrs. Frost's and see my sister?" asked Abbey, after
dinner.
"I have no objection; but you must be at home by five o'clock. And I
want you to stop at the butcher's and bring home a veal cutlet for Mr.
Ward's supper. Now remember! What do you mean to buy?"
"A quarter—I mean a cutlet of veal," said Abbey, recollecting herself.
"Well, now, mind what you are about. Don't make a mistake, and don't
forget the time."
"Oh, dear!" sighed Abbey, as she walked away,—for once remembering to
latch the gate after her. "I do wish folks would not be so cross! I am
not 'that,' anyhow, whatever else I am."
This was always Abbey's last refuge when found fault with. She did
not reflect that her naturally placid temper was only another talent
committed to her charge, which would prove a curse or a blessing
according as she used it.