CONSULTATIONS.
ABBEY found Elvie busily engaged, not in the kitchen or in sewing, but
in the garden, squatting down on her feet and weeding a flower-bed.
"Well, I declare! I did not know you were hired to work out-of-doors,"
said Abbey.
"Nor I," returned Elvie, smiling, as she laid down her trowel and rose
up to greet Abbey.
"I am working 'on my own hook,' as father says. Mrs. Frost has given
me all this long border for my own garden, and I am to have all I
can raise from it. I have bought fifty cents' worth of seeds with my
own money, and Mrs. Frost has given me as many more, and some plants
besides.
"Won't it be nice to have some flowers for poor Harry,—and some fruit,
too? For those two gooseberry-bushes, and that double row of strawberry
plants, are all mine. Won't it be nice?"
"Very nice," said Abbey, rather languidly; "but I should think Mrs.
Frost might give you all you wanted,—such a large garden as she has."
"But they wouldn't be the same at all," said Elvie. "They would be her
presents then, and not mine. And it is so much pleasanter to give away
something which you have earned or made yourself."
"I don't see why," returned Abbey. "A present is a present."
"And, besides," said Elvie,—who knew by experience that there was no
use in trying to make Abbey understand her,—"I love to work in the
garden. The ground smells so good and fresh, and it is so curious and
interesting to see things grow. Look at all these little green rings
of plants. They did not show the least bit yesterday afternoon; but
the shower has brought them up nicely. I am going to put some of the
sweet alyssum, and Tweedia, and some other things, in a cocoanut basket
I have been making for Harry to hang up in his window. Won't it be
nice for him? I bought the cocoanut myself, for the children, and Miss
Priscilla Frost showed me how to make a basket of the shell."
"Well, never mind that now," said Abbey, upon whose ears all these
things rather grated than otherwise,—she never added a single
penny's-worth to poor Harry's comforts and pleasures,—"never mind that
now. I want you to listen to me, and tell me whether I shall stay at
Mrs. Ward's or not."
"Stay at Mrs. Ward's!" exclaimed Elvie, dropping her trowel, and
forgetting all about seeds, cocoanut basket, and strawberries. "Oh,
Abbey, you are not thinking of leaving her? Surely you have not gone
and lost your place again? Oh, what will mother say?"
"Well, well, you need not talk so loud, or make such a fuss, as though
one had committed murder. I was only thinking about it,—that's all. If
any one treated you as I was treated this morning, I don't believe you
would want to stay; but because I don't make a fuss about every little
thing, as you and mother do, you think I have no feeling."
"Tell me all about it," said Elvie, wisely putting aside the reproach.
"Let us sit down on the steps here,—so I can see if any one comes in at
the gate—and tell me the whole story, from first to last."
Abbey told the story according to own idea of the matter, ending with,
"And she says if I stay, she shall charge me with every thing that I
break or spoil, and take it out of my wages. I don't see how I am ever
to earn any thing, at that rate."
"You must take care and not break things, then," said Elvie. "I don't
wonder ladies get out of patience sometimes, girls are so careless. And
you know, Abbey, you were always unlucky about dishes. But what about
the water-pail? How can you to make such a mistake?"
"I didn't think," replied Abbey. "But I don't see why she need make
such a fuss about that."
"Well, I don't know," said Elvie. "Do you remember what you said
when Totty broke your china cup? That was nobody's fault but your
own,—leaving it on the stairs, of all places in the world; and the poor
child got a sad fall and scratch beside: yet you scolded her smartly.
You didn't think that was nothing, did you?"
"That was different."
"I don't see the difference, except that one was yours and the other
was somebody's else. And, you see, it really is a great loss, for I
don't think the Wards are at all rich."
"I hate to live with poor folks!" said Abbey, pettishly. "If I could
have such a place as yours, I wouldn't mind living out."
"I don't think that rich folks like to have their things spoiled, any
more than poor folks," replied Elvira. "I am sure Mrs. Frost does not.
She will not let the least thing be wasted. But, Abbey, I do hope you
won't think of leaving your place, if you can possibly keep it. There
is a particular reason just now for our all exerting ourselves, you
know, for Harry's sake, because mother is so anxious to take him out in
the country this summer."
"Oh, yes! Harry,—always Harry!"
"Well, and so it ought to be always Harry," said Elvie, with a little
flash of her eyes. "Who should it be, if not Harry,—when you know how
good and patient he is, sitting there in his chair week in and week
out, suffering so much, yet never complaining, nor troubling any one
more than he can possibly help? I think we might all of us take pattern
by him, for my part, and be willing to work for him,—dear little
fellow!"
"Now, don't get in a passion, Elvie; because, if you do, you will be
sorry," said Abbey. "Just as if I did not think as much of Harry as
you do; only I am not always talking about it. Some people like to
talk about their feelings and what they do for others, and some don't:
that's all."
"And some people like to act out their feelings, and some don't,"
returned Elvie. "If people neither talk about their feelings nor act
upon them, I don't see, for my part, how any one is to know whether
they have them or not."
"Well, there is no particular use in talking about that," said Abbey.
"I suppose I had better stay at Mrs. Ward's and bear it the best way
I can. She may as well fret at me as at any one else. I don't mind it
much: that is one good thing."
"Perhaps if you minded more, she would have less cause to fret,"
remarked Elvira. "That is one trouble. When any one begins to tell you
any thing, you never begin to listen till they are half done, and so
you don't more than half understand. I don't believe that you cannot
please Mrs. Ward well enough, if you only try. Do try, Abbey,—please
do," she added, earnestly. "I can't bear to think how bad mother
will feel if you lose this place, and she has so much to trouble her
already. Do try, to mind Mrs. Ward, and attend to what she says to you.
You will learn after a while, and then it will come easier.
"Come, now; I am sure you ought to be able to do as well as I, when
you were always so much smarter to learn, and you are more than a year
older than I am. And every one says Mrs. Ward is such a good woman.
Mrs. Campion was here yesterday, and I heard her say she did not know
a better woman than Mrs. Ward. It will be such an advantage to you to
learn the best way of doing all sorts of work."
"Well, well, you needn't say any thing more, Elvira," said Abbey,
rising. "I'm sure I am willing to stay; though I don't know, after all,
whether she will want me. And—there! She told me to stop somewhere, and
where was it?"
"Do try to remember," said Elvira, anxiously. "Was it the baker's?"
"No: she never sends to the baker's, except for yeast; and I am pretty
sure it wasn't yeast. Oh, I know now. It was a veal cutlet: so she must
have meant the butcher's."
"Of course," said Elvira, laughing, but much relieved. "Well, you have
no time to lose; for it is almost five o'clock."
"I must hurry, then, for she told me to be home by five. And if I
don't, there will be another fuss. Come walk a little way with me."
"I can't," said Elvie; "the other girl has gone out, and I must get tea
ready. I will come and see you as soon as I can. I am going to run home
this evening and carry Harry's basket to him. Won't he be pleased when
he sees it?"
"Don't say any thing about this fuss at home, or mother will be coming
over to see Mrs. Ward, and there will be no end of a time," said Abbey.
"Promise now, Elvie, that you won't."
"I will promise, if you will promise me to take pains and try to keep
your place," said Elvie.
"Of course I mean to do that. I must, or I sha'n't have any thing to
wear pretty soon. My brown dress is almost worn out."
"Well, good-by. Don't be long on the road, now. It is almost five."
Thus urged, Abbey did contrive to accomplish her errand and get home
only ten minutes after the time specified.
Elvira went back to her work with a deep sigh. She had long ago given
up trying to make Abbey understand or sympathize with her, and since
she had taken a decidedly religious stand, they were farther apart
than ever. Elvira was sensible of her own faults. She knew that she
had a hasty temper, and that she was apt to fret if things went wrong
or did not go on as fast as she desired. She had latterly striven hard
against this fault, and corrected it in a great degree; but sometimes
she was overcome by Abbey's easy indifference, and allowed a little of
the old fire to appear. She knew very well that such outbreaks did harm
instead of good, by affording food to Abbey's self-complacency: yet she
found it impossible to repress her indignation, as she thought of her
sister's selfishness and indifference to the necessities of the rest of
the family.
"There is no use in fretting, however," said Elvie to herself. "She
will never be influenced by me. And the only thing I can do is to work
all the harder myself, and try to keep my temper with Abbey. There is
one comfort," she added, as she took up her trowel once more. "One can
always pray."