KINDLING A FIRE.
"WELL, Abbey, better late than never," was Mrs. Powell's greeting.
"What kept you so long? And where are your strawberries? Didn't Mrs.
Ward have them ready? Now, I do hope you haven't lost them on the
road!" she exclaimed, seeing Abbey hesitate. "I shall hardly know how
to forgive you, if you have."
"I left them at mother's," answered Abbey, beginning to cry. "Totty was
so sick, I could not think of any thing else. And she could not bear to
have me come away, so I stayed till the last minute. The doctor thinks
there is something the matter with her head."
"Poor child!" said Mrs. Powell softened at once. "I am very sorry to
hear such an account of her. Mrs. Ward told me she was sick; but I did
not suppose there was any thing serious the matter. How long has she
been ill?"
"She has been out of sorts a good while," replied Abbey; "but we did
not think there was very much the matter till lately. She had a fall
and hurt her head, and the doctor thinks that may have had something to
do with her sickness."
"Indeed! How did she fall?"
"She tripped with her foot and fell down-stairs," replied Abbey, crying
still more as she saw Mrs. Powell's sympathies were moved. "She would
hardly let me come away. And mother wants me to go home as often as I
can."
"I will go and see your mother this afternoon," said Mrs. Powell,
busily dishing up her dinner. "I was going out, at any rate; and I may
as well call and get the basket. The strawberry plants ought to be set
out this evening. Come, put away your things, and change your dress so
as to be ready to wash up your dishes. And, by the way, I have found
your hat,—not in a very nice place, either. Where do you think you left
it?"
Abbey was quite sure she had left it in the closet.
"You left it upon the shelf in the cellar where I put the soap-grease,
and there I found it. One of the strings is spoiled, but it is not hurt
otherwise. It is lucky the rats did not carry it off. What could have
induced you to leave it there?"
"I don't believe I did leave it there," said Abbey, sullenly.
"Who do you suppose put it there? Did I, or Miss Margaret?"
"I don't know who put it there, I'm sure. I know I didn't."
And just at that minute, the whole story flashed upon Abbey's mind. She
had come home from an errand, late, as usual, and, being sent into the
cellar for coal, and finding her hat in the way, she had laid it on the
shelf "just for a minute," and forgotten all about it.
"Now get ready to wash your dishes when you have had your dinner, and
take the brushes and dust under the press and down the kitchen-stairs."
Sullenly enough Abbey obeyed. She had hoped to induce Mrs. Powell to
send her back for the basket, and she was not at all pleased at the
thought of that lady's having a talk with her mother.
There was no help for it, however, and Mrs. Powell went out about two
o'clock, enjoining it upon Abbey to have the kettle boiling and the
table set by half-past five, at which time Margaret came home for her
tea.
"Now, don't forget," said Mrs. Powell. "There is nothing particular for
you to do; but you can dust those books up in the end of the hall, if
you choose."
"I don't choose,—thank you," said Abbey, when Mrs. Powell had shut the
door. "If I have a chance for a little peace and quiet, I mean to enjoy
it."
The way she took to enjoy her peace and quiet was to throw herself down
on the sofa in the cool, shady parlour, and read her magazines till she
fell asleep over them. Two or three visitors rang the bell in vain, and
went away without getting in; but at last, the grocer's man succeeded
in making her hear. Rubbing her eyes, she went to the door.
"What! You have been taking a nap have you?" said the man, as he handed
her various parcels, and, among others, a can of kerosene. "I guess
Mrs. Powell a'n't at home, or you wouldn't take it quite so easy. I
thought every one must be dead."
"If you knew how I was driven round, you wouldn't wonder that I liked
to take a nap now and then," said Abbey. "It is just drive,—drive, from
morning till night—no peace, so long as she is in the house."
"I always heard she was a stormer," said the man. "But hurry up your
basket, for I must be at the station at half-past five, and I must
drive smart to get there."
Abbey, startled, glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes after five.
She hurried to make her fire; but her kindling-wood was rather damp,
and would not catch easily. She took up the can and poured some
kerosene on it. It flamed up directly.
"That's the way to start a fire!" said she, exultingly. "Wouldn't
Mother Powell scold, though, if she knew it?"
She set the can down—"just for a minute," as she was fond of saying—on
the hearth, while she searched for the stove-handle, which was never in
its place. It was nowhere to be seen.
"Oh, I know," said Abbey. "I took it to drive up that nail in the shed."
As she stepped into the shed to look for it, there was a loud
explosion, and a sudden rush of flames and hot air. In a moment (she
did not know how) she found herself in the garden, her dress on fire,
and the kitchen all in a blaze behind her, with the flames rushing from
the windows and doors.
There was a large, shallow tub standing under the pump, which in this
dry season was kept full of water for the purpose of watering the
garden.
More from instinct than from any exercise of sense, Abbey threw herself
head foremost into this tub, and thus extinguished the fire on her
clothes, with no other damage to herself than a slight scorching of her
arms and face; but, meantime, the back part of the house was all in a
blaze.
There was a fire-engine station near by, and the steamer was soon on
the ground, pouring its great stream of water upon the flames, which
were thus subdued before they could spread to the brick part of the
building. But what a sight met the eyes of Mrs. Powell and Margaret as
they arrived at home! The flames were out, but the ruins were still
smoking. Every thing was drenched with water, within and without. The
poor birds lay dead in their cages, smothered by the smoke. All the
pretty things—the photographs and engravings, the books and music and
dainty bits of embroidery, and such things, which Mrs. Powell and her
daughters had got together by their taste and industry—were ruined.
And the garden, which had been years in coming to its late state of
perfection, was trampled and destroyed. Such was the result of Abbey's
"taking things easy."
Of course there was an inquiry into the origin of the fire, and Abbey
was closely questioned. At first she declared she knew nothing about
it: she found herself in the garden, with her clothes on fire, and that
was all she could tell about the matter.
"What were you doing when the fire broke out?" asked the engineer of
the fire-department.
"Filling the tea-kettle," answered she.
"Oh! And you had just made the fire a minute before, I presume?"
"Yes," said Abbey. "I had just got it started."
"Oh, indeed! And perhaps you poured kerosene on your kindlings to make
them light?" said the experienced engineer, eyeing her closely.
Abbey coloured deeply.
"Yes, I thought as much. I have seen that trick played before. And I
dare say you set the can right down by the stove. You couldn't have
had it in your hands, or you would not have got off so easily. Well,
my girl, you have done a pretty good stroke of work for one day. The
next time you want to light a fire in a hurry, I advise you to take
gunpowder. It is about as convenient, and rather safer."
"I didn't mean any thing," sobbed Abbey.
"Then you had better mean something next time, and see if you can't do
it," said the engineer. "You may be thankful that you were not burned
to death. It was a wonderful escape."
"How could you do so, Abbey?" said Mrs. Powell. "You have often been
told not to bring a candle near the can of kerosene, or even to fill
the lamps after dark. You had abundance of kindlings of all sorts, and
plenty of shavings, if you had wanted them, in the shed at the end of
the garden."
"I was in a hurry," said Abbey, "and the fire wouldn't burn, and—and—I
am sure I didn't mean any thing. I am sure you told me to have the fire
going and the kettle boiling by half-past five," she added, in her
usual injured tone, as if that fact were a sufficient excuse for all
she had done. "You said so the last thing before you went out. I knew
you would scold if it wasn't ready when you came home, and so I hurried
all I could."
"Where was the need of hurry? You had all the afternoon."
"Well, I didn't know what time it was, till it struck five; and then—"
"There! That will do," said Mrs. Powell. "I don't want to hear any
more, Abbey. You may take your things, if any of them are left, and
go home. I am sorry for your poor mother, who has enough on her hands
without you; but I cannot have any one in my house whom I cannot trust
for a single minute. If you showed any sense of your faults, I could
have more patience with you; but you seem inclined to lay all the blame
upon me. I have done my best to teach you; but it is labour and time
thrown away. If you were only stupid, I could have patience with you;
but you are utterly unfaithful. Your laziness and carelessness have
caused me losses which can never be repaired."
And Mrs. Powell's eyes filled with tears, as she thought of the
precious portraits, and of the birds the dear deceased daughter had fed
and tended with so much care.
"You have destroyed my garden, that I have taken so much pains with,
and all-but destroyed my house,—and all because you were too idle to
set about your work in season, and too lazy to seek proper materials
for making your fire. You can go home at once, as soon as you have
changed your dress. I do not mean to be harsh to you, but I never wish
to see your face again."
Mrs. Powell turned away, and, wiping the tears from her eyes, went into
the house, where Margaret and Maria were mourning over their treasures
and trying to rescue some of them from the general ruin. She was a
Christian woman, and strove to forgive as she would be forgiven; but
she may be pardoned if she found it hard to put her principles at once
in practice on the present occasion.
It would have been easy for her to get a capable girl in the place of
Rebecca, whom she had lent (as it were) to her sister-in-law,—for she
had a good reputation among working people; but she felt that it would
be unjust to deprive Abbey of her place at Mrs. Ward's without finding
her another; and after she learned something of Abbey's family, she
became interested in the girl on her own account. She knew very well
that a young woman who thoroughly understands house-work can always
command a good home and good wages in every change of times, and she
determined in her own mind that it should not be her fault if Abbey
were not well educated in this respect.
Her conscience acquitted her of ever having been hard upon Abbey.
She had been exact and particular with her, but not more so than
she was with her own daughter, and not half so exacting as she was
with herself. She had indulged her in all proper ways, given her a
sufficient amount of rest and leisure, and taken all due care of her
health and her moral and mental advancement, and here was the result!
It was no wonder she felt as though she never wished to see Abbey again.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" she asked, with some sharpness, as
Abbey presented herself in the parlour, where she was helping Margaret
to select and dry such of the books and pictures as were not utterly
destroyed.
"I want my wages," said Abbey,—as calmly as if nothing had happened.
"You didn't pay me last week, nor the week before, and you owe me three
dollars."
"'Owe' you!" was all Mrs. Powell could say. She looked at Abbey a
moment in silence, and returned to her work.
"You had better go, Abbey," said Margaret. "Mother will settle with
your father about your wages."
"I wonder if she don't mean to pay me?" thought Abbey, as she went out
to wait for the car. "It will be real mean if she don't. Just as if I
set the house on fire on purpose!"
"Well, I must say, Abbey's coolness is rather beyond any thing I ever
saw!" remarked Margaret. "She does not seem to have the least notion
that she has been to blame."
"Oh, no. It was all my fault, you see, for telling her to have supper
at half-past five," replied Mrs. Powell.
"Well, I only hope it will be a lesson to her, and rouse her up a
little."
"It won't," said Mrs. Powell. "Her laziness is too far ingrained
ever to be driven out of her. She will go on to the end of her days,
shirking and slipping out of work, depending upon any one and every one
to take care of her, accepting every thing as her right, and thinking
it terribly hard and oppressive if she is obliged to do any thing
towards her own living. There is nothing which can make people more
meanly and dishonestly selfish, nothing which can more entirely and
hopelessly degrade them, than that dislike to honest hard work which
makes them submit to any inconvenience for themselves or others, rather
than labour with their own hands."
I am sorry to say that Mrs. Powell's prophecy about Abbey has thus far
proved true. While Elvira has gone on earning higher and higher wages,
and more and more respect and confidence from her employers,—while
poor Harry in his arm-chair gains no inconsiderable sum from his
wood-carving and other fine work, and even poor little half-idiot
Totty (made so by Abbey's "just a minute's" neglect) earns her mite by
weeding in the neighbours' gardens,—Abbey is perfectly contented to be
a burden upon her hard-working father and mother.
She has been in several places since the catastrophe at Mrs. Powell's;
but no lady will keep her any longer than till she can find somebody
else. She has tried to learn two or three trades, but always finds out
directly that the sewing-machine makes her head ache, and standing
behind the counter makes her side ache, and bottoming chairs makes her
shoulders ache,—and so on, to the end of the chapter. She thinks there
is no use in her trying to help her mother, because no one is ever
satisfied with any thing "she" does.
When Mrs. R., at the fancy-shop (for whom Harry does a great deal of
work), will not buy her tatting, it is not because some of the loops
are large and others small, and all dirty, but because Mrs. R. has been
set against her by Margaret Powell. When Elvira remonstrates (which she
seldom does, knowing its utter uselessness), Abbey says Elvira always
had a natural taste for work, and of course it is easy for her.
When Mr. Jenkins frets, she reminds him that he would not let Mrs.
Powell pay her any wages after the fire, and asks what is the use of
working if she is not to be paid for it. She sits by the window or the
fire all day, sometimes pretending to sew, sometimes reading any trash
she can pick up, sometimes dreaming of somebody who is to fall in love
with her and marry her and turn out a rich nobleman in disguise. She
is very generous at these times, and plans how she will take Harry to
the Springs, and buy cashmere shawls and silk dresses for her mother,
and heap coals of fire upon the heads of her stepfather and Margaret
Powell by setting the one up in business and ordering of the other an
indefinite amount of embroidery.
It does not at all detract from her self-complacency at these times
that she lets the fire go out or the dinner spoil: that is merely a
piece of the bad luck which, by some strange fatality, always attends
her. The probability seems to be that she will go dreaming through life
in the same way, and that when she goes to meet the Judge who condemned
the slothful servant not for what he did, but for what he left undone,
not one creature in the world will have been the better for her having
lived in it.
THE END.