MARGIE.
"The crown must be won for Heaven,
In the battlefield of life."
ADELAIDE PROCTER.
MEANWHILE, the fugitive and his pursuers were far away, and a desperate
race they had. Until at last, the unwary animal, scenting a freshly cut
stack of hay, turned in at the gate of a farm-yard, and being taken in
the trap, was ridden back by the panting youths, both of whom mounted
on his back—one clasping his arms round the waist of the other who held
the bridle in his right hand, whilst with his left, he kept a firm grip
of the animal's mane.
In this fashion they reached his master's dwelling, turned him in for
the night, and trudged homewards.
They were evidently behind time, for their sister had been out more
than once to look for them. She was standing in the doorway when they
appeared, a strongly-built girl, with unusually sturdy arms for her
age, and a look as if she was accustomed to work hard.
A glance round the room revealed the secret. Half a dozen little
brothers and sisters, beside a lad older than herself, and the two boys
who now pushed their way passed her and began clamouring for something
to eat. No wonder she could not be spared to service, whilst her mother
had so many "to do for."
"You don't deserve anything to eat, if you can't come in at the proper
time," said the mother sharply. "Tea has been cleared away this long
while."
"Jack ran away," said the elder of the two boys.
"And we had a job to catch him," added the other. "My word! What a run
we had!"
"And what a pretty lot of dirt you've brought in," exclaimed the
mother. "Go and pull your boots off."
But the boys knew their tea was safe, for their mother never kept them
without food as a punishment.
Margie followed them into the outer kitchen.
"You 'are' in a mess," she exclaimed, as they kicked off the dirty
boots. "Why can't you be more careful? You're up to your necks with
mud. See what you've brought in for me to clear up."
"Well! Who's to help it?" said the biggest. "I say, Margie! Ain't there
any tea for us?"
"Of course there is," replied Margery, getting down a loaf, from which
she cut two thick slices. "And I saved you this bit off father's bacon.
So now you must be good boys, and get me some wood first thing on
Monday, for we've hardly got a bit. And this wind has brought down a
lot."
When the boys came back, munching their last mouthful, they tumbled
over two of the smaller children playing on the floor, and the latter
set up such a dismal howl that it was all over with the peace of the
family. After several vain attempts to restore quiet, Margery had to
march them off to bed by two's, beginning at the youngest, whilst her
mother remained downstairs patching some clothes for the eldest boy,
who worked on a farm close by.
This was the way in which Margery's day usually ended. It always
commenced by getting them up, and from early morn until they were safe
asleep, she was slaving to keep them out of mischief. Poor child!
Sometimes she got very tired, but she never seemed to regard it as
anything to complain of. She had been accustomed ever since she could
remember to do her utmost. And if she had more to get through every
day, it was only because she was capable of more, so the balance still
kept even.
There was only one thing she regretted, that she could not go to
service. To get a good place and keep it, as one of her cousins was
doing, earning money to buy her own clothes, and even laying by a
little so that she might be able to help her parents in their old age.
That was Margery's dream. But her mother wanted her at home, and that
was quite sufficient reason why she should stay.
The best day of the week was Sunday, because after Margery had helped
get breakfast and wash the children ready for Sunday school, there was
not much else to do, except tidy herself and go to church.
It seemed such a rest to get away and walk through the sweet, quiet air
to the little church on the hill side, where she could sit still in
the high-backed pew and listen to the minister's voice and the solemn
tones of the organ. There was something in the light from the coloured
windows, with their quaint Bible pictures, and in the dim arches of the
vaulted roof overhead, that made her forget how she had been working
and hurrying all the week.
Her brothers called her a silly for going to sit still there all the
morning, when she might have had a ramble in the fields with them.
And if she asked her father to go, he always replied, "Not to-day,
Margie. I must rest my legs a bit, against to-morrow." Then he went and
lounged about the garden and cleaned the pig-stye, or even did a bit
of hoeing among his potatoes, but he never went to church except on
Christmas Day and Easter Sunday.
It was a source of perplexity to Margery, what difference there could
be between attending to the garden and walking to church. But if she
was unable to explain why the former rested his legs more than the
latter, she was just as unable to tell why the church had such a
quieting effect upon "her," so she was content to let the matter rest.
As it happened, the day following that on which we made her
acquaintance, was Sunday. A bright beautiful day it was, one of God's
own Sabbaths, when all the earth seems full of joy and gratitude to its
Maker. The wind, too, had lulled, so the trees were no longer buffeted
and shaken, and their budding branches glittered against the blue sky,
as the sun poured down upon them. Margery usually gave a little sigh of
relief as she closed the door after her, but this morning everything
was so bright that there was no room for a sigh. She only looked away
across the fields to the green hills, over which came the sound of the
bells already ringing for service, and exclaimed—"Oh if it were only
'always' Sunday!"
"What then, little maid?" asked a voice just behind her.
Margery started and turned quickly, and coloured to the roots of her
hair, for it was the clergyman who had overheard her.
"What would you do with all Sundays?" he asked, as she looked down and
did not reply.
"I was thinking there would be no work to do, sir," she answered.
"Ah! That is bad reason," returned the old gentleman. "None but lazy
people want to escape their fair share of work."
"But I was thinking, sir, that if it was always Sunday, 'no one' would
have any work to do."
"I do not fancy they would be any happier for that," said the
clergyman. "It is God who gives us our work to do, you know; and He
never sends us anything that is not good for us."
"But some people have to work so hard, sir," said Margery, "and then
they get tired."
"Do 'you' often get very tired?"
The old gentleman looked down so kindly at her as he asked this
question, that Margery could not feel afraid of him. She glanced up
trustfully in his face and answered—
"Not very, sir; only—I like Sunday."
"And you can't quite tell why? Do you think you would like it so well
if you hadn't been busy all the week? You know the Bible speaks of
heaven as a beautiful land of rest, where we shall never grow weary.
But Jesus said, 'I must work the works of Him that sent Me while it is
day, for the night cometh when no man can work.' And death will be like
a long winter night to those who have not used their daylight well. But
to those who have never been 'weary in well-doing' it will be like this
beautiful Sabbath day, a time to rest and worship God."
Margery did not answer. Probably she did not understand his words, for
she had never troubled her head much about such things as yet. She was
only just beginning to think about them a little. But just then the
clergyman stopped to speak to a lady and gentleman who were coming
along that way, so Margery went on alone.
It was very early when she arrived at the church, only the beadle and
pew-opener were there. The children had not even come in from the
school-room, so Margery sat down on the stone seat in the porch to wait
and watch the faint shadows from the clouds moving across the fields
beyond the graveyard. The wind had risen a little, and the fleecy white
masses kept chasing each other sportively across the sun, until at
last, one denser than the rest came, throwing a shadow which seemed
as if it would never pass. But it was the last. Behind it the sky
stretched clear and blue to the horizon, and as the landscape flashed
into light again, a lark rose out of the grass carolling blithely as he
soared, and mounting in ever-lessening circles, until he became a faint
black speck of song.
"Oh! If I were only a lark," exclaimed Margery to herself. "It wouldn't
matter about Sunday then." But this time she did not express her
thoughts aloud, and there would have been no one to hear them if she
had.
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