AWAY FROM HOME.
MINNIE and Maud were a good deal touched, and somewhat ashamed of
themselves when they heard of little Margerie's self-sacrificing
proposal, but neither they nor their mother supposed it likely
that "grandma" (as they were accustoming themselves to call their
newly-found relative) would agree to taking her. "She is too young to
be of any use," they said.
However, to everybody's surprise, the old lady on being consulted
seemed quite pleased at the idea of having the child. "If she is
quiet and 'biddable,'" she observed—the girls had never heard that
old-fashioned word before, and it struck them as very funny—"I shall
soon get her into the way of being handy. I suppose she has been
brought up to mind what is said to her, and do as she's told?"
Mrs. Grace, junior, "hoped so," but Maud pulled down the corners of her
mouth at Minnie behind a book, and Margerie's gray eyes grew solemn and
round. She could not persuade herself by any device that she "liked"
the prospect of going off with this singular old person, grandmother
though she be, to live in that "eerie" old house all alone. Sometimes
she felt almost as if she should run away and hide somewhere when the
last moment came; even Jamie's admiring remark that she was "a Trojan"
suggested a possible necessity for extraordinary courage that was far
from reassuring. But Minnie and Maud had so positively declared that
they wouldn't go, and poor grandma with her crippled arm and lame
hip must need someone to do things for her, and so—and so—it must be
Margerie.
"You will come and see us every Sunday, you know, my darling, and
we shall come and see you in the week besides," said Mrs. Grace,
when, after accompanying the child to grandma's queer old house, and
inspecting the little bed-room which she was to call her own, she bade
her a final good-bye. "And if you are not happy, we will have you home
directly."
"I feel like a little servant going out to a situation," said Margerie,
with a rather tremulous smile.
One circumstance that made this parting harder than she had at first
anticipated, was the fact that she would no longer go to the same
school as her sisters. It was too far, being quite as long a distance
from Briar Cottage in the one direction as grandma's house was in the
opposite. But Mrs. Grace, senior, undertook that Margerie should at
once commence attending another school as good, and her mother did not
object.
"But I sha'n't be so very, very far-away from you all, shall I?" she
added wistfully.
"Why, no—home is close by," her mother cheerfully responded. "And you
know, Margie dear, the Lord Jesus will be nearer still. His Spirit
comes so close to yours that every thought, every sigh, every throb of
your little heart is felt by His. His power of sympathy is so infinite
and wonderful! I, with my arms clasped round you cannot come anything
like so near to you as He is every moment of your life, because He can
come inside your very soul. And He loves you, Margie, and is pleased
with what you are doing in leaving your dear home. He knows it is to
please father and help grandmother, and because you want to be some
use and comfort in the world. I'm sure His tenderness and love are all
round you, my precious child, so you need never feel lonely, and never
be afraid."
"That's nice!" said Margie, with her face against her mother's breast.
"I like being very near to Him."
But she could not repress a sob when the dear familiar figure of her
mother passed out of the rusty iron gate and disappeared. Mrs. Grace
did not shut the gate behind her, she was too much a mother for that.
Bravely did Margie keep swallowing down the big lump that would rise in
her throat, as she wound worsted for grandma's knitting, and fetched
and carried, and ate her supper of thick bread with a thin scrape of
cheap salt butter on it. She now and then furtively wiped her eyes with
her knuckles, but did not actually break down and cry until she was
alone in the strange little bed in the strange little room upstairs,
amid strange old-fashioned furniture, with forms and shadows that were
unfamiliar to her peering eyes.
It may seem odd, but it was not the thought of parents or sisters that
"set her off" at last—it was the idea that this bed and bed-room didn't
know her or care about her, and that the cosy white crib at home that
had cuddled her every night as long as she could remember, would wait
for her in vain. The poor little empty bed! Margerie stuffed the corner
of the pillow into her mouth and shook with sobs. It did her good,
though, that fit of unrestrained weeping. The pillow, at least, seemed
more friendly after it had been wet with her tears, and with both arms
round it, she by and by fell asleep.
Margerie soon found that grandma was very much in earnest when she said
that she should "get her into the way of being handy." Only three rooms
in the house (besides a kitchen) were occupied: viz. a parlour and the
two bed-rooms. All the others were either empty or shut up and locked.
But the woman who worked for grandma seldom came more than twice a
week, and all the lighter labour which was required in the intervals,
which the old lady before her accident had performed himself, she now
expected our little maid to do. It was a good deal for a child not yet
ten years old, quite as much as Minnie and Maud had undertaken to do
between them at home.
And then mother was so different! She would tell anybody how to do a
thing over and over again, but grandma did not seem to like to have to
show Margerie more than once, or at most, twice. Nevertheless, being
one of those quick, imitative children who delight in copying the
movements of their elders, and really desirous of doing her very best
and being a great deal of use, the little girl soon became surprisingly
deft in her handling of broom and brush, so that if grandma gave her no
praise, she at least rarely found cause for complaint.
One evening the old lady suddenly observed in her sharp, abrupt way, "I
suppose you would very much rather live here than at home?"
This was a "poser." Margerie turned as red as fire, and twisted the
corner of her apron. "I like being able to help you, grandma," she said.
She was not looking at the old lady as she spoke, but out into the
high-walled garden, dim with trees and gathering twilight, or she would
have seen those long, thin lips soften into something more like a smile
than grandma's iron features usually displayed.
"Humph!" the latter said. "But it was your own wish to come, your
mother told me," was the next remark.
"Ye-es!" whispered Margie.
"You were wise. It is a great thing, in your father's present position,
for you to get your board, lodging, and schooling for nothing. An
immense advantage, and one which few children of your age have offered
them. It is more than your father, after the way he behaved towards me
before you were born, had any right to expect. But I am willing to let
bygones be bygones, you see, and behave generously towards you."
If any unprejudiced person had noted the amount of waiting upon, of
sweeping, dusting, washing up, and general attendance Mrs. Grace,
senior, obtained of that one small pair of hands and feet in return for
the said "immense advantage," he might have come to the conclusion that
the balance of indebtedness didn't exactly "bump" down on Margerie's
side. But let that pass. The little girl herself believed she had cause
to be very grateful, and very grateful she earnestly tried to be.
One night, about ten days after her arrival, when the first dreadful
home-sickness had somewhat worn off, Margerie woke up suddenly, while
it was yet quite dark. She did not know what had aroused her, but her
first feeling was of terror and intent listening.
With every sense concentrated into that of hearing, she sat up in bed.
The stealthy opening of a door was audible below, followed by the
softest of footsteps.
Margerie occupied a small room over a built-out scullery. Grandma
slept on the same floor in the front. She sprang out of bed and darted
along a short corridor to the old lady's chamber. The door was ajar,
and grandma's deep, uninterrupted breathing could be heard within. On
the threshold the child paused; should she wake her or not? What could
a poor old lady with a bad arm and a lame hip do to help anybody?
Besides, she was not like mother; she might be very angry if aroused.
While Margerie stood with the handle of the lock in her hand, still
hesitating, a faint glimmer of light became visible, as if moving
noiselessly about the lower part of the house. She sprang half inside
the room with a smothered scream, her eyes still fixed upon the
descending stairs. The light instantly vanished, and the darkness and
silence—save for grandma's snoring—were profound.
The old lady was somewhat hard of hearing when her night-cap was on,
and continued to sleep undisturbed.
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