ROSE IN TROUBLE
AUTUMN had given place to winter, a wet, depressing winter with rain
and westerly gales, and the flat country between W— and Oxford was
flooded. There had been almost incessant rain for weeks now. And Mavis,
as she sat at the little table by her bedroom window engaged in writing
a letter to her mother, which she was taking great pains to spell
correctly, considering every word, glanced at the leaden sky every now
and again, in the hope of seeing a break in the clouds.
"I don't think we ever had such bad weather in London," she reflected.
"But perhaps I didn't notice it so much there. What will happen, I
wonder, if the floods go on increasing? We seem almost surrounded by
water as it is."
By-and-by, Rose came to the door, wanting to know if her cousin had
nearly finished her letter.
"Yes," Mavis replied, "I'm ending up now. Come in, Rosie."
So Rose came in. The two little girls had become very friendly by this
time, for, though there was a difference of two years in their ages,
in many ways Mavis appeared as old if not older than her cousin, no
doubt because she had always been to a great extent in her mother's
confidence. Rose had lived her twelve years in a home where she had had
every comfort. Whilst Mavis had known times when she and her mother
could not have told from what source the wherewithal was to come to
provide them with the necessaries of life, and yet God had never
allowed them to want, He had given them always sufficient for their
needs.
"What is the matter, Rose?" said Mavis, as, having put away her writing
materials, she turned her attention to her cousin, who stood at the
window with an expression of gloom on her face.
"Nothing more than usual," Rose answered, in a tone which implied
that she generally had much to bear. "Mother's been scolding me," she
proceeded, as Mavis continued to look at her inquiringly. "She says
she's most dissatisfied with the progress I'm making at school, that if
I'm not careful you'll soon get ahead of me, and—and I can't help it,
if you do. I try to learn, Mavis, but I'm so slow, and—oh, you mustn't
think that I'm jealous of you, for I'm not!"
"Of course I don't think that, Rosie," Mavis replied, greatly
distressed at the sight of her cousin's tearful eyes and quivering
lips. "It wouldn't be true, if you did. I told mother that Miss
Matthews said it was quite likely you would be raised into my class
next term. I thought she'd be pleased; but, instead, she was angry with
me, and called me a dunce. Perhaps I am a dunce," Rose admitted, with a
sob. "If I am, I can't help it."
Mavis did not know what to say. She was aware that Rose learnt with
difficulty, and that her mother was frequently impatient with her for
being so slow, which seemed to her very unkind. And she had looked
forward to being in the same class as her cousin, because she thought
it would be pleasant for them to do their lessons together.
"Miss Matthews knows that I try to get on," Rose continued, in the same
aggrieved tone. "She never complains of me, and I don't consider mother
ought to have scolded me, just because I'm not so sharp as other girls.
She doesn't worry Bob about his lessons like she does me. Bob's her
favourite, and he can do nothing amiss. I declare I won't try to learn
any more, for mother's sure to find fault with me, anyway! It's most
unjust."
"I don't suppose Aunt Lizzie understands how hard you try to learn,"
Mavis said, putting her arms around Rose and kissing her flushed cheek.
"Don't be unhappy about it, dear. You do your best, I'm sure."
"That's why I feel it's so hard mother should be cross with me, Mavis.
I don't idle my time away, like some of the girls at school do, and—and
she says I must, or I shouldn't be so backward." Rose brushed away an
angry tear, and choked back a sob. "Let us talk of something else," she
said. "You've been writing to Aunt Margaret, haven't you?"
"Yes. Aunt Lizzie said I might enclose a letter with one she has
written. I wonder how long this rainy weather will last, Rosie."
"Father thinks we shall have a change soon, for the wind is getting
more northerly; it's been due west for weeks. If we get frost now the
floods are out, we shall have fine skating; you will like that, Mavis?"
"I can't skate," Mavis answered. "I never tried."
"Oh, we will soon teach you. I am looking forward to a long spell of
frost, like we had last winter."
"Are you? We thought that frost was dreadful in London, because it made
things so hard for the poor—they don't feel the wet so much as long as
it's mild, but when it's cold and frosty, the distress is terrible.
Last winter, not far from where we lived, a poor old woman was found
dead on a doorstep; I couldn't sleep for nights afterwards for thinking
of her."
"How shocking!" exclaimed Rose, in an awe-struck voice. "Had she no
home?"
"No. There are hundreds and hundreds of people in London without homes.
Mother knew a great many poor people, and it used to make her so sad
when she couldn't help them. Often they'd come and tell her their
troubles, because, you see, being poor herself, she could understand
better than if she had been rich," Mavis explained, with a wisdom
beyond her years.
"Were you, then, very poor, Mavis?" Rose inquired, wonderingly.
"Yes," nodded Mavis; "but we always had enough to eat, though sometimes
it was only bread-and-butter. Once we couldn't pay our rent, and mother
was in great trouble about that, but Miss Tompkins was very kind, and
said she would willingly wait for it. And then, mother had a good
engagement to nurse a rich old gentleman for a few weeks, so Miss
Tompkins hadn't to wait long."
"Why didn't your mother write to father for some money, Mavis?" asked
Rose. "I am sure he would have been very pleased to send her some."
"I am sure he would, too, now I know him. I don't know why she didn't
write to him; perhaps she did not like to bother him, yes, that must
have been it."
"Father says Aunt Margaret has been a wonderful woman to do as she has
done, with no one to help her," remarked Rose.
"God helped her," said Mavis, simply; "mother says He helps all who
trust in Him."
"You tell Him all your troubles, don't you, Mavis?" Rose asked. Then,
as her cousin nodded assent, she said, "I don't mean only great
troubles, but little ones?"
"Oh yes."
"Well, I don't. I just say my regular prayers twice a day, and that's
all. I don't feel God's my Friend, like you do."
"Don't you? Oh, but you should. I'd tell Him everything, if I were you."
"What, that mother's vexed with me for being slow at school, for
instance?"
"Yes. God knows you do your best, Rosie, if Aunt Lizzie doesn't. I'd
ask Him to make her believe it, if I were you. Mother says when we've
told God our trouble, we oughtn't to worry about it any more, but just
leave it to Him, and He'll be sure to put it right."
"Do you really think that?"
"Of course I do. He has promised to bear our troubles, and you know
it says in the Bible, 'there has not failed one word of all His good
promise.' I'll show you the verse, if you like."
"It astonishes me that you should be so religious," Rose observed,
after a few minutes' thought, "because you're such a merry little soul
as a rule, always singing about the place and ready for any fun, and I
thought religious people were generally very solemn."
"Oh, do you think so? Mother says religion ought to make people joyous
and happy, and that it's mistrusting God to be gloomy and sad. That's
why I've tried not to trouble about her leaving me; but sometimes I
haven't been able to help crying when I've thought how far she's gone
away, and then I've felt so bad about it afterwards."
At that moment heavy footsteps, easily recognizable as Mr. Grey's, were
heard ascending the stairs, and a minute later came a knock at the
door, and a voice outside called—
"Mavis, I've news for you, my dear."
"News?" Mavis sprang to the door and flung it open wide. "Oh, Uncle
John," she cried, as she saw her uncle standing smiling at her, "do you
mean that you have news of mother? But no, it cannot be that!"
"Yes, it is, child," Mr. Grey responded, "and good news, too. The
'Nineveh' has arrived at Sydney. Your mother's in first-rate health,
and Miss Dawson is better. I've had a letter from Mr. Dawson, and he
has had a cablegram from your mother. It seems, he promised her he
would let us know as soon as he heard from her. It is very good news,
isn't it?"
"Splendid!" cried Mavis, her face aglow with happiness. "How kind of
Mr. Dawson to write to you, Uncle John! I never guessed we should get
news so soon, did you?"
"Well, I thought it just possible," Mr. Grey admitted, "but I didn't
say a word about it, for fear you should be disappointed. Mr. Dawson is
evidently in high spirits, judging from the tone of his letter. And I
don't believe your mother would raise his hopes about his daughter, if
she had not good cause for doing so. The change of climate may really
set up the poor young lady's health, after all, and I sincerely hope
God may spare her life. Her father has my sympathy. I know how grieved
I should feel if I had to send my little girl away from me, especially
if she was ill."
And Mr. Grey smiled affectionately at Rose as he spoke.
She threw her arms around his neck and hugged and kissed him again and
again, exclaiming the while—
"Oh, you dear father! You do love me, don't you, just as much as though
I was clever?"
"Bless the child, yes," he replied, with his hearty laugh. "Why, Rosie,
there are tears in your eyes. What's the meaning of that?"
She would not tell him, however, and he was wiser than to press the
question.
Meanwhile, Mavis had gone in search of the other members of the
household to impart her news to them. Her heart was singing with joy,
and her aunt thought she had never seen a brighter, happier pair of
eyes than those which peeped around the kitchen door to see if she was
there.
"Such good news, Aunt Lizzie!" cried Mavis, and she proceeded to
explain what it was.
"Thank God they have made the journey in safety!" exclaimed Jane, who
had stopped in the midst of the important business of stove-cleaning
when the little girl had appeared.
"I do thank Him," Mavis answered, softly.
"How relieved in mind Mr. Dawson must be!" exclaimed Mrs. John.
She was rubbing the contents of the plate-basket with a piece of
chamois leather, her usual task on a Saturday afternoon. "Poor man, I
sympathize with him greatly," she continued, "especially as Miss Dawson
is his only child. How grateful he will be to your mother, Mavis, if
she brings him back her patient restored to health!"
"Mother will take good care of her," Mavis responded. "She's a capital
nurse, every one who knows her says that; but only God can make Miss
Dawson well."
"That's so," agreed Jane, with a nod, as she returned to her stove.
"I don't believe that child ever forgets that God's above all," she
remarked, as Mavis left the kitchen to look for Bob, to impart her news
to him. "It's to be hoped she'll always remember it."
"She's a strange little thing," her mistress answered, "so very
childish in some ways, and in others thoughtful beyond her years."