THE COURSE OF THE SEASONS.
Upon Aaron's return to the little parlor he saw that Rachel was
greatly disturbed.
"My life!" he said, and he folded her in his arms and tenderly
embraced her. "Don't let such a little thing as this distress you; it
will all come right in the end."
"But how you kept your temper," she said, "that is what surprised me."
"It gave me the advantage of him, Rachel. I was really amused." He
pinched her cheeks to bring the color back to them. "Some men must be
managed one way, some another. And now for our game of bezique. Mr.
Whimpole's visit"--he laughed at the recollection--"will make me enjoy
it all the more."
There was no resisting his light-heartedness, and he won a smile from
her, despite her anxiety. Rachel was not clever enough to discover
that it was only by the cunning of her husband that she won the rubber
of bezique. He was a keen judge of human nature, and he knew that this
small victory would help to soothe her.
The next day was Friday, and the three golden balls were put up, and
the name of Aaron Cohen painted over the shop door. A great many
people came to look, and departed to circulate the news. At one
o'clock the painting was done, and then Aaron said to his wife, "I
shall be out till the evening. Have you found anyone to attend to the
lights and the fire?" They were not rich enough to keep a regular
servant, and Aaron never touched fire on the Sabbath.
"I have heard of a woman," said Rachel; "she is coming this afternoon
to see me."
"Good," said Aaron, and, kissing Rachel, went away with a light heart.
In the afternoon the woman, Mrs. Hawkins, called, and Rachel explained
the nature of the services she required. Mrs. Hawkins was to come to
the house every Friday night to put coals on the fire and extinguish
the lights, and four times on Saturday to perform the same duties.
Rachel proposed eightpence a week, but Mrs. Hawkins stuck out for
tenpence, and this being acceded to, she departed--leaving a strong
flavor of gin behind her. When Aaron came home the two Sabbath candles
were alight upon the snow-white tablecloth, and on the tablecloth a
supper was spread--fried fish, white bread and white butter, and in
the fender a steaming coffeepot. He washed and said his prayers, and
then they sat down to their meal in a state of perfect contentment.
Aaron, having besought the customary blessing on the bread they were
about to eat, praised the fish, praised the butter, praised the
coffee, praised his wife, and after a full meal praised the Lord in a
Song of Degrees for blessings received: "When the Eternal restored the
captivity of Zion we were as those who dream. Our mouths were then
filled with laughter, and our tongues with song." He had a rich
baritone voice, and Rachel listened in pious delight to his intoning
of the prayer.
The supper things were cleared away, the white tablecloth being
allowed to remain because of the lighted candles on it, which it would
have been breaking the Sabbath to lift, and then there came a knock at
the street door.
"That is the woman I engaged," said Rachel, hurrying into the passage.
There entered, not Mrs. Hawkins, but a very small girl, carrying a
very large baby. The baby might have been eighteen months old and the
girl ten years, and of the twain the baby was the plumper.
Without "with your leave," or "by your leave," the small girl pushed
past Rachel before the astonished woman could stop her, and presented
herself before the no less astonished Aaron Cohen. Her comprehensive
glance took in the lighted candles, the cheerful fire, and the master
of the house in one comprehensive flash. With some persons what is
known as making up one's mind is a slow and complicated process; with
the small girl it was electrical. She deposited the large baby in
Aaron's lap, admonishing the infant to "keep quiet, or she'd ketch
it," blew out the candles in two swift puffs, and kneeling before the
grate, proceeded to rake out the fire. So rapid were her movements
that the fender was half filled with cinders and blazing coals before
Rachel had time to reach the room.
"In Heaven's name," cried Aaron, "what is the meaning of this?"
"It's all right, sir," said the small girl; "I've come for aunty."
"Put down the poker instantly," exclaimed Aaron; "your aunty, whoever
she may be, is not here."
"Tell me somethink I don't know," requested the small girl. "This is
Mr. Cohen's, the Jew, aint it?"
"It is," replied Aaron, with despairing gestures, for the baby was
dabbing his face with hands sticky with crumbs of sugar stuff.
"Well, wot are yer 'ollerin for? I'm only doing wot aunty told me."
"And who is your aunty?"
"Mrs. 'Orkins. Pretend not to know 'er--do! She sed you'd try to do
'er out of 'er money, and want 'er to take fippence instid of
tenpence."
"Did she? You have come here by her orders, I suppose?"
"Yes, I 'ave--to poke out the fire and blow out the candles--and I've
done it."
"You have," said Aaron ruefully. "And now, little girl, you will do as
I tell you. Put down that poker. Get up. Feel on the mantelshelf for a
box of matches. I beg your pardon; you are too short to reach. Here is
the box. Take out a match. Strike it. Light the candles. Thank you!
Last, but not least, relieve me of this baby with the sticky hands."
The small girl snatched the baby from his arms, and stood before him
in an attitude of defiance. For the first time he had a clear view of
her.
"Heaven save us!" he cried, falling back in his chair.
Her appearance was a sufficient explanation of his astonishment. To
say that she was ragged and dirty and forlorn, and as utterly unlike a
little girl living in civilized society as any little girl could
possibly be, would be but a poor description of her. Her face
suggested that she had been lying with her head in a coal scuttle; she
wore no hat or bonnet; her hair was matted; her frock reached just
below her knees, and might have been picked out of a dust heap; she
had no stockings; on her feet were two odd boots several sizes too
large for her and quite worn out, one tied to her ankle with a piece
of gray list, the other similarly secured with a piece of knotted
twine. Her eyes glittered with preternatural sharpness; her cheek
bones stuck out; her elbows were pointed and red; she was all
bone--literally all bone; there was not an ounce of flesh upon
her--not any part of her body that could be pinched with a sense of
satisfaction. But the baby! What a contrast! Her head was round and
chubby, and was covered with a mass of light curls; her hands were
full of dimples; her face was puffed out with superabundant flesh; the
calves of her legs were a picture. In respect of clothes she was no
better off than Mrs. Hawkins' niece.
"Wot are yer staring at?" demanded the girl.
"At you, my child," replied Aaron with compassion in his voice.
"Let's know when yer done," retorted the girl, "and I'll tell yer wot
I charge for it."
"And at baby," added Aaron.
"That'll be hextra. Don't say I didn't warn yer."
There were conflicting elements in the situation: its humor was
undeniable, but it had its pathetic side. Aaron Cohen was swayed now
by one emotion, now by another.
"So you are Mrs. Hawkins' niece?" he said, with a twinkle in his eyes.
"Yes, I am. Wot 'ave yer got to say agin it?"
"Nothing. Is baby also Mrs. Hawkins' niece, or nephew?"
"If you've no objections," said the girl with excessive politeness,
"she's Mrs. Pond's little gal, and I nusses 'er."
"I have no objection. What is your name?"
"Wot it may be, my lordship," replied the girl, her politeness
becoming Arctic, "is one thing--wot it is is another."
"You are a clever little girl," said Aaron, smiling and rubbing his
hands--"a sharp, clever little girl."
"Thank yer for nothink," said the girl.
She had reached the North Pole; it was necessary to thaw her.
"Upon the mantelshelf," said Aaron, "just behind that beautiful blue
vase, are two penny pieces. Step on a chair--not that cane one, you'll
go through it; the wooden one--and see if you can find them."
"I see 'em," said the girl, looking down upon Aaron in more senses
than one.
"They are yours. Put them in your pocket."
The girl clutched the pennies, jumped from the chair--whereat the baby
crowed, supposing it to be a game provided for her amusement--and
having no pocket, held the money tight in her hand. Visions of sweet
stuff rose before her. The pennies getting warm, the ice at the North
Pole began to melt.
"And now perhaps you will tell me your name."
"Prissy. That's the short un."
"The long one is----"
"Priscilla."
"A grand name. You ought to have a silk gown and satin shoes and a
gold comb." Prissy opened her eyes very wide. The ice was melting
quickly, and the buds were coming on the trees. "And baby's name?"
"Wictoria Rejiner. That's grander, aint it?"
"Much grander! Victoria Regina--a little queen!" Prissy gave baby a
kiss, with pride and love in her glittering eyes. "What makes your
face so black, Prissy?"
"Coals. Aunty deals in 'em--and cabbages and taters and oranges and
lemons. And she takes in washing."
So genial was Aaron Cohen's voice that spring was coming in fast. "You
look, Prissy, as if you had very little to eat."
"I don't 'ave much," said Prissy, with a longing sigh. "I could eat
all day and night if I 'ad the chance."
"My dear," said Aaron to his wife, "there is some coffee left in the
pot. Do you like coffee, Prissy?"
"Do I like corfey? Don't I like corfey! Oh, no--not me! Jest you try
me!"
"I will. Give me Victoria Regina. Poke the fire. That's right; you are
the quickest, sharpest little girl in my acquaintance. Pour some water
from the kettle into the coffeepot. Set it on the fire. Rachel, my
dear, take Prissy and baby into the kitchen and let them wash
themselves, and afterward they shall have some supper."
The buds were breaking into blossom; it really was a lovely spring.
In a few minutes Rachel and the children re-entered the room from the
kitchen, baby with a clean face, and Prissy with a painfully red and
shining skin. Following her husband's instructions, Rachel cut half a
dozen slices of bread, upon which she spread the butter with a liberal
hand. Prissy, hugging Victoria Regina, watched the proceedings in
silence. By this time the coffee was bubbling in the pot.
"Take it off the fire, Prissy," said Aaron Cohen; and in another
minute the little girl, with baby in her lap, was sitting at the table
with a cup of hot smoking coffee, well sugared and milked, which she
was so eager to drink that she scalded her throat. The bread and
butter was perhaps the sweetest that Prissy had ever ate, and the
coffee was nectar. The baby ate more than Prissy; indeed, she ate so
much and so quickly that she occasionally choked, and had to be
violently shaken and patted on the back; but she became tired out at
last, and before Prissy had finished her bounteous meal she was fast
asleep in her nurse's arms.
Aaron Cohen leaned back in his chair, and gazed with benevolent eyes
upon the picture before him; and as he gazed the sweetest of smiles
came to his lips and did not leave them. Rachel, stealing to the back
of his chair, put her arms round his neck, and nestled her face to
his.
It was a most beautiful summer, and all the trees were in flower.