MAKING A CHOICE.
MRS. RULE remarked that some of the girls looked very dull; all looked
depressed and weary, but some looked also as if they had never smiled
in all their young lives. She drew Mrs. Marner aside and asked in a
whisper—
"Is there anything wrong with the three or four girls that look so
heavy and low? Are they in disgrace, ma'am? One or two are about the
size that would please me."
"Heavy and low? Well, now, I've remarked that myself. Them are
foundlings—the rest are orphans. I have remarked that the foundlings
are mostly very stupid. But, getting 'em as babies, you see, one brings
'em into order at once, and there's far less trouble with 'em than with
the orphans, that very likely have been spoilt by their fathers and
mothers."
Mrs. Marner did not imitate Hannah, and whisper, but spoke in her
ordinary rather cracked and high voice. One little girl began to cry.
"Come, come, Annie Bell, you stop that! You're here three months now,
and 'tis time for you to leave off beginning to cry like a baby at
every chance word. I can't have any noise. Oh, here's the master."
An old man, with a bent form, and a very sharp, almost angry expression
of countenance, came in, and the faces of the girls betrayed that they
were sorry to see him.
"Eh, what's going on Mrs. Marner, why didn't you send for me, eh?"
"I could do as well without you, Mr. Peters. Here has Mrs. Anstruther
sent this lady for a child to adopt, and I was just letting her see
them."
"I'm not a lady, Mrs. Marner, but just a working woman. I make my
living by letting lodgings and cooking for people giving parties—for
I'm a fine cook. The girl I take will have a quiet home, and I'll be as
kind to her as I know how. I'll teach her all I know, if she'll learn.
I'd like her to be about ten years old."
"Very good. Then you five—no, six—big girls may go about your business.
Go up yonder to your class. And you little ones, clear out—quick now!
Now, ma'am, here's eight girls about the age you want. Nothing like a
little method; I suppose the business would have lasted all day, if I
hadn't come in!"
"Well, I'm in no hurry," Hannah answered; for she felt that matters had
been on a pleasanter footing before the good gentleman appeared. Then
she added slowly, "I want a good girl."
"Then you'll have to go elsewhere, ma'am. All my teaching is just
wasted on them, they're never a bit the better for it. There's Annie
Bell, she has a temper fit to frighten you. Sally Jones can't speak the
truth, not if she tried, and she don't try. Maggie Waters—"
"Oh, come now, Mr. Peters," the matron said. "You're too bad. If your
words came to the ears of the Board now—"
"I don't care! For all their new members and their ladies and their new
plans, they can't dismiss me. Mine's a vested interest, mine is, and
so's yours, Mrs. Marner; we've no call to abase ourselves before the
Board."
"We've no call to be spiteful, and stand between one of these children
and a good home. Now, there's Ellen August; you can't say she has a bad
temper, and I never knew her to tell a lie."
The little girl thus named proved to be one of the foundlings. She was
a child with a pale, sallow complexion, her eyes were blue, and rather
vacant looking, and her hair was cropped so short that one could only
guess at the colour. She started when named, and looked up for the
first time.
"Oh, if the good lady wants a fool, let her have Ellen August," said
the crabbed old man—"the stupidest, silentest, sulkiest girl in the
Trust."
Little Ellen looked at him and then at Hannah. "I don't want to go,"
she said in a very shy, low voice.
"She's only nine," Mrs. Marner said, "but she's a quiet, biddable
child, and very truthful, which I'm sorry to say is not the case with
all. They do things on the sly and deny them, but Ellen tells the
truth."
"Why don't you want to come, child?" asked Hannah, taking the child's
hand.
"I don't know, ma'am."
"She knows no place but this, ma'am," said Mrs. Marner; "that's it,
Ellen, ain't it?"
"I'd be frightened," Ellen whispered.
"Well, I'll see Mrs. Anstruther in the evening," said Hannah, who was
every moment getting less inclined to take this or any other child;
"and I'll wish you a good morning now, ma'am."
"Girls, go into the hall; your dinner must be ready," said the matron.
"You just wait a moment, ma'am, and I'll open the gate for you."
The girls went out very quietly, two and two.
"She won't take any of us," one whispered to another.
"I'm glad she won't have me," was the reply. "I'd rather be 'prenticed."
The last girl picked up the baby, and in a minute, they were all gone.
"They're like machines, more than children," said Hannah, looking after
them.
"That's what the new Board says. But, ma'am, if one old woman has
twenty girls to keep in order, she must break 'em in and make 'em
quiet."
"They're mischievous enough in their sly way," said old Peters; "a bad
lot. But what could you expect of them, specially the foundlings?"
"Now, ma'am," said Mrs. Marner, when the two women had reached the
gate, "don't you mind old Peters. The new ladies and gentlemen on the
Board have offended him. They say he teaches the girls nothing, or next
to that; and they spoke of dismissing him, and then found they could
not unless they pensioned him, and the money won't run to that; and
he's a cross-grained old fellow, and will do anything he can to spite
and hinder them. They want to thin the house, and do more for those
they keep, and he'll do all he can to prevent one single child being
taken out till it can be 'prenticed. He bangs the girls about enough to
make 'em stupid, and he's always at them, so bitter. He really seems to
hate the poor things, and Ellen August he never has a good word for,
though she's a most inoffensive child. He makes her dull. I sometimes
think the poor thing will go silly before she gets apprenticed."
Hannah went home. She cooked and ate her dinner, telling herself all
the time that she must find some other plan, for that to have one of
those girls always under her feet would be dreadful. Some looked sly
and some looked sulky, yet that little Ellen August had a look of her
sister Fanny, of whom Hannah had been very fond. Yes, she really was
like poor Fanny, though "she" had been a pretty child, which Ellen
certainly was not. Yet, for all that, she had a look in her eyes that
was like Fanny.
Poor Fanny! She had gone to a situation in Wales, and had married a
groom in the same service. But after a few years he lost his place, and
they had gone away. And after a time Fanny had ceased to write, and
Hannah had never been able to find out what became of her. But she felt
sure that Fanny was dead; she had been a loving little soul, and would
surely have written. Yes, that child had a look of her.
Then she thought of Fanny in her childish days: her pink cheeks, her
merry eyes, her pretty, fair hair, her sweet laugh and coaxing ways.
What a happy child she was! And yet she could not have been a happy
woman, for there had certainly been some story about her husband at the
time he was dismissed—and now she was dead.
Think of this poor child: her half-awake, half-frightened face, her
slow unwilling movements, her indistinct voice. Well, now, it would be
hard to grow up with nothing happier than this to look back to. One
cannot make a woman's life happy—Hannah would have made her sister
happy if she could—but one "could" make a child happy, at least,
happier than little Ellen seemed.
But it would be a deal of trouble, more than Hannah wished for or felt
necessary.
Not so very long ago, Hannah would have contented herself by finding
some less troublesome way of showing kindness to some one. But, curious
to say, the habit of showing kindness had so softened and awakened her
heart that it ached for all these joyless children, and for little
Ellen in particular.
There was some beautiful lace waiting to be washed, but in her
troubled thoughts the lace was forgotten, and Hannah actually sat in
her favourite seat by the window, screened by her geraniums, doing
nothing!—That, at least, would have been her account of it, for she had
not an idea that thinking may be work; yet, as a matter of fact, she
was finding it very hard work.
Perhaps not even Ellen August, whose heart and mind had never been
awakened, was in a less lively condition, as regards both feeling and
intellect, than that to which Hannah Rule had attained by long years of
making it her sole object in life to work hard and to save money for
herself alone. "No man liveth to himself," we are told; many men and
many women have tried it, but the life is not really life. The best,
the highest part, of those who so live, dies out of them.
We are made in the likeness of God, and the likeness is ours yet,
fallen and defaced as it may be. Other things have forced their way
into the once high nature, things low and earthly usurp the throne
in our heart. For that lower, more earthly nature, Hannah, like many
another, had been living for many a day.
But I am sure of one thing, no one who has fallen into such a way of
living is ever left without a call to awake. Ay, and many calls. Happy
are they who hear, and rouse themselves. To Hannah a call came, through
the apparent chance which made her read "Questions which Ought to be
Answered." Perhaps she had begun to weary a little of her narrow life
before she read the book, but she was not aware of it—her hands and her
thoughts were full, and she asked no more.
She opened the book now, and read the last little chapter.
"My friend, have you asked yourself all these questions? and
are you wondering why I have asked so many questions, without
trying to give you a plain answer to any of them? This question
I will answer, in part.
"If you are a servant, you know what your master means when he
rings the bell. You go to him, and he gives you his orders. I have
only rung the bell. I do not ring it for myself, but for the Master.
If I have made you hear and think, you will not rest content with
what I say. Go to the Master. Learn of Him. Learn to be like Him.
All my questions may be summed up in this one, 'Will you serve the
Lord Christ?' If you will, He will not leave you without guidance
and help. He will neither forget nor forsake you; He will fill your
heart with peace and joy, and will welcome you to the many mansions
of His Father's house when you come to die."
"Learn to be like Him!" said Hannah to herself. "I'm afraid I shall
never be like Him. I remember many things He did and said, though for
years I never opened the Bible. But I 'do' mean to serve Him now, if
I can. I'll take this child—I remember He was good to children—and
I'll do the best I can for her. Maybe that will be serving Him. I do
declare, 'tis half-past five, and I may miss Mrs. Anstruther, after
all! I must go at once!"
Mrs. Anstruther lived in Kensington, or near it, and Hannah was late
for her appointment. But the lady was so pleased that the child was to
be taken, that she would willingly have forgiven a greater fault.
"You see, Hannah, I am one of a few ladies and gentlemen who have
contrived to get made members of the managing Board of the Trust,
because it seems that the girls are getting no real education. And they
really are not in the least like what one cares to see children."
"No, indeed, ma'am; they seem just half alive."
"Yes, old Peters is a wretch, and bullies them; moreover, he is an
ignorant old donkey, and not fit to be a schoolmaster at all. At the
same time, unless we can decrease the expenses, we cannot pension
him, which is what we want to do. There are five girls of an age to
be apprenticed now, according to the terms of the 'Trust.' But even
keeping the number down to fifteen won't enable us to pension old
Peters—if we could bring them down to ten we could manage. Then we
could improve matters—put in a bright, well-educated young woman to
manage and teach the girls, and let old Marner be merely housekeeper."
"The big girls would be as well out of the way, ma'am. I don't like the
look of them."
"No, and so many of the girls have turned out troublesome and idle that
we find it hard to dispose of these. In fact, we mean to subscribe
among ourselves to increase the premiums. Well, Ellen August—so called
because she was brought there in August—is a lucky child. I know you
will be kind to her, Hannah. I remember our nursery days, and how we
loved you."
"I've changed since then, Miss Geraldine, and not for the better. But,
God helping me, I mean to be different now."
"And was it really all the work of that queer little book, Hannah?"
"Well, I don't say that, ma'am. It seems to me there's more than that
in it."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm not good at explaining, but if you poke the fire, ma'am, you don't
say the poker did all the work."
"I see. Well, good-bye, Hannah, for I must dress now to go out. I have
to see two people, and dine with the Stanleys. This is the fifteenth,
and the twentieth is the Armine Board day. Shall I bring Ellen to you,
or will you come for her?"
"If you don't mind bringing her, ma'am, it will be better. If I bring
her, every one in the row will be staring at the poor thing in her
queer frock—such guys as the children are—just like a baby's frock made
big."
"Oh, we mean to modernize the fashions a little, though I'm told we
must stick to the colours! Yes, I will bring her; another reason is,
that she will not know her way back if she runs away. One or two have
gone back, and made quite a piece of work at the gate—they get so
frightened. Shall I take a frock for her with me?"
"No, thank you, ma'am. I'll have some stuff ready; and she'll feel more
at home when we talk it over."
"Well, good-bye, Hannah; you will see Armine's Trust a very different
place one of these days. We mean by degrees to make a thorough
reformation."
Hannah went home, and only when she had had her tea did she remember
the lace, which was promised for the next day. Tired as she was, she
set to work at once.
"For it would never do to begin being careless and disappointing 'now,'
would it?" thought she.
And the priceless flounce was ironed before she went to bed.
Next day, when returning from leaving the lace at home, she indulged
herself with some shopping. She bought a new iron bedstead with bright
brass knobs, and a mattress for it. She bought some pretty calico to
make a couple of frocks, and half a dozen neat pinafores, also a straw
hat, and a blue ribbon wherewith to trim it.
"What more she wants, we can get by-and-by," said she to herself. "And
I wonder what she'll say to that pretty print with the little blue
flowers instead of that hideous turkey red? But, maybe, she'll be too
stupid at first to notice anything. I must have patience."
To see Hannah go home laden with parcels was enough to set Mrs.
Collins on the watch. And when a van drove up to No. 3 and left what
looked like the various parts of an iron bedstead and a new mattress,
curiosity became unmanageable. And leaving her lodger's roast mutton to
take care of itself, Mrs. Collins trotted off to inquire. She was in a
hurry, and far too intent to find out something to go to work in her
usual roundabout style; so, when Hannah opened the door, she cried—
"I've not a moment to stay; let me stand in the passage. Oh, Hannah
Rule, can I believe my eyes, that this is a bedstead for the child?
You've gone and agreed to take one!"
"You can see, 'tis a bedstead," replied Hannah.
"For the child?"
"Well, since you must know, yes."
"Mrs. Rule, I thought better of you. I thought better of your sense. I
thought better of your neighbourly feeling, after what I offered to do
for you. I shall live to hear you say you're sorry. 'Tis a mad thing to
do. What's her name?"
"Ellen."
"Well, what more?"
"I mean to call her by my own name," said Hannah, after a moment's
thought.
"She's a foundling, then!" screamed Mrs. Collins. "Well, that caps all!
And my mutton will be burnt. But if 'twas my last word, I'm sorry for
you, Hannah Rule."
"'I'm' sorry for whoever has to eat that mutton," replied Hannah.
"Yes," she thought, "I won't have the child go through the world
labelled 'foundling,' by being called August. I'd have found a name
for her if I had thought of it in time, but old Collins took me by
surprise. Well, whatever poor little Ellen may turn out, she can't be
worse than Mrs. Collins for a neighbour. And yet I don't feel free to
pick a quarrel with her, and bid her leave off trotting here, knocking
and chattering fit to drive one dazy. I 'do' mean to try to serve—but
there's inconveniences about it, no doubt. However, He bore with me
longer than I'll have to bear with Mrs. Collins."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]