THE FIRST MONTH.
FOR the first time for many a year, Hannah refused an engagement to
cook for a grand dinner-party on the 20th, without the excuse of
being pre-engaged. She simply said that she had business at home, and
could not be absent on that day. And the lady who wanted her, being a
hot-tempered dame, said that she would never employ her again. However,
after an experience of a man-cook sent from a pastry-cook's shop, she
found it convenient to forgive Mrs. Rule. Not that Hannah cared, for
she had as much work as she could do.
It was about four o'clock when Wellington Row beheld a handsome
brougham, drawn by a pair of spanking bays, with a coachman and a
footman in correct attire—grand creatures, who looked too fine for the
street and too big for the small houses. It is a fact that the footman
looked tall enough to look in at the first floor windows when he
alighted to perform a tremendous knock at No. 3.
"A carriage and pair!" cried Mrs. Collins, and stared as if bereft of
her senses. "And two servants—they look well fed, too. Ah, why did I
marry young instead of going to service!" (It did not occur to her that
a small woman could hardly develop into a six-foot footman.) "At Hannah
Rule's! What's the man lifting out of the carriage? A bundle?—No, a
child wrapped in a shawl. A lady, too! Oh, me, what a silk! She's in
black. She's going in. No doubt it's the foundling she has brought with
her. Oh, Hannah Rule! But you 'are' deep. The child that's brought in
a carriage and pair by a lady in silks and laces, and looking like a
queen—that child's well paid for, or I'm an idiot. Some old servant's
child, I suppose. Dear, dear, some folks has all the luck."
And the worthy soul stood gazing at the carriage and the two men,
wondering if she dare go to No. 3 to ask if she could be of any use.
But she did not dare, which vexed her to the heart.
"What a nice, sunny room, Hannah," said Mrs. Anstruther. "Ah! Little
Ellen, you're a lucky child. Yes, the shawl is mine—dear me, the child
is half dead with fright. I do hope, Hannah—I cannot stop a moment,
just step outside. I want a word with you. That stupid coachman took
me miles out of the way, I suspect, and I have an engagement this
afternoon. Good-bye, Ellen; be a good child, for you have to thank Mrs.
Rule for great kindness, you know, and—"
"Well, now, Mrs. Anstruther, she has to get the kindness yet. All I've
done, so far, is to take her away from the place she knows, and she
told me she didn't want to come. But you'll see, ma'am, she'll change
her mind."
Mrs. Anstruther stood on the pavement, and Hannah on her snow-white
door-step, holding the door nearly shut.
"Change her 'mind,' Hannah! The question is, has she a mind to change?
We took a long time to drive here, and she never moved nor opened her
lips from the moment I wrapped the shawl round her to hide the terrible
red frock. I begin to fear she is deficient. If so, you must come to
me. I can get her admitted into the Willoughby Home, or somewhere. You
must not be burdened with a fool, my good Hannah. Good-bye. I do feel
that you've been so kind."
And under the very eyes of the watchful and envious Collins, Mrs.
Anstruther shook hands with Hannah, got into her carriage, and was
whirled away.
And the carriage had not turned the corner, when Mrs. Collins knocked
at No. 3. The door opened before she had let go the knocker. Hannah had
seen her at her own door, and had waited.
"You lost no time, Mrs. Collins. I can't ask you to come in, because
I'm going to be busy."
And, if it can be believed, she shut the door, though Mrs. Collins was
so full of questions that she had asked one before she realized that
she was alone.
"Who was that lady?" she said. And then, after a pause of disgust, set
off towards her own door.
But when there, she turned back again, saying—
"There's no law against me passing the house, I presume!"
And she did pass it; but, alas! those admired geraniums prevented
her seeing into the parlour. She caught a glimpse of something red,
and that was all. Returning, sadly, she became aware that Hannah had
perceived her manœuvre, for she stood behind the flowers, laughing.
I think Mrs. Collins ought to be pitied: curiosity as acute as hers
really amounts to a pain.
"Well, she's gone now, it may be hoped," said Hannah, turning to the
child, who sat just where she had been set down by the tall footman,
huddled up in an armchair near the fireplace.
"Why, you poor little soul, you're as cold as if 'twas midwinter,
instead of June weather! Come with me, honey, to the kitchen, and we'll
make some tea, and you shall see what's in the oven—just wait till you
see. Come, dear; I dare say you're hungry."
Ellen tumbled herself off the chair. But she was really so frightened
and so wretched that, when her feet touched the floor, they refused to
do their work, and she would have fallen but that Hannah caught her.
"You're dizzy with driving in the carriage, not being used to it. See,
now; I'll help you."
And she carried the child into the kitchen. Here she bustled about,
making tea and getting ready a very tempting meal. She considered
it better to stay in the kitchen, lest Mrs. Collins, or any other
inquiring neighbour, should look in at the parlour window, and also for
the sake of getting the child warm.
Out of the oven came a little round cake, with "Ellen" in coloured
comfits on the top of it.
"See, now, child, that cake was made for you, on purpose. And, though I
say it that ought not, you never ate a better seed bun in your life."
But poor Ellen was quite innocent of having eaten seed bun of any kind,
and she was afraid to touch this one. Hannah cut it in two, and took
some herself. That was a wise move—Ellen soon ventured on a nibble.
"Drink some tea while it is hot, dear. Were you much afraid when Mrs.
Anstruther took you away?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Ah, I dare say. But you're not afraid of me, are you?"
"Ye—yes, ma'am."
"Of me, that made a cake on purpose for you? To welcome you? Why,
that's foolish, now. Finish up your cake, and have some bread and
butter. And another cup of tea? Come, you'll feel better now. I'll get
the frock I'm making for you, and we'll see if it is a right length.
Not a moment longer than we can help shall you keep on that ugly red
thing. See, now—isn't that pretty? I have the skirt made, and the body
all tacked. Shall we see how it fits?"
The rest of the day was spent by Hannah in finishing the calico frock.
Ellen made no resistance when it was tried on, but seemed to take no
interest in it. In fact, she did not understand that it was meant for
her. The poor child felt as if she understood nothing, but that she was
in a new world. Hannah put her to bed at last, and felt as tired as if
she had done a hard day's work. She sat down to rest, and muttered—
"If I have to do all the talking for long, it will be the death of me.
Poor little lamb! She's like one only half-awake. Well, now, I had
better go and tell Mrs. Collins all I mean to tell her, or no one knows
what stories she'll have all over the place. Besides, she might die of
curiosity, and I don't want to have her death at my door."
She was so tired that she actually felt glad when a well-known
"rap-tap" at her door announced that she need not go in search of Mrs.
Collins, who was soon seated in the parlour, sending searching glances
round in search of the child in the red frock, but suppressing with
care and success all traces of annoyance at the way in which she had
been treated earlier in the day.
"You can't see Ellen to-day, for she's in bed, fair tired out. You
see, she never was half a mile away from Armine's Trust, where she
was brought up from a baby, and she's not used to strangers, and so
everything is very trying."
"All, well, I'll see her some other time. Who was the lady that brought
her here?"
"Mrs. Anstruther. She was Miss Geraldine Bulteel, and it was in her
mother's nursery that I first went to service. She's a widow now, and
very rich. And she's been made one of the Board, as they call it, for
managing Armine's Trust. A while ago I was mending lace for her, and
I mentioned that if I could get a child that had no better friends,
I would be glad to see to it. She's full of kind plans, and does a
deal of good. And so she said that I should do her a favour by taking
a child from Armine's Trust, as they want to have fewer there, money
being short. So I said I'd try, and went to see the children, and the
one I liked best was this little Ellen, who will be ten in August. And
the child is very timid and backward, and younger than I wished, but I
don't mind that. I must see what to do with her when I'm out for the
day."
"Nearly ten, is she? Well, that's too old to be wanting regular care,
like a little one. If you like to leave her with me when you are out,
I'll give her house-room. You won't mind her running an errand for me
now and then, of course? 'Tis good for children to be kept active."
Mrs. Rule laughed a little. "No doubt," said she, "you'd be the one to
keep her active. Thank you, Mrs. Collins, but I must put her to school
for the mornings, and I must arrange for her to stay there till I go
for her. She's a mere baby, as far as taking care of herself goes. I
must say, as far as I see of it, I don't like the way children are
brought up in such places—in the lump, as I may say. Do you know of any
small school where I could put her?"
"The parish school would be good enough for a charity foundling, to
'my' mind," replied Mrs. Collins, with a sniff.
"Quite good enough if she were strong. But she'll want care, and people
must be patient with her. She'd die of fright the first time she heard
the noise those young rogues make when school's over. And I've had to
get on a door-step myself not to be knocked down with the rush."
"Mrs. Rule, is the child silly, that she needs such cosseting?"
"I don't think she is. But she's one that has never had a soft word
said to her, nor any word more than was needful. And I'm determined
that she shall have a fair chance and time to get that frightened look
out of her poor little face, if possible. Now, Mrs. Collins, I've told
you everything; so, if any one is curious about the matter, you know
what to tell them."
Mrs. Collins did not wait for any one to be curious, and what she told
every one was this. Some grand lady had persuaded Mrs. Rule to take
charge of this child who was too troublesome to be kept in some asylum
with a queer name, being half witted, and, Mrs. Collins hoped, not
subject to fits. No doubt the lady paid well, but Mrs. Rule would never
own to that. But she did no great harm, for nobody believed more than
half she said, and Hannah never found out what a report she had given
of her investigations. Before long, people got used to see Ellen with
Mrs. Rule, and forgot all about her arrival.
Next day the nice calico frock and white pinafore made a great
improvement in Ellen's look. Hannah smiled secretly to see the child
turning her little cropped head about till she nearly broke her neck,
to see the frock all round. As to the hat with the blue ribbon, Ellen
sat gazing at it with awe. The first shy little dawn of a smile came
when that hat was tied under her own small chin. Breakfast was over
then, and Mrs. Rule put on her own bonnet, took her basket, and invited
Ellen to come with her, which Ellen consented to, because she was
afraid of being left alone even for a short time.
"I have to market for my lodger as well as for myself, Ellen, and to
see about a school for you. I dare say Mrs. Green, at the baker's shop,
may know of some nice quiet place."
She looked at Ellen, but the child looked quite vacant—a look which
soon gave place to one of alarm when they got into the busy crowded
street. Hannah took her hand, saying—
"Never fear, Pussie, I'll take care of you;" and led her along, but
found she must walk slowly, as the child was unable to get on fast.
Mrs. Green, the baker's wife, said that her own little girls went to a
very nice school, kept by a widowed lady—a Mrs. Cartwright—in a quiet
street not far off. But she did not know if she would take a child for
extra hours.
"But she may, Mrs. Rule, for she's as poor as poor can be. Is the child
a relation of yours?"
"She's my adopted child, ma'am, and I'm willing to pay for her
schooling and anything else in reason. Come, Ellen, we'll go and see
Mrs. Cartwright at once. And thank you, Mrs. Green."
Ellen shuffled along, looking as tired as if she had walked miles. But
they had not very far to go, and Mrs. Cartwright was in the schoolroom.
Her little daughter said, "And won't you come in, ma'am?"
So Hannah entered.
The schoolroom was only the drawing-room of a very tiny house, and
there were about ten little girls all diligently writing copies.
"Mamma, this lady wishes to speak to you."
"Could I see you alone, ma'am? I will not keep you long."
"Certainly," said Mrs. Cartwright, pleasantly; and, turning to her
daughter, she added, "Mildred, do you keep order and call me if you
want me."
She then led the way into another room. Hannah had intended to leave
Ellen in the schoolroom, but the poor child clung to her and looked so
terrified that she had not the heart to insist.
"Wait for me here, Ellen," she said; "you can sit on the stairs. No one
will touch you, child."
"Is she ill?" Mrs. Cartwright said anxiously.
"No, ma'am. If you'll let me tell you all about her, you'll be able to
give me an answer at once."
Very quietly and plainly the story was told. Mrs. Cartwright knew all
about Armine's Trust, as it happened, and had often heard, she said,
of Mrs. Anstruther, who had been very kind to her when she lost her
husband. She was not much inclined to take charge of Ellen, but she
felt ashamed to refuse. Hannah had no idea of setting an example, but
there was something in her simple, straightforward way of trying to do
the best for the child that made Mrs. Cartwright determine to help in
the good work, if possible.
"But you must not blame me, Mrs. Rule, if the parents of my pupils
object, and I have to let her go. I dare not lose my pupils. However,
as Mrs. Green sent you here, I almost think we are safe enough."
"And you'll keep the child till I come for her? When she's a bit older
and—wiser, she can come home alone, but for the present I shall bring
her here and take her home. And you must tell me, ma'am, what I'm to
pay for her being kept all day when I'm at work at a distance. I'll
call for her on my way home."
All was duly arranged. But when they went out to the stairs for Ellen
to tell her about it, Ellen was not there! Hannah remembered what Mrs.
Anstruther had said about some of the girls trying to return to the
Trust, and, thinking of Ellen's timidity and helplessness, she was
quite frightened. The hall door was open; Hannah went quickly out, and
looked up and down the street. She soon espied a little figure sitting
on a door-step, the hands up to the eyes and the cropped head hatless.
"I see her," said Hannah. "Never mind, ma'am, I shall fetch her
to-morrow."
And she hurried on to where Ellen's short career as a runaway had come
to an abrupt end.
"Why, Ellen, what made you leave the house? That wasn't right of
you—and where's your hat?"
[Illustration: "WHY, ELLEN, WHAT MADE YOU LEAVE THE HOUSE?"]
Ellen looked up, at first more frightened than ever. But when she
recognized her kind friend, the poor little face brightened.
"It is you!" she said. "Yes, ma'am, I was bad." And she held out her
small hand, palm uppermost, and shut her eyes tight, that she might not
see the slap coming.
"I'm not going to slap you, child. Where did you want to go?"
"I don't know. A girl opened the door and looked at me, and then more
came and looked, too. And, when they shut the door again, I went away.
I think I wanted to go back to the Trust. But a big boy got hold of my
hat and said 'twas his, and asked who cropped my head so pretty? So I
sat down and cried."
"Ellen, listen to me. Promise me you'll stay with me and do as I tell
you for one month, and then, if you want to go back to Armine's Trust,
I'll speak to Mrs. Anstruther about it. I know that, if you say you
will, you will keep your word—that is why I chose you, because you
speak the truth."
Ellen promised. Another hat was then bought, but no blue ribbon. Hannah
thought that a silent lesson might, perhaps, be learned by the absence
of the admired ribbon.
Hannah had no engagement for that day, so she employed herself in
washing her own aprons and in making up a couple of tidy caps, also
in making bread, and soup, and various other small cookeries. Ellen
followed her about from room to room, but always retired to a corner
and sat watching her. Upstairs, to dust and arrange the first floor
rooms; higher still, to the attic where that new bedstead stood beside
Hannah's own; out into the yard to feed the two respectable hens, and
to look in the nest for an egg—a great puzzle to poor Ellen, who had
never before connected eggs with feathered fowl; in and out, up and
down, the silent, unsmiling child followed Hannah all that day, until,
thanks to the unusual exertion and excitement, she got so tired that
she fell fast asleep in her corner, and Hannah carried her off to bed.
Every day that Hannah spent at home, Ellen went about after her in the
same way, as soon as she got home from school. Hannah was a sensible
woman, and possessed of much quiet patience, and she just let the child
alone, talking to her a little, but not unless she seemed to listen
willingly.
At school Ellen wept one whole day—plentifully, but silently. After
that, she seemed assured that no bodily harm was intended her by the
other children, and so was more at rest. It was discovered that she
could read very correctly, in a sing-song voice, and without any stops,
except one now and then where it was not wanted, unless to allow her to
draw breath. Also she could write really beautiful copies, but whether
she knew that the letters she formed so carefully meant anything
more than so many curves and loops, was a very doubtful matter. She
could say the multiplication table without being troubled with any
consideration as to its meaning, just as a parrot might; and she could
do small sums in simple addition, but they were always wrong. Mrs.
Cartwright was not surprised at this result, when she observed that the
child dabbed her slate-pencil at each figure in the row, and then wrote
a figure below, without any mental process whatever.
Poor Mrs. Cartwright! She was an exceedingly conscientious woman, and
her endeavours to arouse Ellen's dormant faculties were constant, but
she never succeeded until a bright idea struck little Mildred, who
had taken Ellen under her protection. Mildred bought twopennyworth of
marbles, and, by their help, convinced Ellen that when you add two to
two you have four, and if you take one away you will have but three.
Ellen gravely said it made the sums harder, but more sense in them.
This happy event took place before the month during which she had
promised to remain in her new home had expired.
That promise had been made on the 28th of June, and, although she
rather dreaded the child's answer, Hannah would not cheat her about the
time. On the 28th of July, when she had brought her home from school,
she said—
"Well, Ellen, the month is up to-day. Am I to ask Mrs. Anstruther to
get you back into the Trust, and give me another girl instead of you?"
Ellen started and grew pale. "That was long ago—'very' long ago," she
said.
"No—it seems long to you, maybe," said Hannah, quite disappointed, "but
it is just a month since you made me that promise, and you've kept it
very honestly. And I was in hopes you were getting contented, but—"
She turned away, and looked out over the geraniums with a very real
feeling of sorrow. She had tried very hard.
Then she felt a little rough head being pushed under her hand—just as a
dog might have done it—two thin arms were flung round her. With a great
sob, Ellen said—
"You won't send me away! I'll be good. I'll do anything—anything.
You—you're so kind. I want to stay. No one is like you."
Hannah was so moved that, for a moment, she could not speak. Then she
took the child in her arms.
"Then you're my own little girl," she said; "and you and me will part
no more till it is God's will."
"But ask Him to let me stay!" Ellen said, as she flung her arms round
Hannah's neck. "Do—please do—give me a kiss."
From that time Hannah took the child to her heart. And, as to Ellen,
she really thought as she said, that there was no one like Hannah. But
it cannot be said that Hannah's troubles with her were quite over. Her
utter want of any notion of taking care of herself, her helplessness,
and want of handiness, made her a trying child. Indeed, she was so
awkward that Hannah began to wonder if she would ever be fit for any
work but the very roughest.
Thinking it over, she determined to let her look on for a good long
time, hoping that she might learn something in that way without being
vexed by perpetual failures. Mrs. Collins thought this very foolish
indeed.
"'I'd' make her learn," said she, eyeing poor quaking Ellen in a very
severe way; "and you'll wish yet that you'd been advised, Mrs. Rule—but
well I know you'll never own to it."
"Well, she's not strong; and I don't want help as yet. She's but a
child. But she's coming on in her schooling nicely. Ellen, could you
read a chapter just to show how you've come on? She reads the Bible to
me every evening. You'd rather not? Well, well, some other time you
will."
"Mrs. Rule," said Mrs. Collins, "you're weaker than I thought possible,
and you'll be the ruin of that child."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]