Little Impulse beaten again.
After breakfast the next morning, Jessie sat down to her work with a
resolute will. Her _impulse_, was to spend the hours playing with Madge.
But her purpose to act by rule was strong, and it conquered. Guy went out
for the brown worsted, which her meeting with Madge, kept her from buying
the previous evening. So giving her _protege_ a seat on a cricket by her
side, she worked merrily, and with nimble fingers, on her uncle's
slippers. The tongues of the two girls, you may be sure, were as nimble as
Jessie's fingers.
While they were thus happily employed, Uncle Morris was out, looking after
the young outcast's mother.
Jessie had not been seated more than an hour before her brother Hugh, with
his friend, Walter Sherwood and his sister Carrie, came in, each armed
with a pair of skates, and well wrapped up, as was fitting they should be,
on a cold day in November. Carrie bounded into the room like a fawn, and
kissing her friend, exclaimed:
"O Jessie! this is a capital morning for skating! Walter has found a nice
safe place, and we have come to take you with us."
This was a strong temptation. Perhaps a stronger could not have been
offered, to incline her to break her purpose, and drop her work. There had
been no day since her skates had been given her, in which there had been
ice enough to try them. It was a new amusement, too, and her heart was set
upon it. Hence, an impulse came over her, to pitch the slipper into the
basket, seize her skates, and hurry away to the desired spot. In fact, she
half rose from the chair, and words of consent were rising to her lips,
when she thought of the little wizard, and reseating herself, replied:
"I would like to go ever so much, Carrie, but I must stay in until
dinner-time, and work on uncle's slippers."
"Bother the slippers! Who cares about them! Uncle don't need them, and why
should you be fussing over them," said Hugh.
"It's very pleasant to work for your good old uncle, I dare say, Miss
Jessie, but you can do that in the afternoon. We very much wish you to
join our party this morning," observed Walter.
"I know I _could_," replied Jessie; "but mother wishes me to sew or study
every morning until dinner-time, and I have resolved to do it. I have
broken my purpose a great many times, but I _must_ keep it now, much as I
want to go out skating. Can't you put off your party until the
afternoon?"
"Not a bit of it!" said Hugh. "Come Walt, come Carrie, let us be off."
"I think I will stay with Jessie this morning," replied Carrie; "and I
invite you, young gentlemen, to beau us to the skating-ground, this
afternoon!"
"If you won't go now, you may beau yourselves for all we," retorted Hugh
in his usual ungracious way, when treating with his sister.
"Don't say _so_, Hugh," responded Walter. "It's hardly polite. 'Spose you
and I go without the girls this morning, and _with_ them this afternoon?
Eh?"
"As you please!" growled Hugh, swinging his skates; "only let us be off
quick."
The boys now left, promising to go with the girls at half-past two in the
afternoon. Carrie laid aside her hood and cloak, which Jessie took, and
laid in a heap upon the table.
"My dear!" observed Mrs. Carlton, who looked into the room just at that
moment; "is _that_ the place for Carrie's things?"
A blush tinged Jessie's cheek. As I have said before, a want of regard for
order, was a fault which grew out of her impulsive nature. She did most
things in a hurry, and usually with some other object before her mind at
the same time. While her uncle had been trying to cure her of the habit of
yielding to her impulses, her mother had also been endeavoring to
stimulate her to cultivate a love of order. No wonder, then, that she
blushed as she went to hang her friend's hood and cloak on the stand in
the hall.
All this time, poor Madge had sat almost unnoticed. So taken up were they
all with their skating party, that they had overlooked the quiet maiden,
sitting so demurely on her cricket. But now the boys were gone, and the
two friends took their seats, Jessie's thoughts came back to the young
outcast, and turning to Carrie, she said:
"Carrie, let me introduce you to Madge Clifton."
"How do you do, miss?" said Carrie, bowing.
Poor Madge did not know much about introductions, and was unused to
company. So she only blushed, hung down her head, and replied:
"Pretty well, thank ye."
Jessie now took Carrie aside, and in whispers told her poor Madge's story,
after which they resumed their seats. Carrie's warm heart soon melted away
the poor outcast's fears; and while the two young ladies were merrily
prattling away, Madge listened with wonder if not with delight. In fact,
her life since last evening seemed more like a dream than a reality to
her. She was still in fairy-land.
Presently the postman came to the house bringing a letter addressed to
"Miss Jessie Carlton." The servant took it to Jessie on a small salver.
"Is it for me?" cried Jessie, taking it up and examining the address.
"Whom can it be from?" asked Carrie, leaning over to her friend's side to
see the handwriting.
"Oh, I know!" exclaimed Jessie. "It's from cousin Emily."
The letter was opened, and Jessie read aloud as follows:
MORRISTOWN, N. J., November 18, 18--.
MY DEAR JESSIE:
I got home nicely from your house. Ma was very glad to see us, and so
was pa. Charlie said he was glad to get home. I was some glad and
some sorry. It was pleasant to see pa and ma again, but I missed you,
oh! ever so much! When I went up to my room that night, I sat down
and cried. I thought over all the naughty things I had said and done
to you while I was at Glen Morris, until it seemed to me I was the
most wicked girl in the world. I thought of you and of dear Uncle
Morris and his good advice, until my heart seemed broken. Then I
kneeled down and asked God to make me a good girl like you. I begin
to believe he will, for I have been trying hard to be good ever
since. Mother says I am a very good girl already; but she don't know
what passes in my thoughts, nor how hard I have to strive to keep
down my ugly, wicked temper. Charlie is not quite so wicked as he
was, either, and I am trying to make him a good boy. I wish you would
come to Morristown and make me a good long visit. With much love to
yourself, and your good Ma, Pa, and Uncle Morris, I am
Your affectionate cousin,
EMILY MORRIS.
TO MISS JESSIE CARLTON.
"What a beautiful letter!" said Carrie. Jessie was silent. She was
thinking. She was secretly rejoicing, too. Such a joy was in her young
heart as had never welled up in it before. She had done Emily good. As Guy
had led Richard Duncan into right paths, so she had led Emily. Happy,
happy Jessie!
Just then she heard Uncle Morris's night-key lifting the latch of the hall
door. Away she bounded from her seat, almost overturning poor Madge in her
hurry. Rushing to her uncle as he was closing the door, she seized his arm
with one hand while she held up Emily's letter in the other, and in a
loud, earnest whisper, said:
"O Uncle! Cousin Emily is trying to be good. She says so in her letter."
Uncle Morris stooped to imprint a kiss on the upturned lips of the eager
child. Then patting her head gently, he said:
"It is not every sower of good seed that finds his harvest sheaf so
quickly as you have done. Perhaps the Great Husbandman has given my Jessie
hers to encourage her to sow, and sow, and sow again--but Jessie, I have
found your Madge's mother."
"Have you, _truly_?" asked Jessie, feeling her interest suddenly revived
in her _protege_.
"Yes. Come with me to your mother's room and I will tell you all about
it."
This "mother's room" was up-stairs, and up they went. Finding Mrs. Carlton
there with her seamstress, they sat down, and Uncle Morris told his story.
Said he:
"I have seen Mrs. Clifton. She is sober this morning, and is quite a
well-bred, intelligent woman. She has been respectable; was well married
to a reputable man. But foolishly forsaking their quiet country home, they
went to the city in the hope of acquiring property. There her husband,
failing to get work, took to drinking and died. Mrs. Clifton buried him,
and, dreading to go back to her old home because of poverty, tried to
support herself by needle-work. In an evil hour she took to drinking;
first as a stimulant to labor, and then as a cordial to soothe her griefs.
Of course she soon sank very low, and made poor Madge go out to beg. At
last, stung with remorse, she resolved to quit the city, and, seeking work
in the country, become a sober woman again. Filled with this purpose she
travelled as far as Duncanville with her child, when her appetite for
drink came upon her. Leaving Madge at the Four Corners she sought the
tavern. The rest you know. _We_ found the child, and _she_ spent the night
in the lock-up."
"Poor thing!" exclaimed Mrs. Carlton.
"Poor little Madge!" cried Jessie, who very naturally felt more for the
unfortunate child, than for the unhappy, but guilty mother.
"Yes," said Mr. Morris, "but pity alone won't do them much good. The
question is, what shall be done with them?"
"True," rejoined Mrs. Carlton, "but are you sure the woman's story is
true?"
"It agrees with the account Madge gave of herself, so far as the affair of
last evening is concerned. Being true in _one_ thing, I hope it is in all.
She has, however, given me references to her old friends in the country,
and professes to be very anxious to live a reformed life. I will write to
her friends, but, meanwhile, what shall we do with her?"
"Let her come here, and stay with Madge?" suggested Jessie.
Mrs. Carlton looked at her brother, and read in his eyes an approval of
her daughter's suggestion.
"Be it so," said she, "if you think best. I can keep her busy with her
needle, until we hear from her friends, and something offers. Perhaps a
few days spent in our quiet home, will confirm her in her feeble purposes
to reenter the way of sobriety."
"Spoken just like yourself!" said Mr. Morris, with an expression which
showed how greatly he loved and admired his sister. "I will go after the
poor creature directly."
"Oh, I'm _so_ glad Madge's mother is coming here to live!" cried Jessie,
clapping her hands, and running down-stairs to tell the good news to her
_protege_.
The outcast child looked a gratitude she did not know how to express,
after hearing what Jessie had to say. She fixed her large, black eyes,
swimming in tears, upon her friendly hostess, and silently watched her
every motion.
"I think it's very kind of your mother, to take a stranger into her house
so," whispered Carrie.
"So it is," replied Jessie, who was now busy with her embroidery on the
slipper. "So it is, but my Uncle Morris says that it is godlike to be
kind, and that if we are kind and loving to poor people, the great God
will honor us, and care for us."
Carrie looked at the sweet face of Jessie with admiration for some time,
without saying a word. At last, to break the silence, she said:
"Won't we have a good time, skating this afternoon?"
"I hope so," said Jessie; "and we will take Madge with us, shall we?"
"Can you skate, Madge?" asked Carrie.
Madge shook her head. The child was nervous and uneasy about the coming of
her mother. She was afraid she might come to the house tipsy, and so
offend the friends who loved her so well.
"Can you _slide_ on the ice?" asked Jessie.
"Yes, ma'am," replied Madge, evidently getting to be more and more
absent-minded.
"She is thinking about her mother," whispered Carrie.
"Yes, don't let us trouble her," replied Jessie.
Quickly sped the bright needle, with its beautiful worsteds, along the
slipper, and quickly grew into shape the flowers which were to form the
pattern. A happy heart and a resolute will, make her fingers both nimble
and skilful.
By and by, Uncle Morris's night-key was heard opening the door-latch
again. Jessie started, listened a moment, then dropped her work, and
taking Madge's hand, said:
"Your mother is come!"
"Where is she?" asked the child, looking anxiously toward the door.
"Come with me, I'll show you," said Jessie, taking her by the hand.
They went into the hall. Uncle Morris was there, and so was Mrs. Clifton.
She was a short, slender, well-formed woman, with large, dark bloodshot
eyes. Her face was pale, her cheeks hollow, and her hair uncombed. She was
poorly dressed, and yet there was something about her, which told of
better things. As soon as she saw Madge, she ran to her, folded her
nervously to her bosom, and exclaimed:
"Oh! my child! pity your poor, wretched mother!"
Madge, finding her mother to be sober, grew cheerful. Her mother, after
being taken to the bath-room, and furnished with some changes of raiment,
was installed in the room with the seamstress, and then, as waters close
up, and flow on smoothly again, after a little disturbance, so did affairs
at Glen Morris move on once more, in their wonted quiet course.