Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.
[Illustration: "If you want any Christmas money, you must earn it."
CHRISTMAS EARNINGS.]
THE
CHRISTMAS EARNINGS;
OR
ETHEL FLETCHER'S TEMPTATION.
BY
LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY
AUTHOR OF "SOPHIE KENNEDY'S EXPERIENCE,"
"SIGN OF THE CROSS," ETC., ETC.
NEW YORK:
General Protestant Episcopal S. S. Union
and Church Book Society
762 BROADWAY.
1859.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1858,
By the GENERAL PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL SUNDAY SCHOOL UNION
AND CHURCH BOOK SOCIETY,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the
Southern District of New York.
RENNIE, SHEA & LINDSAY,
STEREOTYPERS AND ELECTROTYPERS, PUDNEY & RUSSELL,
81, 83, & 85 Centre-street, PRINTERS,
NEW YORK. No. 79 John-street.
PUBLISHED
BY
THE RECTOR, AND SUNDAY SCHOOL
OF
ST. PETER'S CHURCH, PORT CHESTER,
WESTCHESTER COUNTY, N. Y.
CONTENTS.
Chapter First.
Chapter Second.
Chapter Third.
Chapter Fourth.
[Illustration]
THE
CHRISTMAS EARNINGS.
[Illustration]
Chapter First.
"WHAT are you going to do about Christmas this year?" asked Abby Coles
of her cousin Ethel Fletcher, as they walked home from school together
one afternoon towards the close of December.
"I don't know," said Ethel; "I have not thought much about it yet."
"But Christmas is almost here," argued Abby, "and if you are going
to make any thing, it is time you began it. I have almost finished
my worsted shawl, and am going to knit some scarfs next. Father gave
me five dollars to spend, and I am to have five more if I finish the
arithmetic before holidays, as I am almost certain I shall. So you see
I shall be well off for spending money. What have you commenced?"
"Nothing," replied Ethel: "I have not asked father for any money yet,
and I don't exactly like to, for when mother told him the other day
that she wanted some new things, he said she must wait if she could,
for he could not afford it at present."
"Oh, that's nothing!" returned Abby. "My father says so half the time,
and then very likely, he goes and buys something that costs twice as
much as what we asked him for. That's always the way with men."
"But you know my father failed," said Ethel, "and we are not as rich as
we were."
"So did my father fail," said Abby; "but I don't see that it makes
any difference with us. Come, Ethel, ask your father for some money
to-night, and to-morrow we can go out together and get our things. I
want you to knit a shawl for your mother like the one I am doing. It
would be so becoming to her. And then you ought to do something for
Aunt Sally too. You know she won't like it if you don't."
"Mother told me to stop there and do an errand this afternoon," said
Ethel: "I don't like to go to see her lately, she is so cross."
"She is cross sometimes," admitted Abby; "but then she always gives us
very nice presents."
"Yes, and sometimes I almost wish she didn't," said Ethel. "I feel
sometimes very much as if I should like to say, 'Aunt Sally, you may
just keep your presents to yourself,' when she has made one of her
provoking speeches."
Abby laughed. "Why, Ethel, the presents are just as good, and one need
not mind what she says: I don't. Father says we must not get out of
patience with her, because she is as rich as a Jew, and can leave her
money to any one she pleases."
Ethel made no answer. In this speech, as in many of her cousin's
remarks, there was something that grated on her feelings, and she was
glad to be spared the necessity of a reply, by their arrival at the
door of a house, which bore upon it the name of Mrs. Sarah Bertie.
If days should teach, Mrs. Bertie ought to have been very wise, for
she was a very old lady, though she would hardly have thanked any one
for telling her so. But the years which had passed over her head had
only added to her self-esteem, without increasing her wisdom, and she
was now, at seventy-nine, as self-willed, exacting, unreasonable, and
petulant, as she had been at fifteen.
She had the misfortune to be the only child of very rich parents, who
found it less trouble to humor her in every whim, than to control and
regulate her naturally troublesome temper. They found it any thing but
a saving of trouble in the end. True, her mother was spared a great
deal of trouble by dying when her darling was about fourteen; but her
father's death was supposed to be hastened by the perverse conduct of
his daughter, who at fifteen ran away with her own cousin, a reckless,
wild young man, who having spent all his own money, was desirous of
continuing his career of pleasure by spending his cousin's. Mr. Bertie
died suddenly, a few months after this marriage, without seeing his
daughter, to whom he bequeathed his whole estate, taking care, however,
so to arrange matters, that she should enjoy only the income of her
property, the principal being tied up beyond the reach of herself or
her husband. This was a great disappointment to the latter, and did not
tend to sweeten his temper, or make him more patient with the whims and
caprices of his young wife, who expected her husband to be her slave as
her parents had been.
The result was, that after some years of strife and bitterness, the
ill-matched pair separated, and Mr. Bertie went to Europe, where he
died not very long after. Mrs. Bertie did not pretend to afflict
herself greatly upon that event. She had no children or other
incumbrance to prevent her from doing as she pleased, and after
travelling about for some years, she finally settled herself down
in one of the smaller northern cities, bought a handsome house, and
commenced housekeeping in good style.
As she could always be very pleasant when she pleased, she had plenty
of society, and her wealth caused her to be very much courted,
especially by her husband's nephew, Mr. Coles, Abby's father. Mr. Coles
and Mr. Fletcher were cousins, and the families were intimate from that
circumstance, though there was between them a great difference, not
only of sentiment, but of principle. With all her faults, Mrs. Bertie
had some sterling good qualities. She was a warm and generous friend,
and a good neighbor and mistress, and her sense of integrity and
truthfulness was extreme almost to a fault.
She was sitting in her parlor knitting, with her dog at her feet, as
the girls entered, and being in a good-humor, received them graciously.
"And what work are you doing for Christmas?" she inquired, after Ethel
had delivered her message. "I shall expect to see something very
handsome from you, Ethel, as you have improved so much in working the
last year."
"I have not commenced any thing yet, Aunt Sally," replied Ethel.
"Only think, Aunt Sally," exclaimed Abby, who, though good-natured, was
a very thoughtless child, "Ethel has not even asked her father for any
money yet, just because she heard him tell her mother that he could not
afford something."
"Of course he could not afford it, if it was something his wife
wanted," ejaculated Aunt Sally, whose theory it was that all men abused
all women.
"And Ethel says," continued Abby, unheeding her cousin's looks of
entreaty, "that they are poor now, because her father has failed. I am
sure we are not poor, and I don't see why cousin George should be."
"Because your cousin George is a fool!" said Mrs. Bertie sharply.
She was always provoked at any mention of her nephew Fletcher's
affairs, and being wholly unused to restrain herself from any
consideration for the feelings of others, she did not hesitate to
express her opinion on this occasion. She was not, however, quite
prepared for the effect of her words on one of her auditors.
As she finished her remark, Ethel rose from her chair, and began to put
on her gloves without speaking.
"Stop, Ethel, child!"' said her aunt, surprised. "Where are you going?"
"I am going home," replied Ethel with decision, but in a voice which
trembled with agitation. "I am not going to stay anywhere to hear my
father called a fool. I should think you would be ashamed, Aunt Sally."
Abby looked horrified at this bold speech. She hardly dared to glance
at her aunt, but sat in silent terror, expecting some violent outburst.
But Mrs. Bertie seemed rather amused than otherwise.
"Well done, Miss Fire-cracker! I like your spirit. But you must
not go off so," she continued, seeing that Ethel continued to make
preparations for departure. "You know nobody minds my speeches. I am an
old woman, and always say just what I think. Come, come, kiss and be
friends, and don't quarrel with your old auntie."
Ethel thought her aunt had not mended matters much by her apology, as
she had no business to think so. But she was already sensible that she
had spoken unbecomingly, and her mother's often repeated words recurred
to her mind:
"Aunt Sally is a very old woman, and you must have patience with her."
So she conquered the rising storm so far as to allow herself to be
kissed by her aunt and even to eat a piece of plum-cake, though she
felt all the time as if it would choke her. She was glad when they were
once more in the street, where she could speak her mind freely.
"Hateful old thing!" she said, more to herself than to her companion.
"She may keep her cake and sweetmeats to herself. I will never go there
again, if I can help it."
"Then you will be the loser," remarked Abby. "You know she can leave
her fortune to whom she pleases."
"I don't care for her fortune," interrupted Ethel, more angry than
ever. "She may leave it to whom she likes, for all I care. I should be
ashamed to coax and flatter her for her money, or her presents either.
To go and call my father a fool—" and here Ethel paused, partly for
want of breath, and partly because she felt herself in imminent danger
of crying.
"Well, well," said Abby soothingly, "you must not be angry with me,
Ethel. I am sure I only spoke for your good. You know Aunt Sally says
when she is in a good-humor, that she shall leave her money to whom she
likes best; and after all, she is very good to us generally, though
she does say vexatious things. But really, Ethel, I don't see into
it—why you should be poor, I mean. A good many people failed in the
fall besides your father. There was my father, and Mr. Peet, and Mr.
Larkins, and the Mr. Wileys; and none of them were much the poorer for
it that I could see, only the Wileys, and my father said they managed
badly. But here is my turning-off place, so good-bye. Be sure and get
your money to-night, and I will call for you to-morrow."
Ethel bade her cousin good-by, and walked on, pondering deeply, and
feeling very unhappy and dissatisfied—first with herself for having
been so much out of humor, and speaking unbecomingly, and then with her
circumstances. She did not understand the matter any better than Abby.
Her father had been for many years a manufacturer in very prosperous
circumstances. The tastes and habits of Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher did not
lead them to launch out into the foolish extravagance of dress and
equipage which characterized so many people at the time of our story;
but they were persons of very elegant tastes, fond of literature and
art, and Mr. Fletcher prided himself upon his superb collection of
engravings and books, to which he was constantly making additions.
Ethel was the only daughter, but there were two boys much younger than
herself. Without being at all spoiled, she was very much indulged, and
while she was expected to give some account of what she spent, she
hardly knew what it was to ask for money without having it. Especially
at Christmastime was her father liberal. The Fletchers were very strict
Church people, and always "kept Christmas," with a good deal of care
and expense. Mince-pies were made; the most elegant sweetmeats were
reserved for this occasion; the children had new clothes, and the house
was beautifully decorated with evergreens and flowers. The children
hung up their stockings upon Christmas Eve, sure of finding them
well filled; the whole family went to Church, and in the evening, a
beautiful Christmas tree was lighted up for the benefit of Mr. and Mrs.
Fletcher's Sunday-school classes, consisting of poor children, each of
whom received a present, and as much cake as he could eat, besides a
surplus to carry home.
Such was the state of the family at the commencement of the year, but
the end of it found them in circumstances sadly changed. The financial
crisis affected Mr. Fletcher as well as his neighbors; unpaid himself,
he was unable to meet his liabilities, and after two or three weeks
of miserable suspense, he was obliged to declare a failure, like his
cousin, Mr. Coles, who had gone among the first. Unlike Mr. Coles,
however, his failure was a perfectly honest one. The beautiful house
and grounds went into the hands of one of the banks; the library and
collections were sent to New York for sale; and all the handsome
furniture, even to baby's swinging crib, and Mrs. Fletcher's china and
silver, were sent to auction. They reserved only furniture enough of
the plainest sort to furnish a small house which had been left to Mrs.
Fletcher by her mother, and to this they removed, to begin life anew,
after they supposed they had provided for their old age, and for their
children after them.
Of course this change in their circumstances did not pass without many
remarks from their friends. Mr. Cole, whose property had somehow been
discovered to belong entirely to his wife and her brothers, did not
hesitate to say that George Fletcher had acted like a fool. Mrs. Coles
thought Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher ought to have more consideration for the
prospects of their daughter. Mrs. Sarah Bertie, who loved her niece and
nephew Fletcher as well as she loved any one in the world but herself,
but who knew as much of business as her own gray parrot, was very
angry at him for his bad management. At the same time that she snubbed
Mr. Coles for expressing an unfavorable opinion of Mr. Fletcher, and
informed him that George Fletcher knew more than he ever thought he
did; a very bold assertion, which Mr. Coles, having an eye to the old
lady's succession, received with great meekness and submission.
Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher did not find themselves as unhappy as they
expected in their new abode. Mr. Fletcher's honor had come out
untarnished, and his conscience told him, that if he had been imprudent
in investments, he had at least done all in his power to make amends.
No unpaid butcher's or baker's bills disturbed his slumbers, nor were
those of his wife rendered uneasy by the vision of unsettled milliner's
accounts. True, the want of birds and flowers was deeply felt, but as
the possession of these things had never constituted the source of
their happiness, so the want of them could not destroy it.
Perhaps Ethel was the most to be pitied of any of the family. She had
never been accustomed to deny herself any thing she wanted from motives
of economy, and she found it hard work to begin. The house seemed to
her very small, confined, and gloomy, and she did not like to wash
dishes and sweep, or to see her mother at work in the kitchen. All
these things weighed upon her mind and spirits, and Abby's remarks and
her aunt's observation had brought her discontent to a climax. A little
girl of twelve does not usually know much about business, and she could
not see why, if Mr. Coles had kept his fine house, and her cousin
dressed as well as ever, she should be wearing all her old frocks, and
living in a little house with only three rooms on the ground-floor, and
no garden at all.
Now a cloud was not a very common sight upon Ethel's face, for though
her temper was somewhat hasty, it was also sunshiny and cheerful;
and Mrs. Fletcher was not very long in perceiving that something was
amiss. Ethel had been sitting for some time silently looking out of the
window, where nothing very interesting was to be seen, when her mother
asked—
"Don't you feel well, Ethel?"
"Yes, mother," said Ethel, in a voice which sounded as though it came
from the tombs.
"Has any thing gone wrong in school, or have you had a quarrel with
Abby?"
"No, mother," replied Ethel again; but she did not offer any solution
of the mystery.
Mrs. Fletcher said no more, but waited in silence, certain that it
would not be long before her daughter opened her mind.
At last, after an interval of silence, Ethel said with some hesitation—
"Mother, shall we have any Christmas this year?"
"Of course," replied Mrs. Fletcher. "Christmas comes every year, does
it not?"
"Yes," returned Ethel; "but shall we keep it ourselves, I mean?"
"Certainly, we shall keep it," replied Mrs. Fletcher. "We shall go to
Church as usual, and there will be nothing to prevent our decorating
our rooms with evergreens, though we shall have no flowers." And
Mrs. Fletcher suppressed a little sigh as she spoke. She missed her
green-house more than any of the luxuries she had lost.
"Shall we have—" any presents, Ethel was going to say, but she changed
her mind. "Shall we have a Christmas tree for the poor children?"
Mrs. Fletcher sighed again. "No, Ethel, that must be given up. We
cannot afford it now, and we shall have to content ourselves without
our usual Christmas fare. There is no money to spend on such things."
"O mother!" exclaimed Ethel. "How disappointed the children will be. It
will not be like Christmas. I do not think there is any use in trying
to keep it, if we are to have nothing ourselves, and nothing to give
away. I wish Christmas would not come at all."
The tears which had been gathering all the afternoon would no longer be
restrained, and Ethel laid her head down on the windowsill and cried
bitterly,—cried as she had not done when the house was sold, or even
when her chief treasure, her watch was disposed of.
Mrs. Fletcher let the tears have their way, certain that they would not
last long, and she was right.
In a few moments Ethel sat up and wiped her eyes, but she repeated as
she did so, "I wish Christmas was not coming at all."
"My daughter," said Mrs. Fletcher gravely, "what is Christmas?"
"It is the Feast of the Nativity—of the birth of Christ," replied Ethel.
"What did God do for us on that day?" continued Mrs. Fletcher. "What
does the Collect say?"
"He sent His only begotten Son to take our nature upon Him, and as at
this time to be born of a pure virgin."
"Very right. And now why does the Church celebrate this day? What good
came to men from Christ's coming down from heaven to earth, and taking
our nature upon Him?"
"Christ came for our salvation," said Ethel in a low voice. She began
to see what her mother was coming to.
"Yes. On Christmas day, our Saviour began His career upon earth, by
taking upon Him the burden of our frail and sinful nature—began that
life which ended with His death upon the cross, whereby He secured our
redemption for us. Did you ever think why He might choose to come in
the form of a child?"
"My Sunday-school teacher said it was in order that children might
realize how He felt for their little troubles and cares, because He had
passed through the same."
"True. And yet my little Ethel, because she cannot have just what she
wants, and cannot celebrate Christmas in her own way, would rather not
celebrate it at all. She does not care to thank God for the birth of
His dear Son, because she cannot have what she has been accustomed to
at this Holy Season, all the pleasures of which have, or should have, a
direct reference to the great and unspeakable Gift made to us on this
day. Is that right, my dear?"
"No, mother," said Ethel frankly. "I did not think of it in that way."
She paused a little, and then added: "I was not thinking so much about
getting presents, as about making them. I do so love to make presents!
Cannot we have any Christmas money at all?"
"I fear not, my child, unless you can contrive some way to earn it. We
have no right to indulge in luxuries so long as we are in debt, and the
giving of Christmas presents is certainly a luxury."
"But the poor children, mother. We might give them only such things as
they need, and leave out the candy and toys. Those little Brown girls
have hardly comfortable clothes."
"I know it, Ethel, but we must be just before we are generous."
Ethel was silenced, if not entirely satisfied by her mother's
reasoning. But after a little interval, she resumed the conversation.
"Mother, how does it happen that failing makes so much more difference
with some people than it does with others? Why is Mr. Coles rich,
while father and the Mr. Wileys are poor? Now cousin Anna has every
thing just as she always did: they do not make any difference in their
housekeeping, and Abby is dressed just as well as ever. She told me
to-day, that her father had given her five dollars, and was going to
give her five more if she finished the arithmetic. She wanted me to ask
father for some money to-night, that we might go out shopping together
to-morrow, but I thought I would speak to you first."
"I am glad you were so thoughtful, my love."
"But why is it, mother?" persisted Ethel. "I want to understand it, if
I can."
"And I will try to explain it to you," replied Mrs. Fletcher. "If in
doing so, I should be obliged to speak freely of the faults of others,
you must remember that what I say is not to be repeated."
"I will, mother," said Ethel. "But tell me first what it is to fail,
please, for I don't know exactly."
"When a man is unable to pay all his debts," said Mrs. Fletcher, "he
is said to fail, or to become insolvent. This may come to pass in many
different ways. He may have lived so extravagantly as to use up all
his means, and then have run into debt for what he wanted till people
would trust him no longer. He may have been imprudent in his business,
by trusting those who were unworthy of confidence, and by selling
his commodities to people who could not or would not pay him. He may
have signed notes with other people to enable them to get money, not
expecting to have to pay it himself, and then have been obliged to do
so. Or he may suffer from the failure of others, and this was the case
with your father."
"But how did the failure of others affect father?" asked Ethel. "I
don't understand."
"Think a little, and perhaps you will," replied her mother.
"I see," exclaimed Ethel, after some consideration. "Father sold goods
to the merchants, and depended upon the money he got from them, to pay
for his materials and his work. Then if the merchants did not pay him,
of course he could not pay the people that he owed, and that made him
fail."
"Quite right," said Mrs. Fletcher. "I see you are learning to
think. There is another way yet of failing. A man may buy a great
quantity of some kind of property—bank stock or railroad stock, for
instance—expecting it to rise so much in value that he will be able
to sell it for a great deal more than he gave. Then if it goes down
instead of rising, what becomes of him?"
"He loses his money," said Ethel.
"Yes, not only what he has spent, but what he expected to make. This
is called speculation, and has ruined more people than I can tell you.
This was just what Mr. Coles did. Now if the speculator treats the
money he intended to make as though it were already in his pocket, and
runs deeper and deeper into debt on the strength of it, you can easily
see what disastrous consequences must follow, not only to himself, but
to every one who has trusted him."
"Of course," said Ethel, "they would lose their money. But you have not
yet told me what makes the difference."
"I am just coming to that. When your father found that he was not
going to meet his obligations, as it is called—that is, to pay what he
owed for goods and other things—he informed his creditors of it. He
told them how much property he had, and that he should put it into the
hands of assignees—gentlemen who would manage the matter and divide
the property among the creditors, so that each might have an equal
proportion. That was the reason that the house and all the things were
sold, in order that the money might go in with the rest of the property
to meet the debts. But after all there was only enough to pay about
seventy cents on the dollar, as it is called—that is, if your father
owed a man a dollar, he could only pay him seventy cents."
"That seems a pity, after selling all the things," said Ethel. "What
did the creditors do then?"
"They very generously and kindly signed a paper, saying that they were
satisfied that your father had done all in his power to satisfy them,
and that they would be contented with what he had paid. This paper was
called a release."
"That was very good of them," said Ethel, brightening up. "So father
does not owe any thing now?"
"Think a little, Ethel. Does he not owe the other thirty cents? Suppose
you were one of the creditors who had signed the release. Would you not
feel that you ought to be paid, if the debtor ever became able to do
so? And if you were the debtor, would you not feel that you were all
the more bound by the kindness of your creditors to pay them the rest
of the debt if you possibly could, even though the law did not compel
you to do so?"
"I should, to be sure," admitted Ethel.
"Well, that is just what your father and myself are trying to do. I had
a little property left me by my father—about a thousand a year—and we
are endeavoring to live upon your father's salary, that this money may
be left to accumulate till it becomes enough to pay the debt.
"Now for the other side. Mr. Coles, as I told you, got into debt by
speculation, and failed about the time that your father did. But when
the creditors came to look into the matter, it seemed that he had so
disposed his property that it did not appear to belong to him at all,
but to his wife and her brothers. So their house and furniture could
not be sold as ours was, and the creditors got nothing at all. But Mr.
Coles enjoys the use of the property just as he did before, though he
can hardly go into the street without meeting some one that he owes;
while your father, if he sees one of his creditors, can at least
think—'I have done, and am doing all I can to satisfy you.' Now which
would you rather be—Mr. Coles in his large house, or your father in
this small one?"
"I would rather be father, a thousand times," said Ethel with flushed
cheeks and flashing eyes; "even if I never made a present or had one to
the end of my days. It is just as mean as stealing. I should not dare
to look any one in the face. I wonder if Abby knows any thing about
it? I guess if she did, she would not feel quite so much pride in her
spending money and her new frocks."
"No doubt she is entirely ignorant of it," said Mrs. Fletcher, "and it
would be the height of cruelty to tell her. Remember, Ethel, I have not
told you this to make you feel as though you were a great deal better
than your neighbors, but only that you may see the reasonableness of
the strict economy we practise, and why we cannot afford ourselves the
luxury of giving presents."
"I see it now, mother, and I don't care any thing about presents; but
then the poor school-children. How much money would it take for the
tree?"
"Ten dollars at the very least," replied her mother. "It has usually
cost much more."
"And could not we spare as much as that, if we children did not have
any presents at all?"
"No, my dear, it is not to be thought of," replied her mother kindly,
but decidedly. "We must have regard to appearances, sometimes, as
well as to reality; and your father's creditors might well think it
strange for him to be making parties for school-children in his present
circumstances. Now are we quite at the bottom of the trouble?"
"Not quite, mother," said Ethel. "I was vexed at something that
happened at Aunt Sally Bertie's." She then recounted the circumstances,
saying in conclusion: "I know it was wrong to speak so to her, but I
tried to make up for it by eating the cake she gave me, though I felt
all the time as though it would choke me."
Mrs. Fletcher could not help smiling at the idea of Ethel's making
amends for her hasty speech by the sacrifice of eating a piece of her
aunt's plum-cake, but she answered quite seriously: "I am glad that you
did not quarrel with Aunt Sally, my dear. She was provoking, no doubt,
but you must remember that she is a very old woman, and have patience.
Try to think not of her disagreeable speeches, but of the many kind
things she does for us all. You will never be sorry after she is dead
and gone, that you bore with her little ways."
"I don't mind what she says to me," said Ethel; "but I cannot bear to
have her talk so about father. Whenever she says any thing particularly
vexatious, she always makes it an excuse that she says just what she
thinks, or that she is plain-hearted. Do you think that is any excuse,
mother?"
"No, my dear, not at all. In the first place, we have no right to think
unkind thoughts, and if we think them, the least we can do is to keep
them to ourselves, that they may not annoy others. You may observe,
too, that those people who pride themselves on being plain spoken, are
the last to bear any plain speaking from others."
"I know that," said Ethel. "Aunt Sally will hardly bear a word from any
one, though she did not seem to be angry with me this afternoon. She
called me Miss Fire-cracker, but she said she liked my spirit."
"It is not very easy to calculate what she will say or do at any time,"
said Mrs. Fletcher. "Now, if you please, my dear, you may set the table
for tea. I am going to make some of those little warm biscuits you like
so much."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Chapter Second.
ETHEL'S mind was restored to its equanimity by this conversation with
her mother. But it suffered something of a relapse, when Abby called
next day according to promise, for her cousin to go out shopping, and
she was obliged to say that she had no money, and was not to have any.
"It is too bad," said Abby, sympathizing with her cousin's
disappointment. "I am glad we are not poor. I should not like to work
as you do, and to go without every thing that I wanted."
Ethel felt a little vexed at this speech and answered hastily: "I would
rather be as poor as we are, Abby, and wash dishes to the end of my
days, than to be as rich as some folks and to be dishonest."
"Of course!" rejoined Abby, who fortunately was not very apt at taking
a hint. "But, Ethel, all rich people are not dishonest."
"No, of course not," said Ethel, remembering her mother's caution, and
blushing to think how near she had come to revealing a secret. "But I
have no money, Abby, and I cannot get any, that is the long and the
short of it."
"You might go with me, at any rate, and help me pick out my things,"
urged Abby. "Come do, Ethel, you know I always like your taste better
than mine."
Ethel hesitated. She did not feel as though it would be very pleasant
going round to the shops where she was accustomed to deal, and
purchasing nothing, while her cousin was spending her money freely;
but on the other hand she did not wish to disoblige Abby, of whom she
was really very fond, notwithstanding a jar now and then. Finally she
resolved to consult her mother.
"I think you had better go, my dear," said Mrs. Fletcher. "Abby is
always ready to do any thing for you, and you may as well learn first
as last to say boldly, 'I cannot afford it.' That little lesson once
learned, will save you worlds of trouble."
With all her resolution, fortified by the recollection of the cause of
her father's poverty, Ethel did not find the day a very pleasant one.
Abby's ten dollars seemed to buy more and prettier things than any ten
dollars had ever done before, and when it was gone, she did not scruple
to run into debt for several articles she wanted to complete her gifts.
To Ethel's remonstrances, she answered gayly: "Oh, my father won't
care. He don't mind our making a bill now and then."
"No wonder, since he never means to pay them," thought Ethel.
She had always been a little in the habit of looking down upon
her cousin in her secret soul, and the feeling had grown a good
many degrees stronger before they parted. She walked home, feeling
considerably uplifted in her own esteem, as though it were a great
merit in herself that her father was an honest man, while, at the same
time, she could not help wishing that honesty had been made rather more
compatible with convenience.
As Ethel turned towards home, she ran against a girl of her own age,
who was coming round the corner, walking very fast. "Why, Bessy, what
makes you in such a hurry?" she exclaimed, recognizing a favorite
schoolmate. "You are fairly out of breath."
"O Ethel, I beg your pardon," replied Bessy, "but I was in such a hurry
to get home, because Rose is waiting for me. Do come in for a minute,
and see what we are doing. It is such pretty work!"
Ethel had not quite got over the habit of feeling for her little watch,
and she now put her hand to the place where she had worn it, to see if
she had any time to spare. She withdrew it with a sigh, remembering
that the watch was hers no longer, and glancing at the church clock not
far off, saw that she had nearly an hour to spare.
"Have you been buying things for Christmas, Bessy?" she asked, as she
quickened her step to keep pace with those of her companion.
"Yes, that is, not exactly, but things to get things with. I will show
you."
Accordingly, on arriving at the house of Mr. Beckford, she ushered
Ethel into the back parlor, where at a table covered with pictures
and painting materials, sat Rosa Beckford, busily engaged in coloring
prints in water-colors.
"How quick you have been!" she said to her sister, after she had kissed
Ethel.
"Yes, I almost ran. Is it not pretty work, Ethel?"
"Very pretty, and how nicely you do it!" said Ethel, examining the
colored prints. "But what is it for?"
"I will tell you all about it," replied Bessy, seating herself at the
table, after she had drawn up a chair for Ethel.
"You know, my uncle publishes a great many children's books with
colored pictures. He has always employed a woman to paint them; but she
is dead now, and he did not know what to do at first; but finally he
asked us if we did not want to earn some Christmas money. He brought
two or three for us to learn on, and showed us how, and we have worked
upon them all our spare time this week. But there are a great many more
than we shall be able to finish, and he wants to find some one else
to take part of them. You see it does not answer to employ every one,
because some would be careless and spoil them."
While Bessy was speaking, there flashed across Ethel's mind the remark
her mother had made the night before: "If you want any Christmas money,
you must earn it."
"Do you think your uncle would let me try some of them?" she asked. "I
want to earn some money very much."
"If you could do it nicely—" said Bessy doubtfully.
"Of course she could," interrupted Rosa. "She knows more about painting
than either of us. Don't you remember that she took lessons last
summer?"
"Of course," assented Bessy, "I did not think of that. I am pretty sure
he would, Ethel; but you can ask him, for he will be here presently."
"Let Ethel try on one of these easy ones," said Rosa, "and then she can
show it to uncle when he comes."
Ethel drew off her gloves and set herself about the task with much
interest. She was accustomed to the use of water-colors, and her work
proceeded rapidly, so that when warned by the clock that it was time
for her to hasten home, she had finished a very pretty picture. She did
not like to stay longer, knowing that her mother would need her help,
so she left her work with the girls, who promised to show it to their
uncle when he came in.
Ethel walked rapidly homeward, building various castles in the air, and
anxious to impart her scheme to her mother.
When she came in sight of the house, she saw to her vexation a carriage
standing at the door.
"That is always the way," she said to herself. "I don't see why people
must always come at the wrong time."
She felt a little better satisfied when, upon drawing nearer, she
perceived that the carriage which had excited her displeasure was her
Uncle George's rockaway. Uncle George lived in the country, and was a
great favorite with the children, partly, perhaps, because his long
pockets were inexhaustible store-houses of apples, pears, and chestnuts.
As she entered the house, she heard his round hearty voice saying to
her mother: "I thought I would bring the turkey along, because, though
not large, it is a very nice young one."
"It is quite large enough, I assure you, brother, and I am very much
obliged to you," replied Mrs. Fletcher. "I only wish we had some way of
repaying your kindness."
"Fiddle de dee!" said Uncle George. "Don't be talking about
obligations, sister-in-law. You have done more for us than we shall
ever do for you. I am going to send the young ones some apples and nuts
before Christmas, and as soon as good sleighing comes, I shall come in
and carry you all out to spend the day."
Uncle George stayed to dinner, but Ethel did not enjoy his visit as
much as usual, for she was in a great hurry to talk to her mother about
her scheme for making money. But just as she had shut the door upon
Uncle George, and was returning to the dining room full of her secret,
the bell rang again.
"What a bother!" said Ethel mentally, as she turned once more to the
door.
Her heart beat fast when she opened it, for there stood Mr. Beckford
himself, with a roll in his hand, which Ethel knew at once to be the
picture she had painted. To her surprise and disappointment, however,
he said nothing to her upon the subject, but asked to see her mother.
Could he be displeased at what she had done? We shall see.
Mr. Beckford was a tall thin man, slow of speech, and so wonderfully
cautious that he never said or did any thing, without looking at both
sides of it a great many times over. Consequently, Mrs. Fletcher had
time to form more than one conjecture as to what could have brought the
publisher to see her, before he finally arrived at saying—
"Your little daughter, madam, has been talking to my nieces with regard
to executing some work for me, and they have shown me a specimen of her
capacity."
Here Mr. Beckford made a full stop, and Mrs. Fletcher, much surprised,
wondered what was to be coming next.
"I am much pleased with the specimen of her work which I hold in my
hand," he resumed, after a pause of a minute; "and with your approval
should be glad to give her full employment for a week or two."
Mrs. Fletcher was not entirely without false pride more than other
people, and her face flushed a little.
But she had time to conquer the feeling, while Mr. Beckford slowly
rolled up the paper and continued:
"I would not of course make any bargain with her without the approval
of her parents."
"I will speak to my daughter, if you please," said Mrs. Fletcher.
And she went into the kitchen where sat Ethel, looking very anxious,
and wondering what the conference could be about.
To her mother's question, she related what had taken place, adding: "It
is such pretty work, mother, and I should like to earn some money so
much. I hope you will not have any objection."
"Are you willing to have it known that you work for money, Ethel?
Suppose that Abby or some other schoolmate should come in, and find you
engaged in this business?"
"They need not know that I work for money," said Ethel, a little taken
aback by this consideration.
Mrs. Fletcher shook her head. "That will never do, my daughter. You
must not do any thing that you are ashamed of having people know. It
leads to evils and mortifications without end."
"Would you be mortified to have them know it, mother?" asked Ethel.
"No, my dear. There is nothing disgraceful in earning money when we
stand in need of it."
"Then I am sure I don't care," said Ethel. "I would rather earn money
than run in debt as Abby does, for every little thing she wants."
"Don't be always drawing comparisons between yourself and Abby, Ethel,"
said her mother. "I would rather see you more humble in your own eyes.
'Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.'"
"But about the pictures," said Ethel, too much occupied with her scheme
to give much heed to her mother's reproof, "Will you tell Mr. Beckford
that you are willing?"
"I must consult your father, my dear. I shall make no objections if he
has none."
Ethel looked a little disappointed. She wanted the bargain closed at
once, and was very much afraid Mr. Beckford would employ some one
else. But she knew there was no appeal from her mother's decision, and
summoned what patience she could to await her father's return.
To her great joy, Mr. Fletcher heartily approved of the scheme.
"You will know something of the value of money if you earn it
yourself," he said, "and you never will, till you do. I am going down
town this evening, and will call at Mr. Beckford's store, and talk the
matter over with him. You can go with me, if you like."
Of course Ethel wished to do so. She passed without a pang the lighted
and glittering shops, which had caused her so much discomfort in the
morning, though she would have liked to stop before some of the lighted
windows, and speculate on what she should buy with her money.
Her father laughingly compared her to the milkmaid who counted her
chickens before they were hatched.
"I hope I shall not be as unlucky as she was," said Ethel, laughing in
her turn, and blushing a little. "But here we are at Mr. Beckford's. I
do hope he is in!"
Mr. Beckford was in, and invited them into his private office. Ethel
thought him the slowest man she had ever seen in her life, and wondered
what was the use of considering so long before every word. But as all
things come to an end, so did Mr. Beckford's cogitations, and the
bargain was concluded.
The pictures were of two sorts, one of which required to be colored
very delicately, while the others did not need so much care. For the
first she was to have ten cents apiece, and for the others five cents
and three cents, according to the amount of work upon them; and she was
to supply her own colors.
Very happy she was when she departed with her large roll of prints
securely tied in brown paper. She thought her father's marketing had
never lasted so long, even when he had bought four times as much, and
she could hardly spend time to admire her favorite spectacle of the
lighted picture-dealer's window, so anxious was she to get home with
her treasures.
The moment she had disposed of her bonnet and cloak, she got out her
paint-box and set to work on one of the cheaper prints, and she had
finished that and part of another, before her mother announced that it
was past nine o'clock, and quite time for her to go to bed.
"Just let me finish this old woman's red petticoat, mother," she
pleaded. "I do so much want to see how she will look."
"No, my dear! As soon as you have finished that, you will want to do
something else just as much. Remember morrow is Sunday, and we have our
necessary work to do before Church, so it will not answer to be late in
the morning."
Ethel almost wished it were any other day, but she was accustomed to
implicit obedience, so she picked up her papers, and put away her
colors with a very good grace. She tried hard to prevent the thought of
her new employment from intruding on her prayers, and succeeded pretty
well; but her dreams were haunted by pictures, and she thought of them
the first thing in the morning. She could not resist the temptation to
take a peep at her work of the night before, and had even taken her
brush is hand to alter the shading of the old woman's cap, when she
recollected herself, and put the pencil away with a blush.
"It would be as bad as Abby doing her arithmetic on Sunday, for fear
she should not finish it before Holidays."
As her mother said, Ethel had too much the habit of drawing comparisons
between Abby and herself. She was given to nourish a Pharisaic spirit
of thanking God that she was not as others.
For once, Sunday seemed a long day to Ethel. She could not interest
herself in her favorite pursuits—her Sunday-school book seemed dull,
and she was tempted to speak harshly to the children several times in
the course of the afternoon.
Her father remarked her impatience, and took an opportunity of saying
gently, "Ethel, if your employment is going to spoil your Sundays, it
would be better to give it up at once. Your earnings will cost more
than they come to, if they lead you into sin."
Ethel acknowledged her fault, and made an effort to do better. She
called the children to her, and began to tell them Bible stories. And
when they were tired of that, she interested herself in her lessons for
next Sunday, so that the afternoon passed more quickly than she had
supposed possible.
Monday being washing day, Ethel had more work to do than usual, so that
she had no time to touch her pictures before school. When she arrived
at the school-house, she found Rosa and Bessy waiting for her, anxious
to know the result of her conference with their uncle. Ethel told them
of the bargain she had made.
"That is more than he gives us," remarked Bessy, rather inclined to be
hurt at first.
"Ethel does them better than we," said sweet-tempered little Rosa. "You
know uncle would not trust those flower paintings with us, for fear we
should spoil them."
"And besides, Bessy," said Ethel, "you can do a good many more of the
cheap ones than I can do of the nice ones, so it will come to just the
same in the end."
Bessy, who cared rather more for the honor than for the money, was not
quite satisfied with this argument, but she was contented when Ethel
promised to give her lessons, that she might improve.
All this conversation was carried on in a low tone in a recess of the
window apart from the other girls. And Abby, coming in while it was in
progress, naturally approached the group to see what they were talking
of.
Ethel, who was chatting very eagerly, checked herself at her cousin's
approach: the other girls stopped because she did, and the whole party
looked embarrassed.
"Talking secrets!" said Abby, carelessly, though she felt rather hurt
at the sudden silence. "If you are, I won't intrude."
"We are through now, at any rate," said Ethel, laughing rather
awkwardly.
"Oh, I don't want to creep in where I am not wanted," returned Abby,
walking away. "I dare say I can find companions."
"Don't be silly, Abby," said Ethel, following her. "You know very well
I am not fond of secrets. I will tell you all about it after school,"
she added, in a lower tone. "There is no privacy about it that I know
of, only one don't want to be talking of every thing before the whole
world."
Abby, always good-natured, allowed herself to be easily pacified,
though she was very curious to learn what it was which was not to be
talked of before the whole world.
Great was her wonderment when Ethel opened the matter to her as they
were walking home. And when her cousin concluded with "Isn't it nice?"
she answered—
"It may suit you, Ethel, but I would not do it for the world. What
would Aunt Sally Bertie say, if she knew that you worked for money? Or
suppose any ladies should come in and catch you at it, how ashamed you
would be!"
"I don't see why," said Ethel. "Why should I be ashamed of working for
money, any more than my father?"
"That is different, and besides, I don't believe your father likes it
very well. Mother says she should think your father would be mortified
enough to be only a book-keeper in an establishment where he has been
head so long."
"I don't believe he cares," said Ethel, her face flushing with a
feeling which she could not easily have defined.
"I don't know what mother will say, Ethel," Abby continued, without
heeding her cousin's remark. "I know she would be very much mortified
at the thought of my working for money. When Cousin Eliza stayed at our
house, she used to give music lessons to the two Parkins girls, and
mother always made her go round the back way, so that no one should see
her. But I won't tell her about this, Ethel, if you don't want me to."
"You can do as you like about it, Abby," replied Ethel, with spirit.
"I never intend to do any thing that I am ashamed of. But perhaps you
would rather not be seen walking with any one that works for money."
"Now, Ethel, you know I did not mean any such thing. I don't care about
it for myself. It is only what people will say, and I know they will
think it strange."
"They may as well wonder at that as any thing else," said Ethel. "But
good-bye, Abby. Come and see me, and I will show you what pretty work
it is."
Abby promised, and walked home faster than usual, anxious to tell her
mother all she had heard.