NETTIE'S GARRET.
Nettie's attic grew to be a good place to her. She never heard the least
sound of rats; and it was so nicely out of the way. Barry never came up
there, and there she could not even hear the voices of her father and
Mr. Lumber. She had a tired time of it down stairs.
That first afternoon was a good specimen of the way things went on.
Nettie's mornings were always spent at school; Mrs. Mathieson would have
that, as she said, whether she could get along without Nettie or no.
From the time Nettie got home till she went to bed, she was as busy as
she could be. There was so much bread to make, and so much beef and pork
to boil, and so much washing of pots and kettles; and at meal times
there were very often cakes to fry, besides all the other preparations.
Mr. Mathieson seemed to have made up his mind that his lodger's rent
should all go to the table and be eaten up immediately; but the
difficulty was to make as much as he expected of it in that line; for
now he brought none of his own earnings home, and Mrs. Mathieson had
more than a sad guess where they went. By degrees he came to be very
little at home in the evenings, and he carried off Barry with him.
Nettie saw her mother burdened with a great outward and inward care at
once, and stood in the breach all she could. She worked to the extent of
her strength, and beyond it, in the endless getting and clearing away of
meals; and watching every chance, when the men were out of the way, she
would coax her mother to sit down and read a chapter in her Testament.
"It will rest you so, mother," Nettie would say; "and I will make the
bread just as soon as I get the dishes done. Do let me! I like to do
it."
Sometimes Mrs. Mathieson could not be persuaded; sometimes she would
yield, in a despondent kind of way, and sit down with her Testament and
look at it as if neither there nor anywhere else in the universe could
she find rest or comfort any more.
"It don't signify, child," she said, one afternoon when Nettie had been
urging her to sit down and read. "I haven't the heart to do anything.
We're all driving to rack and ruin just as fast as we can go."
"Oh no, mother!" said Nettie. "I don't think we are."
"I am sure of it. I see it coming every day. Every day it is a little
worse; and Barry is going along with your father; and they are
destroying me among them, body and soul too."
"No, mother," said Nettie, "I don't think that. I have prayed the Lord
Jesus, and you know he has promised to hear prayer; and I know we are
not going to ruin."
"_You_ are not, child, I believe; but you are the only one of us that
isn't. I wish I was dead, to be out of my misery!"
"Sit down, mother, and read a little bit; and don't talk so. Do, mother!
It will be an hour and more yet to supper, and I'll get it ready. You
sit down and read, and I'll make the shortcakes. Do, mother! and you'll
feel better."
It was half despair and half persuasion that made her do it; but Mrs.
Mathieson did sit down by the open window and take her Testament; and
Nettie flew quietly about, making her shortcakes and making up the fire
and setting the table, and through it all casting many a loving glance
over to the open book in her mother's hand and the weary, stony face
that was bent over it. Nettie had not said how her own back was aching,
and she forgot it almost in her business and her thoughts; though by the
time her work was done her head was aching wearily too. But cakes and
table and fire and everything else were in readiness; and Nettie stole
up behind her mother and leaned over her shoulder; leaned a little
heavily.
[1] "Don't that chapter comfort you, mother?" she whispered.
[1] See Frontispiece.
"No. It don't seem to me as I've got any feeling left," said Mrs.
Mathieson. It was the fourth chapter of John at which they were both
looking.
"Don't it comfort you to read of Jesus being wearied?" Nettie went on,
her head lying on her mother's shoulder.
"Why should it, child?"
"I like to read it," said Nettie. "Then I know he knows how I feel
sometimes."
"God knows everything, Nettie."
"Yes, mother; but then Jesus _felt_ it. 'He took our infirmities.' And
oh, mother, don't you love that tenth verse?--and the thirteenth and
fourteenth?"
Mrs. Mathieson looked at it, silently; then she said, "I don't rightly
understand it, Nettie. I suppose I ought to do so,--but I don't."
"Why, mother! I understand it. It means, that if Jesus makes you happy,
you'll never be unhappy again. 'Whosoever drinketh of the water that I
shall give him, _shall never thirst_,'--don't you see, mother? 'Shall
never thirst,'--he will have enough, and be satisfied."
"How do you know it, Nettie?" her mother asked, in a puzzled kind of
way.
"I know it, mother, because Jesus has given that living water to me."
"He never gave it to me," said Mrs. Mathieson, in the same tone.
"But he _will_, mother. Look up there--oh, how I love that tenth
verse!--'If thou knewest the gift of God, and who it is that saith to
thee, Give me to drink; thou wouldest have asked of him, and he would
have given thee living water.' See, mother,--he will give, if we ask."
"And do you feel so, Nettie?--that you have enough, and are satisfied
with your life every day?"
"Yes, mother," Nettie said, quietly; "I am very happy. I am happy all
the time; because I think that Jesus is with me everywhere; when I'm
upstairs, and when I'm busy here, and when I'm at school, and when I go
to the spring; and all times. And that makes me very happy."
"And don't you wish for anything you haven't got?" said her mother.
"Yes, one thing," said Nettie. "I just wish that you and father and
Barry may be so happy too; and I believe that's coming; for I've prayed
the Lord, and I believe he will give it to me. I want it for other
people too. I often think, when I am looking at somebody, of those
words--'If thou knewest the gift of God, thou wouldest have asked of
him, and he would have given thee living water.'"
With that, Mrs. Mathieson cast down her book and burst into such a
passion of weeping that Nettie was frightened. It was like the breaking
up of an icy winter. She flung her apron over her head and sobbed aloud;
till hearing the steps of the men upon the staircase she rushed off to
Barry's room, and presently got quiet, for she came out to supper as if
nothing had happened.
From that time there was a gentler mood upon her mother, Nettie saw;
though she looked weary and careworn as ever, there was not now often
the hard, dogged look which had been wont to be there for months past.
Nettie had no difficulty to get her to read the Testament; and of all
things, what she liked was to get a quiet hour of an evening alone with
Nettie and hear her sing hymns. But both Nettie and she had a great
deal, as Mrs. Mathieson said, "to put up with."
As weeks went on, the father of the family was more and more out at
nights, and less and less agreeable when he was at home. He and his
friend Lumber helped each other in mischief: they went together to
Jackson's shop and spent time in lounging and gossiping and talking
politics there; and what was worse, they made the time and the politics
go down with draughts of liquor. Less and less money came to Mrs.
Mathieson's hand; but her husband always required what he called a good
meal to be ready for him and his lodger whenever he came home, and made
no difference in his expectations whether he had provided the means or
not. The lodger's rent and board had been at first given for the
household daily expenses; but then Mr. Mathieson began to pay over a
smaller sum, saying that it was all that was due; and Mrs. Mathieson
suspected that the rest had been paid away already for brandy. Then Mr.
Mathieson told her to trade at Jackson's on account, and he would settle
the bill. Mrs. Mathieson held off from this as long as it was possible.
She and Nettie did their very best to make the little that was given
them go a good way; they wasted not a crumb nor a penny, and did not
spend on themselves what they really wanted; that they might not have
the fearful storm of anger which was sure to come if the dinner was not
plentiful and the supper did not please the taste of Mr. Mathieson and
his lodger. By degrees it came to be very customary for Mrs. Mathieson
and Nettie to make their meal of porridge and bread, after all the more
savoury food had been devoured by the others; and many a weary patch and
darn filled the night hours because they had not money to buy a cheap
dress or two. Nettie bore it very patiently. Mrs. Mathieson was
sometimes impatient.
"This wont last me through the week, to get the things you want," she
said one Saturday to her husband, when he gave her what he said was
Lumber's payment to him.
"You'll have to make it last," said he, gruffly.
"Will you tell me how I'm going to do that? Here isn't more than half
what you gave me at first."
"Send to Jackson's for what you want!" he roared at her; "didn't I tell
you so? and don't come bothering me with your noise."
"When will you pay Jackson?"
"I'll pay you first!" he said, with an oath, and very violently. It was
a ruder word than he had ever said to her before, and Mrs. Mathieson was
staggered for a moment by it; but there was another word she was
determined to say.
"You may do what you like to me," she said, doggedly; "but I should
think you would see for yourself that Nettie has too much to get along
with. She is getting just as thin and pale as she can be."
"That's just your fool's nonsense!" said Mr. Mathieson; but he spoke it
more quietly. Nettie just then entered the room.
"Here, Nettie, what ails you? Come here. Let's look at you. Aint you as
strong as ever you was? Here's your mother says you're getting puny."
Nettie's smile and answer were so placid and untroubled, and the little
colour that rose in her cheeks at her father's question made her look so
fresh and well, that he was quieted. He drew her to his arms, for his
gentle dutiful little daughter had a place in his respect and affection
both, though he did not often show it very broadly; but now he kissed
her.
"There!" said he; "don't you go to growing thin and weak without telling
me, for I don't like such doings. You tell me when you want anything."
But with that, Mr. Mathieson got up and went off, out of the house; and
Nettie had small chance to tell him if she wanted anything. However,
this little word and kiss were a great comfort and pleasure to her. It
was the last she had from him in a good while.
Nettie, however, was not working for praise or kisses, and very little
of either she got. Generally her father was rough, imperious,
impatient, speaking fast enough if anything went wrong, but very sparing
in expressions of pleasure. Sometimes a blessing did come upon her from
the very depth of Mrs. Mathieson's heart, and went straight to Nettie's;
but it was for another blessing she laboured, and prayed, and waited.
So weeks went by. So her patient little feet went up and down the stairs
with pails of water from the spring; and her hands made bread and baked
cakes, and set rooms in order; and it was Nettie always who went to Mr.
Jackson's for meal and treacle, and to Mrs. Auguste's, the little
Frenchwoman's, as she was called, for a loaf when they were now and then
out of bread. And with her mornings spent at school, Nettie's days were
very busy ones; and the feet that at night mounted the steps to her
attic room were aching and tired enough. All the more that now Nettie
and her mother lived half the time on porridge; all the provision
they dared make of other things being quite consumed by the three hearty
appetites that were before them at the meal. And Nettie's appetite was
not at all hearty, and sometimes she could hardly eat at all.
As the summer passed away it began to grow cold, too, up in her garret.
Nettie had never thought of that. As long as the summer sun warmed the
roof well in the day, and only the soft summer wind played in and out of
her window at night, it was all very well; and Nettie thought her
sleeping-chamber was the best in the whole house, for it was nearest the
sky. But August departed with its sunny days, and September grew cool at
evening; and October brought still sunny days, it is true, but the
nights had a clear sharp frost in them; and Nettie was obliged to cover
herself up warm in bed and look at the moonlight and the stars as she
could see them through the little square opening left by the shutter.
The stars looked very lovely to Nettie, when they peeped at her so, in
her bed, out of their high heaven; and she was very content.
Then came November; and the winds began to come into the garret, not
only through the open window, but through every crack between two
boards. The whole garret was filled with the winds, Nettie thought. It
was hard managing then. Shutting the shutter would bar out the stars,
but not the wind, she found; and to keep from being quite chilled
through at her times of prayer morning and evening, Nettie used to take
the blanket and coverlets from the bed and wrap herself in them. It was
all she could do. Still, she forgot the inconveniences; and her little
garret chamber seemed to Nettie very near heaven, as well as near the
sky.
But all this way of life did not make her grow strong, nor rosy; and
though Nettie never told her father that she wanted anything, her
mother's heart measured the times when it ought to be told.