THE HOUSE-RAISING.[2]
[2] A festival common in America on the completion of a house.
It grew colder and colder in Nettie's garret--or else she grew thinner
and felt it more. She certainly thought it was colder. The snow came,
and piled a thick covering on the roof and stopped up some of the chinks
in the clapboarding with its white caulking; and that made the place a
little better; then the winds from off the snow-covered country were
keen and bitter.
Nettie's whole day was so busy that she had little time to think, except
when she went upstairs at night; covered up there under her blankets and
quilts, and looking up at the stars, she used to feel sadly that things
were in a very bad way. Her father was out constantly o' nights, and
they knew too surely where he spent them. He was not a confirmed
drunkard yet; but how long would it take, at this rate? And that man
Lumber leading him on, with a thicker head himself, and Barry following
after! No seeming thought nor care for his wife and daughter and their
comfort; it was with great difficulty they could get from him enough
money for their daily needs; and to make that do, Nettie and her mother
pinched and starved themselves. Often and often Nettie went to bed with
an empty stomach, because she was not hearty enough to eat porridge or
pork, and the men had not left enough of other viands for herself and
her mother. And neither of them would pretend to want that little there
was, for fear the other wanted it more.
Her mother was patient and quiet now; not despairing, as a few months
ago; and that was such joy to Nettie that she felt often much more like
giving thanks than complaining. Yet she saw her mother toiling and
insufficiently cared for, and she went to bed feeling very poor and thin
herself; then Nettie used to look at the stars and remember the Lord's
promises and the golden city, till at last she would go to sleep upon
her pillow feeling the very richest little child in all the country.
"They shall not be ashamed that wait for me"--was one word which was
very often the last in her thoughts. Nettie had no comfort from her
father in all the time between New Year and spring. Except one word.
One morning she went to Barry secretly in his room, and asked him to
bring the pail of water from the spring for her. Barry had no mind to
the job.
"Why can't mother do it?" he said, "if you can't?"
"Mother is busy and hasn't a minute. I always do it for her."
"Well, why can't you go on doing it? you're accustomed to it, you see,
and I don't like going out so early," said Barry, stretching himself.
"I would, and I wouldn't ask you; only, Barry, somehow I don't think I'm
quite strong lately and I can hardly bring the pail, it's so heavy to
me. I have to stop and rest ever so many times before I can get to the
house with it."
"Well, if you stop and rest, I suppose it wont hurt you," said Barry.
"_I_ should want to stop and rest, too, myself."
His little sister was turning away, giving it up; when she was met by
her father who stepped in from the entry. He looked red with anger.
"You take the pail and go get the water!" said he to his son; "and you
hear me! don't you let Nettie bring in another pailful when you're at
home, or I'll turn you out of the house. You lazy scoundrel! You don't
deserve the bread you eat. Would you let her work for you, when you are
as strong as sixty?"
Barry's grumbled words in answer were so very unsatisfactory, that Mr.
Mathieson in a rage advanced toward him with uplifted fist; but Nettie
sprang in between and very nearly caught the blow that was meant for her
brother.
"Please, father, don't!" she cried; "please, father, don't be angry.
Barry didn't think--he didn't"--
"Why didn't he?" said Mr. Mathieson. "Great lazy rascal! He wants to be
flogged."
"Oh don't!" said Nettie,--"he didn't know why I asked him, or he
wouldn't have refused me."
"Why did you, then?"
"Because it made my back ache so to bring it, I couldn't help asking
him."
"Did you ever ask him before?"
"Never mind, please, father!" said Nettie, sweetly. "Just don't think
about me, and don't be angry with Barry. It's no matter now."
"Who does think about you? Your mother don't, or she would have seen to
this before."
"Mother didn't know my back ached. Father, you know she hasn't a minute,
she is so busy getting breakfast in time; and she didn't know I wasn't
strong enough. Father, don't tell her, please, I asked Barry. It would
worry her so. Please don't, father."
"_You_ think of folks, anyhow. You're a regular peacemaker!" exclaimed
Mr. Mathieson as he turned away and left her. Nettie stood still, the
flush paling on her cheek, her hand pressed to her side.
"Am I that?" she thought. "Shall I be that? Oh Lord, my Saviour, my dear
Redeemer, send thy peace here!"--She was still in the same place and
position when Barry came in again.
"It's wretched work!" he exclaimed, under his breath, for his father was
in the next room. "It's as slippery as the plague, going down that path
to the water--it's no use to have legs, for you can't hold up. I'm all
froze stiff with the water I've spilled on me!"
"I know it's very slippery," said Nettie.
"And then you can't get at the water when you're there, without stepping
into it--it's filled chuck full of snow and ice all over the edge. It's
the most wretched work!"
"I know it, Barry," said Nettie. "I am sorry you have to do it."
"What did you make me do it for, then?" said he, angrily. "You got it
your own way this time, but never mind,--I'll be up with you for it."
"Barry," said his sister, "please do it just a little while for me, till
I get stronger, and don't mind; and as soon as ever I can I'll do it
again. But you don't know how it made me ache all through, bringing the
pail up that path."
"Stuff!" said Barry. And from that time, though he did not fail to bring
the water in the morning, yet Nettie saw he owed her a grudge for it all
the day afterward. He was almost always away with his father, and she
had little chance to win him to better feeling.
So the winter slowly passed and the spring came. Spring months came, at
least; and now and then to be sure a sweet spring day, when all nature
softened; the sun shone mildly, the birds sang, the air smelled sweet
with the opening buds. Those days were lovely, and Nettie enjoyed them
no one can tell how much. On her walk to school, it was so pleasant to
be able to step slowly and not hasten to be out of the cold; and
Nettie's feet did not feel ready for quick work now-a-days. It was so
pleasant to hear the sparrows and other small birds, and to see them,
with their cheery voices and sonsy little heads, busy and happy. And the
soft air was very reviving too.
Then at home the work was easier, a great deal; and in Nettie's garret
the change was wonderful. There came hours when she could sit on the
great chest under her window and look out, or kneel there and pray,
without danger of catching her death of cold; and instead of that, the
balmy perfumed spring breeze coming into her window, and the trees
budding, and the grass on the fields and hills beginning to look green,
and the sunlight soft and vapoury. Such an hour--or quarter of an
hour--to Nettie was worth a great deal. Her weary little frame seemed to
rest in it, and her mind rested too. For those days were full not only
of the goodness of God, but of the promise of his goodness. Nettie read
it, and thanked him. Yet things in the household were no better.
One evening Nettie and her mother were sitting alone together. They were
usually alone in the evenings, though not usually sitting down quietly
with no work on hand. Nettie had her Sunday-school lesson, and was busy
with that, on one side of the fire. Mrs. Mathieson on the other side sat
and watched her. After a while Nettie looked up and saw her mother's
gaze, no longer on her, fixed mournfully on the fire and looking through
that at something else. Nettie read the look, and answered it after her
own fashion. She closed her book and sang, to a very, very sweet,
plaintive air,
"I heard the voice of Jesus say,
Come unto me and rest:
Lay down, thou weary one, lay down
Thy head upon my breast.
I came to Jesus as I was,
Weary, and worn, and sad,
I found in him a resting-place,
And he has made me glad.
"I heard the voice of Jesus say,
I am this dark world's light;
Look unto me--thy morn shall rise,
And all thy day be bright.
I looked to Jesus, and I found
In him my star, my sun;
And in that light of life I'll walk
Till travelling days are done."
She sang two verses, clear, glad, and sweet, as Nettie always sang;
then she paused and looked at her mother.
"Do you keep up hope yet, Nettie?" said Mrs. Mathieson, sadly.
"Yes, mother," Nettie said, quietly.
"Mine gets beat out sometimes," said Mrs. Mathieson, drooping her head
for an instant on her hands. "Your father's out every night now; and you
know where he goes; and he cares less and less about anything else in
the world but Jackson's store, and what he gets there, and the company
he finds there. And he don't want much of being a ruined man."
"Yes, mother. But the Bible says we must wait on the Lord."
"Wait! yes, and I've waited; and I see you growing as thin as a shadow
and as weak as a mouse; and your father don't see it; and he's let you
sleep in that cold place up there all winter just to accommodate that
Lumber!--I am sure he is well named."
"O mother, my garret is nice now,--on the warm days. You can't think how
pretty it is out of my window--prettier than any window in the house."
"Outside, I dare say. It isn't a place fit for a cat to sleep on!"
"Mother, it's a good place to me. I don't want a better place. I don't
think anybody else has a place that seems so good to me; for mother,
Jesus is always there."
"I expect there'll be nothing else but heaven good enough for you after
it!" said Mrs. Mathieson, with a sort of half sob. "I see you wasting
away before my very eyes."
"Mother," said Nettie, cheerfully, "how can you talk so? I feel
well--except now and then."
"If your father could only be made to see it!--but he can't see
anything, nor hear anything. There's that house-raising to-morrow,
Nettie--it's been on my mind this fortnight past, and it kills me."
"Why, mother?"
"I know how it will be," said Mrs. Mathieson; "they'll have a grand
set-to after they get it up; and your father'll be in the first of it;
and I somehow feel as if it would be the finishing of him. I wish
almost he'd get sick--or anything, to keep him away. They make such a
time after a house-raising."
"O mother, don't wish that," said Nettie; but she began to think how it
would be possible to withdraw her father from the frolic with which the
day's business would be ended. Mr. Mathieson was a carpenter, and a fine
workman; and always had plenty of work and was much looked up to among
his fellows.
Nettie began to think whether _she_ could make any effort to keep her
father from the dangers into which he was so fond of plunging; hitherto
she had done nothing but pray for him; could she do anything more, with
any chance of good coming of it? She thought and thought; and resolved
that she must try. It did not look hopeful; there was little she could
urge to lure Mr. Mathieson from his drinking companions; nothing, except
her own timid affection, and the one other thing it was possible to
offer him,--a good supper. How to get that was not so easy; but she
consulted with her mother.
Mrs. Mathieson said she used in her younger days to know how to make
waffles,[3] and Mr. Mathieson used to think they were the best things
that ever were made; now if Mrs. Moss, a neighbour, would lend her
waffle-iron, and she could get a few eggs,--she believed she could
manage it still. "But we haven't the eggs, child," she said; "and I
don't believe any power under heaven can get him to come away from that
raising frolic."
[3] _Waffles_, a species of sweet-cake used on such festivals in
America.
Nor did Nettie. It was to no power _under_ heaven that she trusted. But
she must use her means. She easily got the iron from Mrs. Moss. Then she
borrowed the eggs from Mme. Auguste, who in Lent time always had them;
then she watched with grave eyes and many a heart prayer the while, the
mixing and making of the waffles.
"How do you manage the iron, mother?"
"Why it is made hot," said Mrs. Mathieson, "very hot, and buttered; and
then when the batter is light you pour it in, and clap it together, and
put it in the stove."
"But how can you pour it in, mother? I don't see how you can fill the
iron."
"Why, you can't, child; you fill one half, and shut it together: and
when it bakes it rises up and fills the other half. You'll see."
The first thing Nettie asked when she came home from school in the
afternoon was, if the waffles were light? She never saw any look better,
Mrs. Mathieson said; "but I forgot, child, we ought to have cinnamon and
white sugar to eat on them;--it was so that your father used to admire
them; they wont be waffles without sugar and cinnamon, I'm afraid he'll
think;--but I don't believe you'll get him home to think anything about
them."
Mrs. Mathieson ended with a sigh. Nettie said nothing; she went round
the room, putting it in particularly nice order; then set the table.
When all that was right, she went up to her garret, and knelt down and
prayed that God would take care of her and bless her errand. She put
the whole matter in the Lord's hands; then she dressed herself in her
hood and cloak and went down to her mother. Mr. Mathieson had not come
home to dinner, being busy with the house-raising; so they had had no
opportunity to invite him, and Nettie was now on her way to do it.
"It's turned a bad afternoon; I'm afraid it aint fit for you to go,
Nettie."
"I don't mind," said Nettie. "May be I'll get some sugar and cinnamon,
mother, before I come back."
"Well, you know where the raising is? it's out on the Shallonway road,
on beyond Mrs. August's, a good bit."
Nettie nodded, and went out; and as the door closed on her grave, sweet
little face, Mrs. Mathieson felt a great strain on her heart. She would
have been glad to relieve herself by tears, but it was a dry pain that
would not be relieved so. She went to the window, and looked out at the
weather.