A DANGER ESCAPED.
MRS. SIMMONS gave Janet Humphrey a little more good advice still,
before she had done with her: and Janet took the good advice humbly.
For whatever Janet's faults might be, she had not among them the silly
pride which will not bear to be told of being in the wrong.
"I am sure I wish I could do better," she said, standing at the open
door with Betsy Simmons, when the latter was about to leave. "I don't
pretend to say everything is as it should be. But it isn't so easy to
keep straight as some folks fancy."
"No, that it isn't," said Mrs. Simmons. "I'm on your side of the matter
there. It isn't easy to get out of bad habits and into good ones. A
deal of striving and praying have to go to it."
"Why, Mrs. Simmons, you wouldn't surely have me pray about keeping my
house straight!"
"And about getting up early, and having the rooms clean, and the
children tidy, and the meals comfortable! Surely I would," said Betsy
Simmons. "I don't see that you're likely to get things right without
praying. You've a deal to fight against—laziness and forgetfulness and
what-not! And you'll want help from above, if ever a woman does."
"But such little things," remonstrated Janet.
"Ah, that's where you mistake," said Mrs. Simmons. "That's where you
and others go wrong. They are not little things at all, but big things.
It don't seem so very much, perhaps, if one day or another you don't
get done in time, and the place is all of a muck, and the children are
in a mess, and the dinner isn't properly cooked, and your husband goes
somewhere else for the comfort he can't find in his own house. Maybe
each time it's a small matter alone. But it's no small matter if you
stop short of your duty in that state of life where God has put you.
And it won't be a small matter, if your husband is driven from his home
so often that at last he takes to the public-house instead."
"My husband isn't one of them as is for ever in and out at the public,"
said Janet hastily, forgetting her own lately-expressed fear.
"Maybe not, but he isn't one that never goes there. Mind you don't
give him a push down hill with your own hand, Mrs. Humphrey. A
man won't commonly stand more than a certain amount and degree of
uncomfortableness. I can tell you I didn't like the look in his face
to-day, as I saw him coming away from your door."
Janet felt uneasy.
"I'll try—I will really try," she said. "I shouldn't like that. He's so
steady mostly, I didn't somehow think there was danger he'd ever turn
to being anything else."
"The more steady he is, the more shame he shouldn't have a cosy house
to sit quiet in," said Mrs. Simmons.
"I'll try," repeated Janet. "I'll do things different. And you'll come
in sometimes, and tell me how, won't you?"
"I'm glad enough to help anyone I can," said Betsy Simmons. "But it's
other help than mine you'll need to keep straight. Now, if I was you,
Mrs. Humphrey, I'd see to having everything nice, and the children off
to bed early, before he comes back again. Don't let him find you in a
mess a second time."
"But Tommy don't like being sent to bed early."
"And if he don't, what then?"
"Why, he'll scream," said Janet.
"That's soon settled," said Mrs. Simmons. "Tuck him up, and he'll
soon scream himself out. All the more need to have it over while your
husband's away. And if I was you, Mrs. Humphrey, I'd put the little
ones to sleep every evening before he comes back from work, until
they've learnt to go off quiet without any screaming. It'll be the best
lesson they ever had yet."
"But they won't—" began Janet.
"Talk of 'won't' about a parcel of babies!" said Mrs. Simmons. "I'll
tell you what,—I never yet saw the child, big or little, who couldn't
be mastered, if one knew how to do it. You needn't think it's a matter
of scolding and storming. The gentler you speak the better, so as only
you make a child understand that you mean what you say. But if your
children's 'won't' is stronger than your 'must,'—why, all I can say is,
you're scarce fit to be a mother. You'd best send them away, and pay
somebody else to do the bringing up for you."
"I never could bear to see a child unhappy," said Janet.
"Yes, yes. I know the feeling. It sounds a deal kinder than it really
is. So you don't mind bearing to see your husband unhappy, and you let
them do just whatever they like, never thinking of the misery they'll
be in after life to themselves and others,—and thinking least of all of
the Life that's to come, and whether your children are to be happy then
or not. That isn't tender-heartedness. It's downright cruelty."
"I hope it'll all come right with them," Janet said uneasily.
"I hope so too, but I don't see as you've much reason to expect it. If
you don't train them up now in the way they should go, it isn't very
likely they'll take to walking in it by-and-by."
Janet was not offended by Mrs. Simmons's plain speaking. She said again
that she would "try;" and when Betsy Simmons was gone she returned
indoors.
"Mother, do you like Mrs. Simmons?" asked Janey, in a doubtful voice,
as Janet began to undress the baby.
"Yes, she's good and she's true," Janet answered. "She says a sharp
word sometimes, but she don't mean it unkindly. Janey, I wonder if you
couldn't help me now, by getting Willie ready. I want to have him and
Tommy and baby in bed, against father comes back. And you've got to
smooth your hair too."
Janey entered into the spirit of the thing with astonishing quickness.
Tommy was, as usual, the most troublesome, and Janet kept him in her
own hands. He always kicked and cried while being undressed, and
generally he gained his will in the shape of repeated delays. This
evening, to his infantine astonishment, the kicks and cries were of
no avail. Janet was heated and sorry, but she persevered, and, to her
surprise, Tommy was no sooner fairly in bed than he turned himself
round and dropped asleep,—"sound as a top," Janey remarked.
"I am glad I went on," said Janet. "Now we'll pop Willie in, and baby
will soon be off too. Dear me, I do think father will be pleased. He
does like a bit of quiet."
Jem Humphrey presently reappeared, rather later than Janet had
expected. She found time beforehand to put everything neatly away, and
to spread the table for supper. There was only a half-loaf of stale
bread, besides cheese. Not that they could not afford more; for Jem
received good wages, and he seldom squandered money on himself: but
Janet had not taken the trouble to prepare anything else. She had
counted herself too busy, and had said that "things would do as they
were." Now she was sorry that she had not managed better.
Jem looked moody and vexed still, and he sat down without a word. But
as his eyes travelled round the kitchen, noting its unwonted order,
marking the absence of noisy babies, and perceiving the clean cap on
Janet's smooth hair—not often smooth, alas!—an expression of relief
came over his face.
"Why, whatever in the world have you been after?" he asked. "I
shouldn't know the place."
"Mrs. Simmons came in, and helped me to tidy up," said Janet.
"I wish she'd come every day," muttered Jem.
"She couldn't do that," said Janet. "But I do mean to try—really and
truly, Jem. I don't mean to have things all of a mess, if I can help
it. I know I've been wrong, and I'll try to make a difference from this
very day."
Jem looked at Janet and said no more. He took a hunch of bread, and ate
silently.
"I might have got you something warm. I wish I had," said Janet.
"Well, it's been cold comfort you've given me lately, there's no manner
of doubt," said Jem. "I shouldn't have minded a hot potato or two,—and
it wouldn't have been such a vast deal of trouble neither."
Janet made no answer to this, and supper progressed with the addition
of very few remarks. When it was over he took to a book from the Parish
Lending Library, and read diligently. Janet cleared the table, mindful
still of Mrs. Simmons' exhortations, and presently the elder children
were sent to bed. Jem was at length alone with his wife. He put down
his book and looked at her.
"Janet, you're just in time," he said, and his voice was a little
husky. "You're just in time, but it's only just. It was getting to be
beyond bearing, and I was angry. I don't say I was in the right, but I
do say things were getting to be beyond bearing. I haven't been to the
public this evening, but I made up my mind I'd go to-morrow, and take
to it every evening after, regular,—and I made up my mind I'd take a
drop too much and pay you out. And I'd have done it too!"
Janet came nearer, a frightened look on her face.
"You won't go, Jem,—you won't do that," she faltered. "Promise me you
won't."
"No, I won't," Jem answered, in a clear firm voice. "I won't,
Janet,—and, God helping me, I'll never even mean to do it again. But I
was near it to-day. I suppose there's a sort of evil spirit gets hold
on a man once in a while. If I'd begun, there's no knowing where I'd
have stopped."
"O Jem, I'll never forget," Janet said earnestly.