Bishop. "There is a great work to do there,--a great work. It requires a
man of Brother Forcythe's energy to meet it. Mistress Mary here will
doubtless find consolation in the thought that her father's sphere of
usefulness is--h'm--enlarged."
"But we shan't have any garden," faltered Mary, "Tilly Brooks, who was
there before, says it isn't a bit nice. She never saw a flower all the
time she was there, she said. I'd just planted my bed in the garden
here. Mrs. Clapp gave me six pansies, and it was going to be so pretty.
Now I've got to--leave--'em." Her voice died away into sobs.
"Tut, tut!" said the Bishop. "The customs of a church cannot be set
aside to accommodate a child's flower-bed. You'll find other things to
please you in Redding, Mistress Mary. Come, come, dry your eyes. Your
father's daughter should not set an example like this."
"No, sir," gulped Mary, mortified at this reproof from the Bishop, who
was an important person, and much looked up to. She did her best to stop
crying, but it was hard work. When they reached home, the sight of the
pansies perking their yellow and purple faces up to meet her, renewed
her grief. There was her mignonette seed not yet sprouted. If she had
known that they were going away, she would not have planted any. There,
worst of all, was the corner where she had planned such a nice surprise
for her mother,--"A. F." in green parsley letters. A. F. stood for Anne
Forcythe. Now, mother would never see the letters or know any thing
about it. Oh dear, oh dear!
Mrs. Forcythe's own disappointment was great, for they had all made sure
that they should stay. But, like a true mother, she put her share of the
grief aside, and thought only of comforting Mary.
"Don't feel so badly, dear," she said. "Recollect, you'll have Papa
still, and me and Frank and little Peter. We'll manage to be happy
somehow. Redding isn't half so disagreeable as you think."
"Yes, it is. Tilly said so. I was going to have radishes and a
rose-bush," replied Mary tearfully. "There's a robin just building in
the elm-tree now. There won't be any trees in Redding; only horrid hard
cobble-stones."
"We must hope for the best," said Mrs. Forcythe, who did not enjoy the
idea of the cobble-stones any more than Mary did.
"Only ten days more at Valley Hill," was the first thought that came
into Mary's mind the next morning. She went downstairs cross and out of
spirits. Her mother was laying sheets and table-cloths in a trunk. The
books were gone from the little book-shelf; every thing had already
begun to look unsettled and uncomfortable.
"I shall depend on you to take care of little Peter," said Mrs.
Forcythe. "We shall all have to work hard if we are to get off next
Monday week."
Mary gave an impatient shrug with her shoulders. She loved little Peter,
but it seemed an injury just then to have to take care of him. All the
time that her mother was sorting, counting, and arranging where things
should go, she sat in the window sullen and unhappy, looking out at the
pansy-bed. Peter grew tired of a companion who did nothing to amuse him,
and began to sprawl and scramble upstairs.
"O baby, come back!" cried Mary, and, I am sorry to say, gave him a
shake. Peter cried, and that brought poor weary Mrs. Forcythe
downstairs.
"Can't you manage to make him happy?" she said. Mary only pouted.
All that day and the next and the next it was the same. Mrs. Forcythe
was busy every moment. There were a thousand things to do, another
thousand to remember. People kept coming in to say good-by. Peter
wandered out on the door-steps when Mary's back was turned, took cold,
and was threatened with croup. Mrs. Forcythe was half sick herself from
worry and fatigue. And all this time Mary, instead of helping, was one
of her mother's chief anxieties. She fretted and complained continually.
Every thing went wrong. Each article put into the boxes cost her a flood
of tears. Each friend who dropped in, renewed the sense of loss. She
scarcely noticed her mother's pale face at all. All the brightness and
busy-ness in her was changed for selfish lamentations, and still the
burden of her complaint was, "I shan't have any flowers in Redding. My
garden, oh, my garden."
"I don't know what's come to her," said poor Mrs. Forcythe. "She's not
like the same child at all." And old Mrs. Clapp, who had been very fond
of Mary, declared that she never knew a girl so altered.
"She's the most _contrary_ piece you ever saw," she said to her
daughter. "I could have given her a right-down good slap just now for
the way she spoke to her mother. It's all her fault that the baby took
cold. She don't lift a hand to help, and I expect as sure as Fate that
we'll have Mrs. Forcythe sick before we get through. I wouldn't have
believed that such a likely girl as Mary Forcythe could act so."
Poor "contrary" Mary! She was very unhappy. The fatal last morning came.
All the boxes were packed. The drays, laden with furniture and beds,
stood at the gate. Mrs. Clapp, and Mrs. Elder, the class-leader, were
going over the house collecting last things and doing last jobs. Mary
wandered out alone into the garden for a farewell look at her pets.
"Good-by, pansies," she said, bending over them. There were only five in
the bed now, for Mary had taken up one and packed it in paper to carry
with her. A big tear hopped down her nose and splashed into the middle
of the yellow pansy, her favorite of all. It turned up its bright
kitten-face just the same. None of them minded Mary's going away.
Flowers are sometimes so unkind to people.
"Good-by, rose-bush," proceeded Mary, turning from the pansy-bed.
"Good-by, honey-suckle. Good-by, peony. Good-by, matter-i-mony." This
sounds funny, but Mary only meant by it a vine with a small purple
flower which grew over the back-door. "Good-by, lilac," she went on.
"Good-by, grass plot." This brought her to the gate. The wagon stood
waiting to carry them to the railroad, three miles away. Mrs. Forcythe,
with the baby in her arms, was just getting in. "Hurry, Mary," called
her father. Slowly she opened the gate, slowly shut it. Her father
helped her over the wheel. She sat down beside Frank. Mrs. Clapp waved
her handkerchief, then put it to her eyes. Mary took a long look at the
pretty garden just budding with spring, and burst into tears. Mr.
Forcythe chirruped to the horse; they were off,--and that was their
good-by to Valley Hill.
Redding was certainly very different. It was an old-fashioned town with
narrow streets, which smelt of fish. Most of the people were sailors, or
had something to do with ships. There were several nice churches, and
outside the town a few handsome houses, but there were a great many poor
people in the place and not many rich ones.
In the very narrowest of all the streets stood the parsonage; a little
brick house with a paved yard behind, just wide enough for
clothes-lines. When the wash was hung out there was not an inch to
spare on either side. Mary gave up all hope as soon as she saw it. There
was not room even for _one_ pansy. The windows looked out on chimneys
and roofs and other backyards, with lines of wet clothes flapping in the
sun. Not a tree was to be seen. Any one might be excused for thinking it
doleful; and Mary, having made up her mind beforehand to dislike it,
found it easy to keep her resolution.
There was no possibility of getting things to rights that night; though
several people came in to help, and a comfortable supper was ready
spread for the travellers on their arrival. Mrs. Forcythe was cheered by
this kindness, but Mary could not be cheerful. She had to sleep upon a
mattress laid on the floor. At another time this would have been fun,
but now it did not seem funny at all; it was only part and parcel of the
misery of coming to live in Redding. She cried herself to sleep, and
came down in the morning with swollen eyelids and a disposition to make
the very worst of things,--easy enough for any girl to do if she sets
about it.
She scarcely thanked her father when he went out and bought a red pot
for the unlucky pansy, which, after its travels and its night in brown
paper, looked as disconsolate as Mary herself. "I know it'll die right
away," she muttered as she set it on the window-sill. "Oh, dear, there's
mother calling. What _does_ she want?"
"Mary, dear," said Mrs. Forcythe when she went down, "where have you
been? I want you to put away the dishes for me."
"I'm so tired," objected Mary crossly.
"Don't you think that mother must be tired too?" asked her father
gravely.
Mary blushed and began to place the cups and plates on the cupboard
shelves. Her slow movements attracted her father's attention.
"What's the matter?" he said. "At Valley Hill you were as brisk as a
bee, always wanting to help in every thing. Here you seem unwilling to
move. How is it?"
"I--don't--like--Redding," broke out Mary in a burst of petulance.
"You haven't seen it yet."
"Yes, I have, Papa. I've seen it as much as I want to. It's horrid!"
"I never knew her to behave so before," said Mr. Forcythe in a perplexed
tone, as Mary, having unpacked the dishes, sobbed her way upstairs.
"She'll brighten when we are settled," replied Mrs. Forcythe, indulgent
as mothers are, and ready to hope the best of her child. "Oh, dear!
there's the baby waked up. Would you call Mary to go to him?"
So it went on all that week. Mr. and Mrs. Forcythe were very patient
with Mary, hoping always that this evil mood would pass, and their
bright, helpful little daughter come back to them again. She never
refused to do any thing that was asked of her; but you know the
difference between willing and unwilling service: Mary just did the
tasks set her, no more, and as soon as they were finished fled to her
own room to fret and cry. Her father took her out to walk and showed her
the new church, but Mary thought the church ugly, and the outside view
of Redding as unpleasant as the inside one. Dull streets, small houses
everywhere; no gardens, except now and then a single bed, edged with a
row of stiff cockle-shells by way of fence, and planted with pert
sweet-williams or crown imperials. These Mary thought were worse than no
flowers at all. Every thing smelt of fish. The very sea was made ugly by
warehouses and shabby wharves. The people they met were strangers; and,
altogether, the effect of Mary's walk was to send her back more homesick
than ever for Valley Hill.
By Friday night the little parsonage was in order. Mrs. Forcythe was a
capital manager. She planned and contrived, turned and twisted and made
things comfortable in a surprising way. But she overtired herself
greatly in doing this, and on Saturday morning Mary was waked by her
father calling from below that mother was very ill, and she must come
down at once and stay with her while he went for a doctor.
"Oh, dear!" sighed Mary, as she hurried on her clothes. "Now mother is
sick. It's all this hateful Redding. She never was sick when we lived in
the country."
But the hard mood melted the moment she saw her mother's pale face and
feeble smile.
"I hope I'm not going to be very ill," said Mrs. Forcythe; "probably
it's only that I have tired myself out. You'll have to be 'Mamma' for a
day or two, Mary dear. Make Papa as comfortable as you can. See that
Frank has his lunch put up for school, and don't let Peter take cold.
Oh, dear!--my head aches so hard that I can't talk. I know you'll do
your best Mary, won't you?"
Guess how Mary felt at this appeal! All her better nature came back in a
moment. She saw how wrong she had been in nursing her selfish griefs,
and letting this dear mother over-work herself. "O mother, I will,
indeed I will!" she cried, kissing the pale face; and, only waiting to
draw the blind so that the sun should not shine in, she flew
downstairs, eager to do all she could to make up for past ill-conduct.
The Doctor came. He said Mrs. Forcythe was threatened with fever, and
must be kept very quiet for several days. Mary had never in her life
worked so hard as she did that Saturday. There was breakfast, dinner,
supper to get, dishes to wash, water to heat, the fire to tend, rooms to
dust, beds to make, the baby to keep out of mischief. She was very tired
by night, but her heart felt lighter than it had for many days past. Do
you wonder at this? I can tell you the reason. Mary's troubles were
selfish troubles, and the moment she forgot herself in thinking of
somebody else, they became small and began to creep away.
"Pitty, pitty!" said little Peter, as he heard her singing over her
dish-washing. Mary caught him up and gave him a hearty kiss,--a real
Valley Hill kiss, such as she had given no one since they came to
Redding.
"Mary is doing famously," Mr. Forcythe told his wife that night. "She
has a first-rate head on her shoulders for a girl of her age." Mary
heard him, and was pleased. She liked--we all like--to be counted useful
and valuable. The bit of praise sent her back to her work with redoubled
zeal.
Next morning Mrs. Forcythe was a little better. Her head ached less; she
sat up on her pillows and drank a cup of tea. Mary was smoothing her
mother's hair with soft pats of the brush, when suddenly the church
bells began to ring. She had never heard such sounds before. The bell at
Valley Hill was cracked, and went tang--tang--tang, as if the
meeting-house were an old cow walking slowly about. These bells had a
dozen different voices,--some deep and solemn, others bright and clear,
but all beautiful; and across their pealing a soft, delicious chime from
the tower of the Episcopal church went to and fro, and wove itself in
and out like a thread of silver embroidery. Mary dropped the brush, and
clasped her hands tight. It was like listening to a song of which she
could not hear enough. When the last tinkle of the chime died away, she
unclasped her hands, and, turning from the window, cried, "O mother!
wasn't that lovely? There is _one_ pleasant thing in Redding, after
all!"
I do not think matters ever seemed so hard again after that morning when
Mary made friends with the church bells. It was the beginning of a
better understanding between her and her new home; and there is a great
deal in beginnings, even though they may work slowly toward their ends.
By the close of the week Mrs. Forcythe was downstairs again, weak and
pale, but able to sit in her chair and direct things, which Mary felt to
be a great comfort. The parishioners began to call. There were no rich
people among them; but it was a hard-working, active parish, and did a
great deal for its means. The Sunday-school was large and flourishing;
there was a missionary association, a home missionary association, a
mite society, and a sewing circle, which met every week to make clothes
for the poor and partake of tea, soda biscuit, and six sorts of cake.
Beside these, a new project had just been started, "The Seamen's
Daughters' Industrial Society;" or, in other words, a sewing-school for
little girls whose fathers were sailors. There were plenty of such
little girls in Redding.
"Your daughter will join, of course," said Mrs. Wallis, when she came to
call on her minister's wife. "It's important that the pastor's family
should take a part in every good work." Mrs. Wallis was the most
energetic woman of the congregation,--at the head of every thing.
"I'm afraid Mary's sewing is not good enough," replied Mrs. Forcythe.
"She isn't very skilful with her needle yet."
"Oh! she knows enough to teach those ignorant little creatures. Half of
them are foreigners, and never touch a needle in their homes. It's
every thing to give them some ideas beyond their own shiftless ways."
"Would you like to try, Mary?" asked her mother.
"I--don't--know," replied Mary, afraid to refuse, because Mrs. Wallis
looked so sharp and decided.
"Very well, then I'll call for you on Saturday, at half-past ten," went
on Mrs. Wallis, quite regardless of Mary's hesitating tone. "I'm glad
you'll come. It would never do not to have some of the minister's
family. Saturday morning, at half-past ten! Good-by, Mrs. Forcythe.
Don't get up; you look peaked still. To-morrow is baking day, and I
shall send you a green-currant pie. Perhaps _that'll_ do you good." With
these words she departed.
"Must I really teach in that school?" asked Mary dolefully.
"I think you'd better. The people expect it, and it will be a good thing
for you to practise sewing a little," replied her mother. "I daresay it
will be pleasanter than you think."
"It seems so funny that I should be set to teach any one to sew," said
Mary, bursting into a laugh. "Don't you recollect how Mrs. Clapp used to
scold me, and say I 'gobbled' my darns?"
"You mustn't 'gobble' before the seamen's daughters," said Mrs.
Forcythe, smiling. "It will be a capital lesson for you to try to teach
what you haven't quite learned yourself."
Punctual as the clock Mrs. Wallis appeared on Saturday, and bore the
unwilling Mary away to the sewing-school. Mrs. Forcythe watched them
from the window. She couldn't help laughing, their movements were so
comically different,--Mrs. Wallis was so brisk and decided, while Mary
lagged behind, dragging one slow foot after the other as if each moment
she longed to stop and dared not. Very different was her movement,
however, two hours later, when she returned. She came with a kind of
burst, her eyes bright with excitement, and her cheeks pinker than they
had been since she left Valley Hill.
"O mother, it is _so_ nice! Ever so many children were there,--thirty at
least; and Mrs. Wallis said I might choose any five I liked to be my
class. First, I chose the dearest little Irish girl. Her name is Norah,
and she's just as pretty as she can be, only her face was dreadfully
dirty, and her clothes all rags. Then her little sister Kathleen cried
to come; so I took her too. Then I chose a cunning little German tot
named Gretchen. She has yellow hair, braided in tight little tails down
her back, and is a good deal cleaner than the rest, but not very clean,
you know; and she hadn't any shoes at all. Then Mrs. Wallis brought up
the funniest little French girl, with a name I can't pronounce. I'm
going to call her Amy. And the last of all is an American, real pretty.
Her name is Rachel Gray. Her father is gone on a whaling voyage, and
won't be back for three years. Don't they sound nice, mother? I think I
shall like teaching them so much!"
"Do they know any thing about sewing?" asked Mrs. Forcythe.
"Not a thing. They made dreadful stitches. Kathleen cried because the
needle pricked her, and Rachel wanted to wear the thimble on the wrong
finger. Amy did the best. When they went away they all wanted to kiss
me, and Norah said she guessed I was the best teacher in the school.
Wasn't that cunning? Mrs. Wallis is real kind. She brought ever so much
gingerbread, and gave each of the children a piece."
"I'm glad it begins so well--"
"Yes. There's just one thing, though. The children's faces! You can't
think how dirty they are. I should like to give them a good scrub all
round."
"Well, why don't you?"
"How can I? There isn't any wash-bowl down at the school-room."
"If you liked you might have them all come here at ten o'clock, and walk
down with you. Then you could take them up to your room, wash their
faces and hands, and brush their hair smooth before you start. I really
think you would enjoy your teaching more if the scholars were clean."
"May I really do that?"
"Yes. I'll buy you a fresh cake of soap and a brush, and you can take
two clean towels from the drawer every Saturday morning. Make it a rule,
but be very gentle and pleasant about it or the children may refuse."
"O mother, what a good plan! Thank you so much," said Mary with
sparkling eyes. "Now I shall have real comfort with them."
There was great excitement in the sewing-class when they were told that
in future they were to go to "Teacher's" house every Saturday, and walk
down to school with her. They were a droll little procession enough when
they appeared the next week at the appointed time. Norah's toes were out
of her shoes. Her tangled curls were as rough as a bird's-nest, and the
hat on top of them looked as if it had sailed across every mud-puddle in
town. Little Kathleen's scanty garments were rather rags than clothes.
And Gretchen, tidiest of all, had smears of sausage on her rosy face,
and did not seem to have been brought into contact with soap and water
for weeks.
Mary led them up into her own room, which, plain as it was, looked like
a palace to the little ones after the dirt and discomfort of their
crowded homes. There were the nice clean towels, the new hair-brush, and
the big cake of honey-soap, mother's contributions to the undertaking.
The washing was quite a frolic. Norah cried a little at having her hair
pulled, but Mary was gentle and pleasant, and made the affair so amusing
that the children thought it pleasant to be clean, instead of disliking
it. She rewarded their patience by a kiss all round. Kathleen threw her
arms about Mary's neck and gave her a great hug. "You're iver so nice,"
she said, and Mary kissed her again.
So every Saturday from that time forward, Mary went to school followed
by a crowd of clean little faces, which looked all the brighter and
happier for their cleanliness. She was proud of her class, but their
ragged clothes distressed her greatly.
"It is such a pity," she told her mother. "They are so pretty, and they
look like beggars."
Mrs. Forcythe had only been waiting for this. She was not a woman to
give much advice, even to her own child. "Drop in a seed and let it
grow," was her motto.
"There's that old gingham of yours," she suggested. "You could spare
that for one of them, if there were anybody to make it over."
"_I'll_ make it!" cried Mary, "only--" her, face falling, "I don't know
how to cut dresses."
"I'll cut it for you if you like," said Mrs. Forcythe quietly.
"Will you, mother dear? How splendid. I'll make it for Norah. She's the
raggedest of all."
The gingham was measured, and proved enough to make frocks for Norah
and Kathleen too. Mary had double work to undertake, but her heart was
in her fingers, and they flew fast. It took every spare moment for a
fortnight to make the frocks, but when they were done and tried on to
the delighted children, they looked so nicely that Mary was rewarded for
her trouble and for the many needle-pricks in her forefinger.
"Only it's such a pity about the others," she told her mother. "They'll
think I'm partial, and I'm not, though I _do_ love Norah a little bit
the best, she's so affectionate. I wish we were rich. Then I could buy
frocks for them all."
"If you were rich, perhaps you wouldn't care about it," said her mother.
"A little here and a little there, a stitch, a kind word, a small
self-denial, these are in the power of all of us, and in course of time
they mount up and make a great deal. And, Mary dear, I've always found
if you once start in a path and are determined to keep on, somebody's
sure to come along and lend a helping hand, when you think you have got
to the end of every thing, and must stop or turn back."
"Well, I've got to the end of every thing now," said Mary. "There aren't
any more old frocks to make over, and we can't afford to buy new ones."
"Don't be discouraged," said her mother. "The way is sure to open
somehow."
"How wise mother is," thought Mary, when the very next week on their way
back from school Mrs. Wallis said, "I noticed that two of your scholars
had respectable frocks on to-day. I wonder if their mothers made them?
If they did, I've an old chintz dress which I could spare, and perhaps
Gretchen's mother and Amadine's could take it and fit them out too."
"I made the dresses," cried Mary joyfully. "And if you'll let me have
the old chintz, I'll make some more for the others, Mrs. Wallis. Oh, I'm
so glad."
"Did you make them," said Mrs. Wallis in a pleased tone. "Well, that's
first-rate. I'll send the chintz round to-night; and any other old
things I can find to help along."
So that night came a great bundle, which, on opening, revealed not only
the chintz, but a nice calico, some plaid ribbon, a large black alpaca
apron, and an old shirt of Mr. Wallis's. Such a busy time as Mary had in
planning how to make the most of these gifts. The chintz was long and
full. It had a cape, and made two beautiful frocks. The calico made
another frock and two nice pinafores, the black alpaca some small
aprons. Mary trimmed the two worst hats with the ribbon. Last of all,
she cut and stitched five narrow bands of the linen, which mother washed
and starched, and behold, the class had collars! I don't know which was
most pleased at this last decoration, Mary or the children.