A RIFT IN THE CLOUD.
KATE was not left long in suspense. She soon received a letter from
Mrs. Maybrick to say that she was satisfied with the character given by
her present mistress, and would engage her on the terms named by Fanny
Ellis.
She would require her to go straight from Mrs. Bateson's to her new
situation, as the servant whose place she was to take would leave three
days earlier, and it would be inconvenient to wait longer than this for
Kate.
The girl was not sorry, for she could not feel comfortable at the
prospect of meeting her mother. For the first time in her life, the
thought of going home was not a cause of unmixed pleasure. She was
longing to see her mother, and the young brothers and sisters who
always looked forward to a visit from Kate as a something which made
home a little brighter for a while.
During the year, the girl was accustomed to devote many of her spare
hours to the making of little garments, and turning odds and ends to
account for mother and the children.
If all had gone well and she had been remaining in her place, she
would have had a fortnight's holiday almost directly. Many a time she
had pictured the young faces' brightening at her coming, and mother's
patient, careworn look giving place to one that was all joy and welcome.
She would not see them now, or hear the cries of surprise and delight
as she distributed her treasures amongst the eager children. They would
have the things all the same, but not from her hand, and she could not
tell when she would see them, for Mrs. Maybrick would make no definite
promise as to holidays later on in the year.
The lady had said to Fanny Ellis, "I will not tie myself to any
particular time, or say how long I will give. Kate must come to me at
once, and when quite convenient to the family, she shall have two or
three days. She cannot expect me to begin by giving her any length of
time."
This seemed reasonable enough, but it cost Kate a pang, because of the
nearness of the holiday season, to which she had looked forward for
almost a year, and it was eight months since she had seen any one from
home. Seventy miles of distance was not worth naming amongst people
with plenty of money. But it meant a great deal in railway fare, and
loss of time besides, to a hard-working mother with six children under
fourteen, and only the eldest earning a trifle. Kate might well sigh
as she thought over all these things, and dread the effect of a letter
from Mrs. Bateson to her mother with the news that had to be told.
She wished it could have been delayed until she could send a triumphant
message to say how well she was doing in a new place, and that she
would be able to spare more out of her increased wages for mother and
the little ones.
Day after day passed, and Kate heard nothing from home. She began
to think that Mrs. Bateson had not written after all. Then a letter
came in a far better hand than her mother was able to write. It was
enclosed in one to her mistress and brought sorrowful news. Three of
the children, the youngest, were down with scarlet fever. It was hoped
the elder ones would not take it, for two of them had had it before.
John's earnings were stopped. He was not allowed to go to his work for
fear of carrying infection. In the village where Mrs. Evans lived,
there was no cottage hospital or place within reach to which fever
cases could be taken. So the poor mother's hands were full, and there
was little doubt that her pocket would be empty or very nearly so.
Kate could picture the state of things. Her mother was counted the
best laundress in or near Garsfield, and had thankfully said many a
time that she was never short of work. But hers was just the kind of
employment that would stop now, for even if attendance on her sick
children allowed her to carry it on, who would send their linen to an
infected house?
"I was just going to send word that you must not come home for your
holidays," wrote Mrs. Evans by a friend's hand. "Then a letter came
from your mistress to say that you were going to leave. Oh, Katie, I
'was' sorry to read that news. Mrs. Bateson has been good to you and
far better and kinder to me than ever you knew of. Many's the parcel
of clothes, all clean and neatly mended, that I have had from her, and
such kind letters cheering me up with nice texts, telling me to trust
in God's goodness, and helping me to do it by showing me that He did
not forget our need, but put it into that dear lady's heart to supply
it.
"Only the last time she wrote, she put such nice words in her letter
about you that I cried for joy as I read them. This was what she wrote,
'Kate is a good girl; very quiet and painstaking about her work. She
does it well, and is daily improving in every way. The sight of her as
she now is repays me for all the teaching and trouble bestowed upon
her. A good servant is a blessing in a family, and a good daughter
a treasure to a mother. I believe Kate will be a comfort to her
employers, and a true help to you and to the children as they grow up.'
"And to think you are leaving such a home, and a mistress that has
done far more for you than ever I could, and for what? Just a bit of
wilfulness and disobedience, and to show how independent you could be
and set your mistress at defiance.
"Oh, Katie, you will be sorry for what you have done when you come to
see the difference between a home at Heyington Hall, and the place you
have chosen to take at Manchester, without even asking your mother's
advice. I have trouble enough now, for I believe Tom is beginning with
the fever too, but the thought of you makes me more anxious than all
the rest. May God preserve you from harm!
"Your loving mother, SARAH EVANS."
Kate's tears fell fast as she read this letter, and she made two
resolutions, and kept them. The first was that she would send off
to her mother every penny that she could spare, reserving only the
month's wages she would receive when she left Heyington for travelling
expenses, and her own immediate needs.
The second, that she would not leave her place without telling her
mistress that she was sorry for her disobedience and asking her to
forgive it.
"And I will go just now," she exclaimed to herself, as she stood in her
own room with her mother's letter in her hand. "May be if I put off, I
shall get frightened again."
Kate was right in this. It is dangerous put off the fulfilment of a
good resolution. If conscience shows us that a thing ought to be done,
better do it at once, for there is no time like the present.
Kate went to Mrs. Bateson's morning-room and tapped at the door, then
entered in compliance with her mistress's call. Her eyes were full of
tears, her heart of true sorrow for her ingratitude and disobedience.
She began, "I wanted to tell you, ma'am, that I am so sorry for—" and
then the faltering tongue and quivering lips failed her, and she broke
down and sobbed bitterly.
Mrs. Bateson thought that Kate wanted to tell about the state of things
at home, and despite the reason she had to be displeased with the girl,
she sympathised with her present distress.
"Do not try to repeat the sad news, Kate," she said, kindly. "I know
all about it, for your note came in one addressed to me. I am truly
grieved for your poor mother and sorry for you too."
"I was not going to speak about that," sobbed out Kate. "Mother said
she had told you, ma'am. I only wanted to—to tell you that I see I have
done wrong, and I am ashamed and sorry for having displeased you. You
have been a deal too good to me and so kind to poor mother. But please
forgive me before I go away, for I am sorry—indeed I am."
Kate hid her face in her apron and sobbed like a very child, and she
stood awaiting her mistress's answer.
Mrs. Bateson believed that the girl was in earnest. She had always been
truthful and straightforward, and she could not doubt that she was
equally so in her acknowledgment of wrong-doing.
"I do forgive you, Kate," she said, "and I am truly glad that you have
been enabled to see that you were wrong. Of course, we must part now;
but if you had come to me sooner, as you have come to-day, and asked to
remain, I should have kept you, because I thought you had been misled."
"I wanted to come," said Kate, "but I was afraid. I tried to do my work
'so' well, and I hoped you would notice and maybe say a word or just
look as if you were pleased. But you mostly looked the other way, and
I thought it would be no use, for I had twice done what was against
rules, and I felt sure you would keep your word, and I should have to
go. You always do keep your word, ma'am," said Kate, simply. "And then
cook scolded me and told me how you had taken me without clothes to my
back and given me wages when I wasn't worth my salt. That you'd clothed
me and taught me and made me what I am, and now I was turning round and
showing how impudent and ungrateful I could be.
"It was all true—I know that—only cook needn't have flung it at me in
that way. Then she never spoke to me if she could help it, and the
others seemed to take sides against me. So I felt that it would be
of no use for me to do anything; I should only be miserable whilst I
stayed, and the sooner I was gone the better, for I could never bear
either to be 'set at,' as cook did, or to be without a friend to speak
to. And cook used to be so good to me," added Kate, with a fresh flood
of tears.
"She meant to be kind then, Kate, only I am afraid she did not set
about it quite in the right way. Many people think that if what they
say is true, it does not matter how truth is spoken. They forget that
Jesus bade us speak it in love.
"Well, now, I am glad you have owned that you were wrong, and sorry you
did not speak sooner. I am afraid I mistook your timidity for pride,
and thought you were determined not to bend. I did feel, like cook,
that you were proud and ungrateful. I am truly glad you have opened
your heart to me, and shown that in this I was mistaken."
Kate smiled through her tears. She was very much of a child still,
impulsive and easily led, though she had been boasting of her womanhood
and right to judge for herself so short a time ago. Now she poured out
her eager thanks for past kindnesses, present forgiveness, and all the
goodness shown to her mother. If she could have read her mistress's
thoughts, she would have found she was regretting that she could not
keep the penitent girl, and care for her as she had done in the past.
"You know, Kate, that you must keep your engagement, and go to Mrs.
Maybrick," she said.
"Yes, ma'am; it would not be right to do anything else."
"You will find life in a large city different from your peaceful home
at Heyington; but remember God will be no farther from you, and you
will more than ever need His Holy Spirit's aid to show you what you
ought to do. Pray for it, Kate. Ask God to forgive all past sins and
failures for the sake of that dear Saviour who died to buy pardon for
us poor helpless sinners, who shed His blood that it might wash us from
every stain of guilt, and pay the debt we could never pay by any work
of ours.
"We will ask His pardon and blessing now," added Mrs. Bateson.
And kneeling side by side, mistress and maid joined in prayer, the one
uttering the petitions, the other uniting heart and soul therein.
Kate had not felt so happy for a long time as she did when she left
her mistress's room, for she carried with her a blessed sense of
forgiveness, an assurance that Mrs. Bateson would still act as a friend
and helper to her poor mother, and that should a season of difficulty
come to herself, she might write and ask for advice which would not be
withheld.
Cheered by her success, Kate said a few words to her old friend the
cook, which cleared away the cloud from between them. Cook was ready to
meet the girl more than half way, having probably been enlightened by
her mistress as to her real feelings.
"I know I am hasty," she said, "and may be I spoke a bit sharper than
I need have done. But I meant to be kind, and now I am real sorry you
are going. However, we shall hear how you get on, and if you are not
comfortable, there's no saying what may happen. The mistress is always
better than her word, even though that is good enough."
Kate knew this. All the past time at Heyington told her that Mrs.
Bateson had done more for her than she at first promised, and how much
for her mother beside.
"I shall never have such another mistress," she said to herself, "and
if I wanted to come back, there is sure to be no opening for me. All
the servants stay on here. Except Fanny Ellis, they have known when
they were well off."
The last days seemed to go faster than any, and the last hour of all
came when Kate's good-byes had to be said. Hers were hindered by tears,
and she felt as if it had gone dark all at once as she lost sight of
the kind faces and waving handkerchiefs of her old companions, and a
turn of the road shut out her view of Heyington Hall.
But she was resolved to do her best in her new place, and she had heard
again from her mother, to whom also Mrs. Bateson had written, oh, so
kindly, and she had left in peace and goodwill with everybody—that was
something. She must look onward and upward, seeking God's help, and not
make herself unfit for work by grieving over what was past mending.
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