CHANGES.
Time passed on, and with it as usual came changes. The summer was gone
and it was November, and the weather was cold and dreary.
Lottie's life was much the same from day to day; there was little
variety to make the life of the young girl pleasant. True, she did not
have a hard time, nor was she overworked, nor did she ever go hungry;
but the atmosphere of the house was always chill and drear, and Mrs.
Durand was as unsociable and unsympathetic as ever.
It was perhaps true, that Lottie was somewhat prone to slightly
exaggerate her unhappiness, and to dwell upon it until it seemed almost
unendurable.
One morning, as she was dressing, she heard her aunt call, and upon
going to her room, discovered that she was suffering from an attack of
acute rheumatism. Then, indeed, Lottie was sure her misery was at such a
height, that it could go no further.
As may be supposed, the sharp pain she endured did not render Mrs.
Durand a more pleasant companion, and Lottie found that while it had
been difficult to please her before it seemed utterly impossible to do
so now.
Lottie did her best, with a determination pleasant to witness, and with
the knowledge that it was her duty to care for her aunt under such
painful conditions.
Lottie was lonely; she seemed to be entirely cut off from everybody she
knew and cared for. She seldom heard from her father, and never from her
brother, who had left his home when she was quite a little girl. She
sometimes wondered if he was dead. She was industrious, and soon learned
to keep house for her aunt very acceptably. She was not hard to please
and was of a loving, sociable disposition. If her aunt had only made an
effort to be agreeable and interested in her, Lottie would have been
perfectly content.
If the months had brought but little change to Lottie, they had wrought
a number of very important ones in the life of our friend Flora.
First, the news had reached them one day that the husband and father was
killed in a railroad accident. This, of itself, completely
revolutionized affairs at the Hazeleys'. And then, just as they were
trying to become a little accustomed to the sad change in the household,
Harry disappointed them.
This was indeed a great blow, for Harry was, in a large measure, their
main dependence. He was now about twenty years old and had been steadily
at work for some time, and seemed on a good road to a successful
business career. At first, he gave his earnings to his mother, only
reserving enough to clothe himself neatly and comfortably, for he felt
anxious to supply, as far as he could, her loss in the death of his
father. This money, added to what Mrs. Hazeley and Flora made by doing
plain sewing, and what Alec could earn out of school hours by keeping
his eyes open, and his willingness to be of assistance to any one, was a
great help toward keeping things going. For, although the little home
was their own, of course there were the extra incidental expenses.
Mrs. Hazeley and Flora soon grew to depend on Harry, far more than they
realized, until taught by his increasing fondness for remaining from
home in the evening, and not unfrequently, all night. Great, indeed,
was their sorrow when they learned how these evenings were spent--in the
gambling house and the saloon. Had it not been for their hope in the
Christ and his saving power, they would not have seen the faintest
brightness in this cloud, which was a great burden to each, a sorrow
about which they hardly dared speak.
Flora spoke earnestly and lovingly to her brother several times about
the way he was conducting himself, but, as we have seen, he was not one
to take this kindly, and knowing this, Flora felt she could do nothing
but pray for her erring brother, who was so young, and yet so willful.
She never lost hope, nor did her firm belief that his better, nobler
nature would prevail, weaken through those long, dark, hard days.
Mrs. Hazeley and Flora were compelled to devote all their attention to
their work, as Harry could no longer be trusted to aid them financially;
and, despite their brave, uncomplaining efforts, it was ofttimes
difficult to make both ends meet.
Aunt Sarah had not visited them for some time, in fact, not since Flora
came home, nor did they hear from her; and though knowing she might help
them in their need, they could not bring themselves to inform her of
their condition.
At length, one night they watched and waited for Harry to come home.
He did not come that night, nor the next, nor the one following; nor
could they hear anything of him, except that he had not been around for
days.
Where had he gone and what would he do? These were questions that Flora
asked herself with a sick heart.
Mrs. Hazeley, with her naturally weak disposition, would have given way
to despair under this new trouble and drifted back into the same
condition in which we first found her, had it not been for her newly
found trust and hope in her Heavenly Father, and the inspiring example
of her courageous, self-reliant daughter. Flora seemed to grow stronger
and more dignified under the added trials, and her mother, now a true
Christian, was to her a great help and comfort; in fact, the two were
all in all to each other, and the home that had at one time appeared to
Flora most miserable, was now a haven of rest; and the mother from whom
she had once turned away coldly, was now warmly loved and loving.
Truly, there was sweetness mixed with her cup of bitterness.
Major Joe Benson, who had kept up his acquaintance with his young
friends whom he greatly admired, and who by this time was considered
quite a friend of the family, offered to take Alec to live with him.
There was a very good school, he said, at no great distance from his
home, and he would be glad to have the boy's help on his little place,
especially now that Zeke was getting on in years, and had gotten above
doing the many odd jobs he had performed when a boy, which state, while
it was not many years distant, sufficed to make Zeke act, as Major Joe
said, "very mannish."
No sooner was the proposition mentioned in Alec's hearing, than he was
all enthusiasm, for nothing did he desire more than to live in the
country. His mind was fully made up to become a farmer, and no recital
of the hardships connected therewith, could divest such a life of its
charms for him.
So it was settled, and it was really a great comfort to have at least
one of the family well provided for, with the prospects of seeing him an
upright and industrious man.
Now that provision was thus made for Alec, and he was but little expense
to them, Flora and Mrs. Hazeley could manage very well by practising
strict economy.
Life progressed very evenly and uneventfully, we might almost add
happily, except for the sorrow caused by their ignorance of Harry's
whereabouts.
One day, into their quiet and peaceful lives, very unexpectedly came
Mrs. Sarah Martin, who was surprised at their comfortable surroundings.
She was greeted pleasantly by Flora and Mrs. Hazeley, who were
determined to forgive and forget her treatment of them, but the warmth,
which affection gives, was lacking. This did not fail to make itself
manifest to Mrs. Martin, and, strange to say, instead of displeasing
her, it seemed to have quite a softening effect upon her callous heart.
The memory of this visit, and the picture of her niece's heroic efforts
to keep her mother and herself from want, proved a veritable
ever-present and sharp thorn in the side.
"Here I am, alone in the world, with plenty to supply all my wishes and
some to spare," she thought one evening. We must do her justice; she was
not miserly, but she was selfish--she wished to insure for her lifetime
comfort for herself, and the gratification of her desires. "Here am I
with plenty and to spare, while those of my own flesh and blood are
struggling to keep the wolf from the door," she mused.
Having commenced to reproach herself she did not hesitate, for at every
step seeing herself as others saw her, she discovered more cause to
regret her attitude toward her sister.
"Have I been false to my trust?" she soliloquized, questioningly.
"No--not exactly--because I gave no promise. And yet--Bertha supposed I
would follow her request. However, I am not bound to do as she wished.
"Bertha would not have left me in charge had she supposed I would not
carry out her wishes," she continued. "Probably she would not have given
her property to Esther. She is so careless and extravagant that such a
course would have been equal to her throwing the money away. Suppose the
money had been left in trust to Flora? Would Esther have done more than
I have done? No, she would have wasted it. What is the difference?
Nothing; I am doing as Esther would have done. Anyway, I will leave all
to Flora, who will enjoy it after I am dead, and that will make it all
right."
Another thing Mrs. Martin tried to argue in support of the idea that she
had done all for the best, was that Flora had developed such astonishing
qualities of self-government and ability. "She has almost made another
woman of that mother of hers," she said to herself. "One can easily see
that the material for a real, sound, sensible, practical woman is not in
Esther, and if Flora were not there with her she would be the same as
before, only worse."
There was a good deal of truth in what Mrs. Martin said. Some people
cannot do or be anything without a definite motive, or an active
example. But what did all this arguing amount to? Nothing at all, save
to keep her mind in a constant state of turmoil, by her efforts to ease
her conscience.
At last, with the constant strain she became mentally exhausted, and in
spite of her efforts to the contrary for a long time lay upon the bed, a
sufferer from nervous prostration. Her brain was unnaturally active, and
she gained but little benefit from her enforced quiet. A neighboring
physician was called, but found it impossible to benefit her in her
present condition. He might prescribe medicines to meet certain symptoms
in her case, but he could not reach the seat of the trouble. She did not
consider that it was her business to add a description of her mental
condition to that of her physical one. She grew no better, and finally
she decided to take a course of heroic treatment.
First, she proceeded to pay her physician and to inform him that she had
no further need of his services, much to that gentleman's disgust, who
left muttering that it was queer that the patient should be the one to
decide whether or not the doctor had been of service to her.
Next, she wrote in a feeble, trembling, and unintelligible way, the
following short, blunt note:
"NIECE FLORA:--I am sick. I want to see you.
"S. MARTIN."
Flora and her mother were sitting sewing very busily that afternoon when
the postman rapped on the door.
The sun was streaming in at the window, no longer adorned by the sweet
potato, which was long since dead, but touching brightly the green
leaves and scarlet blossoms of some geraniums--some of Ruth's
"gerangums," according to Jem, that held the place of honor.
"From Aunt Sarah, mother," said Flora, carelessly, handing it to Mrs.
Hazeley, who in turn read the short note.
"Well, Flora dear; what will you do about it?" she questioned, resuming
her work.
"Oh, I guess I had better go and see her; hadn't I?" asked Flora, as she
cut her thread.
"You may do as you please about the matter," returned Mrs. Hazeley, and
there the matter dropped.
They continued their work in silence, their thoughts as busy as their
fingers.