OLD Mrs Spencer picked her way daintily along the path which led from the
Frisbys’ little gate to their house-door. The path in question had been
raked and was devoid of weeds, and if it had not been for a presumably
recent addition of bones and broken crockery in one corner, and a large
pool of dirty water, from which shallow streams were slowly making their
way to the gate aforesaid, would no doubt have been tidy. The old lady
hopped from side to side in the attempt to keep her neat little feet dry,
and when she came to the pool itself, on which rings of suds were
eddying, stopped short with a disgusted air, and raising her voice,
called for Mrs Frisby.
The door slowly opened, and a slatternly-looking woman stood upon the
threshold. A stout two-year-old child sat on one arm, while the other
hand held a penny novelette. A wisp of hair hung loosely over her face,
which was as dirty as that of the child; the bodice of her dress was held
together by pins, and she altogether presented a most uninviting
appearance. She started at sight of the visitor.
“I beg pardon, m’m,” she said. “I wish I’d known you was comin’.
Thursday is a busy day with us.”
“So I see,” responded Mrs Spencer, suffering her eyes to wander over the
woman’s figure, and thence towards the corner of the garden, where she
could see some dingy-looking clothes hanging on the line. “Most people
have finished their washing by Thursday, but you are evidently in the
middle of yours.”
“Yes, m’m,” admitted Mrs Frisby, dolefully. “There, with all those
childern, ye know, m’m, and Frisby coming in and making so much mess,
’tis hard to get on with the work.”
“It’s a curious thing,” remarked Mrs Spencer, “that you should prefer to
empty your suds out of the front door—and do you find you get on quicker
with your work if you read while you’re doing it?”
“Well ’m, I’m sure, m’m, I had but just sat down for a minute. Little
Harry was a bit peevish, and I couldn’t let him cry—he chanced to prick
his finger with a pin, ye see, m’m—”
“If there’d been a button there,” said Mrs Spencer, “or a hook and eye,
that accident couldn’t have happened. And pray”—peering at the dreadful
little book with her sharp eyes—“were you reading ‘Lady Selina’s Lover’
out loud to amuse the baby?”
During the confused pause which ensued, the little old lady made a leap
across the muddy space, and, waving Mrs Frisby on one side, entered the
house. Such a house! Dirty windows, a dirty floor, a grate which had
not been cleaned for several days, and beneath which was such a pile of
cinders and ashes that the fire would scarcely burn. Everything in the
room was dusty, and in the very middle of the floor lay a pair of man’s
muddy boots.
“I’m sure I beg your pardon, m’m,” said Mrs Frisby. “’Tis a dreadful
untidy place for you to come into. Dear to be sure, just look at
Frisby’s boots! He’ve left them there ever since last night, and I can’t
get him to so much as clean a window for me.”
“Can’t you really?” said Mrs Spencer. “No, I don’t think I’ll sit down,
thank you. So Frisby won’t clean the windows or put his boots on one
side? Well, you know, there are some wives, Mrs Frisby, who would think
it a little hard to ask their husbands to clean windows when he had been
working all day, and who would even put away his boots if he did chance
to leave them on the floor. The husband, after all, is the breadwinner.
Frisby works very hard—I’ll say that for him—and he’s earning good wages,
and is always ready to earn a little more by doing odd jobs after hours.
Then, when he’s finished those, he has his allotment to see to, and the
garden here, which would, I see, be very tidy if you did not allow your
children to strew things all over the place.”
“I’m sure I’m always telling the childern not to throw their rubbish
about,” said Mrs Frisby, tearfully, “but what am I to do? I can’t be
indoor and out too. Frisby might very well see to the childern in the
garden, I think, when I’m busy in the house.”
“It’s all Frisby’s fault, in fact,” said Mrs Spencer, pursing up her
lips. “I suppose,” she added, looking round the room, “he ought to dust,
and clean the grate, and scrub the floors too.”
The old lady spoke so seriously that Mrs Frisby stared hard without
replying.
“I must say,” continued the former, after a pause, “your husband has
worked on my estate for nearly ten years—since he was quite a little boy,
in fact—and I have always found him extremely industrious, good-tempered,
and obliging. I can’t understand how it is that you seem to give him
such a different character.”
“Well ’m,” said Mrs Frisby, shifting the child from her right arm to her
left, “I don’t altogether complain, but I do think Frisby might be a bit
more good-natured, knowin’ how poorly I feel, and so many childern to see
to.”
“Somebody told me,” said Mrs Spencer, “that Frisby very often helps to
dress the children.”
“Well ’m, and if he do they’re his childern so well as mine. I get faint
now and then.”
“I don’t wonder,” said the other. “Do you by any chance ever open a
window here?”
Mrs Frisby burst into tears. “I think ’tis very hard o’ Frisby to go
complainin’ of me,” she sobbed. “A body can but do their best. With
four childern and such poor health as I have, I think it’s wonderful I
can get along at all. And as to cleanin’ up after Frisby (casting a sour
look at the boots), I’m sure I can’t be expected to do that.”
“Good morning,” said Mrs Spencer, turning sharply round and walking out
of the house.
As she drew near her own home she came upon Frisby himself, looking hot
and tired, and walking with a lagging step. There had been no
preparations of any kind for dinner at his cottage, and she wondered if
the poor man would be obliged to get it himself, while his wife read her
trashy paper, and dandled the big child, which could perfectly well have
been taught to amuse itself happily while its mother was busy.
“I’ve just been to your house,” she remarked, as she came up to him.
Poor Frisby murmured something about wishing he had known, and fearing
she had found things a bit upset.
“Now listen to me, James,” said the old lady. “I’ve known you too long
to let you go downhill so fast without trying to help you. I’ve been
turning over a plan in my mind, which may possibly make that wife of
yours think a little more seriously of her duties.”
James got red, but listened in silence while Mrs Spencer began to talk in
a low rapid voice. He looked more and more astonished as she proceeded,
and finally burst out laughing.
“’Twould be a good notion,” he said, “a very good notion, but—”
“Try it for a week,” said Mrs Spencer. “That’s all I ask, try it for a
week; I’ll undertake that you shan’t be the loser, and of course you must
not say a word to your wife about having met me.”
* * *
“’Tis past six, Jim,” said Mrs Frisby on the following morning, as she
stood by the bed, after having reluctantly clothed herself. “Didn’t ye
hear church-clock go?”
“I heard it,” said Jim drowsily. “I’m not feelin’ so very well, this
mornin’, my dear; I don’t think I can get up.”
Mrs Frisby, in real alarm, questioned him as to the nature of his malady.
Did his head ache—was his back bad—was he feeling his heart any ways
queer?
Her husband, after reflecting for a moment or two, replied that it was
just “all-overishness,” and that he thought a rest would do him good.
“Dear!” exclaimed Mrs Frisby, “but I haven’t a drop of water in the
house. Who’s to fill the bucket at the well?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to do it, Sally,” returned Jim. “’Tis very
unfortunate—very, I’m sure, but I can’t think how else it is to be
managed.”
“Well, I’m not going to do it, then,” cried Sally. “I never heerd of
such a thing! You great lazy fellow, lying in bed with nothing the
matter with ye.”
“I tell you,” repeated Jim, “I’m all-overish, same as you be so often.
My heart don’t feel quite right neither. If ye was to bring me up a cup
of tea, same as I do when you’re not feeling yourself, I fancy it might
just keep it off.”
“If ye expect me to go cartin’ your breakfast upstairs you’re much
mistaken,” said Sally. “I’m a poor eater myself at best of times, and I
don’t care whether I have my breakfast or not. But I’ll not go drawin’
water for you.”
“A pipe o’ baccy is as good as a breakfast to me any day,” said Jim,
reaching out his hand for his pipe. “I dare say I’d be well enough to
mind the childern while you was busy, Sally,” he continued, mildly. “I
can manage the childern very well. You can turn ’em all in here while
you’m a-cleanin’ up. P’raps ’tis just as well I should be at home once
in a way,” he added, pleasantly. “You always say you can never get on
wi’ your work wi’ the little ones in your way. Now they’ll be out o’
your way.”
“Ye can fetch childern yourself if you want them,” retorted Mrs Frisby,
marching indignantly downstairs.
Jim crept cautiously out of bed and went to the window, chuckling to
himself as he presently saw her laboriously filling her bucket at the
well. He dressed himself with great speed and dexterity for one in his
delicate condition, and, going into the adjoining rooms, roused the
children and washed and dressed the younger ones, directing the others to
do the same for themselves.
When he brought them downstairs presently, the kettle was already
boiling, and Mrs Frisby, with a flushed face was getting down the teapot;
if truth be told, she was not at all averse to her breakfast.
“Just in time,” observed Jim. “It doesn’t take so very long, you see, my
dear, to get the childern dressed if ye take a bit o’ trouble wi’ ’em.
Now, shan’t we put a cloth on the table?”
Sally murmured indistinctly something about lazy people not deserving to
be cocked up with cloths.
“Meaning me?” said Jim. “It’s me what pays for the cloths, though. See,
Rosie, it’s yonder on the dresser. Take it down, there’s a good little
maid, and spread it nice—that’s the way.”
“If ye can’t do your own work, I don’t see why ye need come interfering
with mine,” remarked Sally.
“I’ve more time to see to things when I don’t go out to work myself,”
explained her husband. “I’m going to train Rosie a bit. She’s getting a
big girl, now, and could easy learn to be useful.”
“You’re not going to work!” gasped Sally.
“I don’t feel up to my work to-day, you see,” said Jim. “I’ll just sit
quiet in a corner and rest me. Have you got a book handy? What have you
done with that nice book you were reading yesterday?”
“’Tis very ill-done of you to make a mock of me,” cried his wife. “I’m
sure you didn’t ought to grudge me the little bit of amusement I took
after working so hard all day—washing and all.”
“I don’t grudge it to you, my dear,” responded Jim. “I’m going to
imitate you, that’s all. I work hard, week by week, month by month, and
year by year. I’m going to take a bit of amusement now, and I’m sure you
won’t grudge it to me. Now then, Rosie, set the cups out, and the
plates—the cups at the top, ye know, and the plates all round. Jack,
fetch Daddy’s boots there, and I’ll tell ye what to do with them.”
The little boy obeyed, and Jim in spite of his feeble state, found
himself able to take the child out to the shed at the back, and there
instruct him in the art of boot-cleaning, of which he proved himself a
capable scholar. By the time they returned breakfast was ready.
Mrs Frisby looked up with an attempt at a smile as they came in.
“I am glad to see you are better,” she said. “Maybe you’ll be able to go
to work after all.”
But Jim shook his head with a despondent air.
“No use expectin’ too much,” he remarked, quoting one of his wife’s
favourite speeches; then, as she stared, “I’ll jist see to the little uns
an’ help ye a bit with the cleanin’ if I don’t find it knocks me up too
much.”
Mrs Frisby finished her breakfast in silence, and Jim, after disposing of
his meal, turned his attention to the children.
“Now then, let’s see how useful you can make yourselves. See, I’ll carry
the things over to the sink, and Rosie can wash ’em up, and Jack here can
dry them.”
“Ye’ll have ’em smashed to atoms,” said Sally sulkily.
“Not a bit of it; they’re a deal more in danger of getting smashed lying
about, as they generally do, half the morning.”
He superintended the carrying out of both operations, and then desired
the children to wash their hands and smooth their hair before going to
school.
“Dear!” he exclaimed, as he clumsily tied a pinafore string. “All your
things do seem in terr’ble need of mendin’. I tell ye what, Sally, while
you do a bit o’ cleanin’ up I’ll see if I can’t make shift to sew on a
button or two.”
“I thought you was too bad to work!” exclaimed Sally tartly.
“Anybody can do a bit o’ sewin’,” said Jim. “Now, my dear, as soon as
ye’ve taken away tea-things, ye can begin on the grate.”
Having procured needle and cottons and a card of buttons, a trifle
damaged on account of Baby Harry having been allowed to chew it on the
day it had been bought, Jim set to work, while Mrs Frisby reluctantly
knelt down before the hearth.
“Take out the big cinders, Sally,” he directed, “and put ’em on one side.
It ’ud save ye a deal o’ trouble,” he continued mildly, “if ye’d do it
first thing in the morning, for then the children ’ud give ye a helpin’
hand. Now I think,” said Jim, leisurely threading his needle, “that
we’ll have a bit o’ black-lead, my dear. It’s wonderful what a
difference it makes to the look of a place.”
Sally worked away in gloomy silence, and Jim sewed on buttons, and
whistled under his breath. If truth be told he soon grew extremely tired
of the operation, and longed to be digging potatoes or hoeing weeds. He
continued, however, to direct his wife, and, though Mrs Frisby felt
herself very much aggrieved, she did not dare to disobey his orders.
Presently the couple migrated to the bedrooms, for Jim found himself so
indisposed he was obliged to lie down while Sally gave the three rooms a
thoroughly good cleaning. Angry as she was it was wonderful how quickly
she managed to get through her work on that particular morning, for with
Jim’s eye upon her she could neither sit down to read, nor stand staring
out of the window.
Jim, meanwhile, had taken charge of little Harry, and though he neither
dandled him nor played with him, he contrived so well to teach him how to
amuse himself that the child was quite happy. It was true he found time
to say an encouraging word now and then to the little fellow, and made a
safe plaything for him out of three or four empty cotton reels securely
fastened to a piece of white tape. These Harry could rattle, or slide up
and down, and they were safer to chew than linen buttons on a shiny green
card.
After dinner Jim thought the air might do him good. He strolled out into
the garden, therefore, itching to be at work, but resolutely keeping
himself in check; and presently he invited Sally to clean herself and
bring her sewing out there too.
By and by Mrs Frisby joined him, looking quite tidy, and gazing almost in
alarm at her husband. She half expected him to request her to do a bit
of gardening, but he only smiled as she approached, and told her she
looked downright bonny with her face so nice and clean; more like the
girl he used to court in by-gone days than he ever thought to see her
again.
Putting his arm round her he made her sit down on the little bench
beneath the apple-tree, and there the couple passed an hour or two in
great content, till Sally remarked that it was time to go in and get tea
ready.
“Do,” said Jim, “and mind ye sweep up the hearth, my dear. It do make it
look more cheerful.”
The hearth actually was swept up when he entered, and all the children
sitting round the table with smooth hair and clean faces and hands.
“If we was to get a door-mat it would keep the place nicer,” Sally
observed. “I could train the childern to wipe their feet on’t.”
She announced this fact with the air of one who had made an important
discovery, and Jim, delighted with the turn affairs were taking, agreed
with alacrity.
“It puts more heart into a man if he finds things is made good use of;
but when you go spendin’ an’ spendin’ all what you’ve worked hard for to
get, knowin’ they’ll be let fall to pieces for want of a stitch, or else
ruined with rust and dirt, you have no pride or pleasure in doin’
anythin’.”
Sally did not answer, but looked penitently at her husband.
After tea, when the children were in bed she came and stood by his chair.
“I hope ye’ll be able to go to work to-morrow,” said she.
“I hope so, I’m sure,” he replied. “’Tis a bad thing when ye come to
think on’t, Sally, for the man to be laid by—him as has to earn the money
to fill all the little mouths. Wet or dry, sick or well, off he has to
go to his work. If a man didn’t do his work reg’lar he’d get turned off
pretty quick. The women don’t remember that when they sit idle at home,
without ever giving a thought to their husbands’ peace or comfort. Yet,
if the husbands wasn’t there, what would become of them all? Did you
find it hard work fillin’ that bucket this mornin’, Sally?”
“Terr’ble hard,” said Sally, with a quivering lip.
“Ah, I’m sorry for that. D’ye think ye’ll be able to chop sticks for
to-morrow’s fire?”
“Ye oughtn’t to ask me to do such work,” said she, with a sob. “Ye know
I’m not fit for it.”
“Winter an’ summer, year in, year out, I fill that bucket—and every
evenin’, no matter how tired I may be, I chop them sticks. When I had
the lumbago last year, I filled your bucket all the same, and when I
sprained my wrist I managed to use the chopper with my left hand. Yet,
if you’ve the least little ache or pain, you never do a hand’s turn,
Sally. I ask you straight, is that fair?”
Sally gazed at him in silence, her lip still trembling, her eyes filled
with tears.
“An’ if ye’d take a bit o’ pride in yourself an’ the childern,” he went
on, “there’d be some pleasure in comin’ home. Yes, and I’d be glad, too,
to save up an’ take ye for an outing now and again. But when I look at
ye with the clothes dropping off ye, and a face that hasn’t as much as
nodded at cold water, I feel—well, I feel that, if I wasn’t a proper
temperance man, it’s to the public I’d go every night of my life.”
Sally looked down still without speaking.
“Just think of it,” he went on; “you have your share of work, no doubt;
but I have mine too. If we each do our own, and pull together, we can
get along right enough. Come, little ’ooman, see how nice you’ve made
the place look—it didn’t take so very long, did it? An’ what a lot of
mendin’ ye did this afternoon—not to mention the buttons I sewed on for
ye,” he added, with a twinkle in his eye—“it wasn’t so very much trouble
once ye set about it. Now, shall we make a fresh start? I’ll go to work
to-morrow morning if you’ll get out your needles and thread, and throw
them nasty silly story books in the fire. And let’s make the childern
useful, my dear—a little bit o’ light work is as good as play to a
child.”
Sally glanced up with an odd look, in spite of the tears that were still
upon her face.
“I never heard ye make such a long speech in your life, Jim,” said she.
“I wonder—I wonder if anybody’s been putting you up to all the games
you’ve been playing this day. Mrs Spencer now—she called here
yesterday—”
“She did,” said Jim, beginning to laugh a little. “Well, I’ll tell you
the truth, Sally, the notion did come from her. Ye mustn’t be vexed, my
dear; but I think ’twas a good notion. ‘If ever any folks should bear
one another’s burdens,’ says the mistress, ‘it’s husband and wife.’
Come, Sally, I’ll do my best for you if you’ll do your best for me.”
Sally dried her eyes, and held out her hand to her husband: “I will,” she
said.
She actually kept her resolution, and Jim had good reason to be grateful
to his mistress for that happy thought of hers, though he sometimes said
with a laugh, that she had taught him a lesson too, and that he would
rather plant cabbages all day than sew on a dozen buttons.