HAPPY DAYS.
Granp and granny did not hold out very long against Miss Grace
Barley's plan, and in a short time all arrangements were made, and it
was settled that Jessie was to go to Miss Barley's pretty house by
the green every morning at ten, and to leave it at twelve, so that
she might meet her grandfather as he went home to his dinner.
Thomas Dawson was head gardener at "The Grange," Sir Henry Weston's
beautiful country-house, which lay a little distance beyond
Springbrook station. Just outside the station were four cross-roads
with a signpost in the middle of them to tell you where each one led.
If you stood close to the signpost and faced the station, the road
exactly behind you led down to Springbrook green and village, while
the one on your right led along a wide flat road to "The Grange," and
on, past that, through villages and towns until at last it reached
the sea; and the road on your left led past "Sunnyside Cottage," and
then on to Norton. This was the road that Jessie knew best, the one
she had first walked with her grandfather on her way home that first
evening.
From Miss Barley's house to the signpost was a very short distance,
and here it was that Jessie and her grandfather were to meet every
day and walk home together. Yet not every day, for Saturday, being a
busy day for most people, was to be a whole holiday from lessons.
Miss Grace Barley had to gather flowers for the church and arrange
them in the vases on Saturday mornings, and Miss Barley had extra
things to do in the house and to go to Norton by train to do her
shopping, and Jessie had to help her grandmother clean up the cottage
and make all bright and neat for Sunday; so that it was nice and
convenient for every one that Saturday should be a holiday from
lessons.
On that first morning, when Jessie stood at Miss Barley's door and
knocked, she felt very glad indeed to think that the day after
to-morrow was Saturday and a whole holiday, for she felt very shy and
rather frightened, and she longed to be back at home again with her
granny and grandfather. In fact, she was just edging towards the
gate, with her mind almost made up to run home, when the door opened,
and Miss Grace herself appeared. Miss Grace had on a hat and a large
pair of gardening gloves, and in her hand she held a basket and the
biggest pair of scissors Jessie had ever seen.
"Oh, Jessie!" she said, "you are just in time. I am going out to
gather some flowers, and you will be able to help me. Come in,
dear--no, we will not go in yet, we will go first and get the
flowers, or the sun will be on them."
Jessie's frightened little face grew quite cheerful again.
She thought this a delightful way of doing lessons, and marched along
happily enough at Miss Grace's side, soon forgetting all her shyness
in helping her to pick out the handsomest stocks and the finest
roses. When the basket was full Miss Grace led the way to a window
which opened down to the ground.
"This is my very own sitting-room," she said, as she stepped through
the open window; "don't you think I ought to be very happy here?"
"Oh yes!" sighed Jessie, as she looked about her at the flowers, the
pictures, and all the pretty things. "I shouldn't ever want to go
away from it if it was mine."
Miss Grace laughed. "Well, we are going to do our lessons here, and
perhaps when twelve o'clock comes you won't be the least little bit
sorry to go away from it. But first of all I want you to help me
arrange these flowers a little, and then go with me to carry them to
a poor lady who is ill. Do you know the different kinds of roses by
name, Jessie?"
Jessie did not. "Well, I will tell you some of them, and then you
will be able to surprise grandfather. A gardener's granddaughter
should know all these things. That lovely spray of little pink roses
you are holding is called 'Dorothy Perkins.' You will remember that,
won't you? And this deep orange-tinted bud is 'William Allen
Richardson.'"
"'William Allen Richardson,'" repeated Jessie. "I think Miss Perkins
is much prettier than Mr. Richardson."
Miss Grace laughed. "You are a very polite little girl, Jessie.
Look at this one; this is called 'Homer,' but you need not call it
Mr. or Mrs., but just plain 'Homer.'"
"I think it ought to be called 'pretty Homer,'" said Jessie, smiling.
By the time they had arranged all the flowers in the basket, she knew
quite a lot about the different kinds and their names. Miss Grace
made everything so attractive, and it was wonderful what a lot of
interesting things she saw as she went about, even when she walked
only across the green to Mrs. Parker's to leave the flowers.
Jessie did not see the poor dirty grey toad lying panting and
frightened on the pathway, but Miss Grace did, and stooped and picked
the poor thing up, and carrying it into her garden, placed it in a
nice cool shady corner, underneath some bushes.
"Won't it bite you, or sting?" asked Jessie, her eyes wide with
alarm, but Miss Grace reassured her. "That poor gentle little
frightened thing hurt me!" she cried; "it could not if it wanted to,
and I am sure it does not want to. It will help to take care of my
flowers for me. You are not afraid to stroke it, Jessie, are you?
Just look how fast its poor little heart is beating with fright!
Isn't it cruel that any living creature should be as terrified as
that!"
Jessie was ashamed for Miss Grace to know that she was almost as
terrified of the toad as the toad was of her, so she stroked it,
though very reluctantly, and the coldness of it made her jump so at
first, that she thought she could never, never touch it again; but
she tried not to be foolish, and she stroked its little head, and
after that she did not mind it a bit, though she was glad Miss Grace
did not ask her to carry it.
When they got back to the house they found two glasses of milk and a
plate of biscuits in Miss Grace's room awaiting them, and after they
had taken them, Miss Grace took down a book and read to Jessie, and
Jessie, who already knew her letters and some of the easiest words,
read a little to Miss Grace, and before she thought that half of the
morning was gone, twelve o'clock had struck, and it was time to dress
and run off to meet her grandfather at the four cross-roads.
When Jessie got to her place by the signpost, her grandfather was
just coming along the road towards her. In his hand he held a big
bunch of white roses and beautiful dark-green leaves. "Oh, how
lovely!" gasped Jessie, when she caught sight of them.
"They'm 'Seven Sisters,'" said her grandfather; "they had overgrown
the other things so much that I had to cut them back, and her
ladyship told me to bring them home to you."
"Oh, thank you!" said Jessie delightedly. "What are the seven
sisters called, granp? What is their real name? Of course they must
have names."
Her grandfather did not understand her for the moment. "What are
they called! Why, Rose, of course; but 'Seven Sisters' is what
they're always known by."
"There couldn't be seven all called 'Rose,' could there?" asked
Jessie gravely. "They _must_ have a name each. Let me see, one
could be 'White Rosie,' another 'Pink Rosie,' then there could be
'Red Rosie,' and 'Rosamund '; that's four."
"Perhaps the others is Cabbage Rosie, Dog Rosie, and Cider Rosie,"
said grandfather, chuckling.
Jessie burst into a peal of laughter as she thrust one hand into her
grandfather's. "What things you do say, granp," she protested, and
clasping her bouquet in her other hand, she skipped along by the old
man's side. "Oh, I have learnt such a lot of things to-day," she
said impressively. "There's one rose called 'Mr. Richardson,'
another called 'Miss Perkins,' and another called 'Plain Homer,' and
now there's 'Seven Sisters,' all with different names." Then she
told him all about the toad, and the little story Miss Grace had read
to her. "And to-morrow I am to learn to knit, and soon I'll be able
to knit your stockings, granp, and cuffs to keep your arms warm in
winter, and a shawl for granny."
"My!" exclaimed grandfather, with pleased surprise, "we shan't know
ourselves, we shall be so warm and comfortable. But don't you go
overworking yourself, little maid." Jessie laughed gleefully.
She loved to think of all she was going to do for her grandfather and
grandmother.
"Oh no," she said. "You see, I am very strong, and I like to have
lots to do."
And "lots" she did do, in her staid, old-fashioned way. "I don't
know whatever I should do without Jessie," granny would often remark
to grandfather as the months went by, and Jessie became more and more
useful about the house.
"It puzzles me to know how we ever got on before she came,"
grandfather would answer; and, as time went by, and Jessie grew
taller and stronger and more and more capable, they wondered more and
more frequently how they could ever have managed without her.
Jessie, too, often wondered how she had ever lived and been happy
without her grandfather and grandmother, and "Sunnyside Cottage," and
the garden, and the flowers, and her own rose-bush. At first she had
thought a great deal about her mother, and wondered when she would
come for her; and every nice new thing she had she wanted her to
share, and every flower she had she wanted to save for her. But she
saved them so often, and then had to throw them away dead, that at
last she ceased to do so; and by and by, as the months passed, she
grew accustomed to enjoying things without her mother; and at last
she gave up wondering when she would come. In fact, for some time
before she gave up expecting her, Jessie had begun to hope that when
her mother did come, she would not want to take her away with her,
but would live there always with herself, and granny, and granp.
Of her father's coming she never spoke but once, and that was when,
with a frightened face, she said to her grandmother, "Granny, if
father comes for me you won't let him take me away with him, will
you?" And granny had reassured her with a sturdy--
"Why, bless your heart, child, your father isn't likely to want you,
I can tell you, and he wouldn't dare to come here and show himself to
me, I reckon; don't you be afraid, now, granny'll take care of you."
So Jessie tried not to be, and as the years went by, and nothing was
heard from either of her parents, her fears lessened, though she
could never think of her father without a shudder of dread lest he
should some day come to take her away.
Three years had passed peacefully away, and Jessie was about eight
years old when the next letter from Lizzie came to her parents.
Jessie never, to the end of her life, could forget the morning that
letter reached them. It was a wet, dark November morning, and she
had been lying awake for a long time listening to the patter-patter,
swish-swish of the rain pouring against her window. She had heard
her grandfather go down and open the front door as usual, and light
the fire in the kitchen; then she heard him fill the kettle at the
pump and put it on to boil. After that he went out again to open the
hen-house door, and carry the hens their breakfast. She heard her
grandmother go down the stairs, and a few moments later she heard
heavy footsteps come splashing up the wet garden path, and very soon
go down again.
Jessie got up and dressed herself, and made her way down. She had
been singing to herself while she was dressing, so had not noticed
anything unusual in the sounds and doings below stairs. But as she
went down she did notice that the house seemed very quiet and still,
and that there was no smell of breakfast cooking. Usually at this
time her grandfather was busy in the scullery cleaning boots and
knives, or doing some job or other, while her grandmother bustled
back and forth, talking loudly, that her voice might reach above the
frizzling of the frying-pan. But to-day there was a strange, most
marked silence, broken only by the singing of the kettle, the plash
of the rain outside, and a curious sound which Jessie could not make
out, only she thought it sounded as though some one was in pain.
When she reached the foot of the stairs, she knew that she was right,
and she stood and looked, with her heart sinking down, down,
wondering with a great dread what could have happened. Her
grandfather was sitting in his usual seat at the end of the table,
holding a letter in his hand, while her grandmother stood beside him,
her hand leaning heavily on his shoulder; and both their faces looked
white and drawn, and full of trouble. Tears sprang to Jessie's eyes
at sight of them. Neither was speaking, but every now and then there
burst from the old man that strange sound that Jessie had heard, and
it was like the cry of a hurt animal.
When she heard it again, and knew whence it came, Jessie flew to him
in terror. "Oh, granp, what is it?" she cried. "Who has hurt him?"
she cried, turning to her grandmother almost fiercely. "Who has done
anything to granp--and you?" she added, when she caught sight of her
grandmother's face.
Patience Dawson's hand slipped from her husband's shoulder down to
Jessie's, and crept caressingly round the little girl's neck, while
the old man threw his arm around her to draw her nearer to him.
"'Tis your mother, child," cried Patience, her words seeming to
tumble from her anyhow. "She's dead! Our only child, and took from
us for ever, and never knowing how much we loved and forgave her, and
how we've hungered night and day for a sight of her--and now I shall
never, never see her again!" and then poor Patience broke down, and
kneeling beside her husband and grandchild, bowed her head on the
table and wept uncontrollably.
At the sight of their trouble Jessie's own tears fell fast.
"Mother," she cried, scarcely grasping the real state of the case,
and all it meant to her. "Mother! dead? Granp, mother isn't really
dead, is she? Won't I--won't I never see her any more," the truth
gradually forcing itself on her mind--"won't she ever come and live
here with us, and see my rose--and--and all the things I've been
saving for her?" Her little face was white now, and her lips
quivering with the pain of realization.
Her grandfather shook his head. "She won't ever come to us; never,
never no more," he sighed heavily. "But maybe," he added a moment
later, speaking slowly and with difficulty, "maybe she sees and knows
now, better than she has all these years--and is happier."
"Why didn't she write, why didn't she tell us where she was?" wailed
Patience despairingly. "I would have wrote at once and told her how
we'd forgiven everything."
"Poor maid," said Thomas Dawson softly, "I reckon she had her
reasons; her letter tells us that, without putting it into so many
words. Read it again, mother, read it to the child--I can't."
Patience took up the letter, but it was some time before she could
control herself sufficiently to begin.
"My dearest Father and Mother,
"This is to tell you I am very ill, dying. The doctor says that
if I want to let any one know, I must do so at once. You are
the only ones that care, and I am writing to you to say
good-bye for ever. I have always hoped that some day I should
see you again, and my dear home, and my dearest, dearest child.
I am sure you will forgive me the wrong I did, and my cruel
behaviour. I couldn't die happy if I didn't feel sure of that;
but, dear father and mother, I know your loving hearts.
No words can tell how I've pined and longed for my little
Jessie, my own little baby, all these years. At first I
thought I should have died for want of her, but I knew she was
happy--that was my only comfort--and I could not have found
clothes nor food for her. I was going to write to you as soon
as we were settled, but Harry lost that situation almost at
once, and since then we have been on the tramp and never had a
home. It has been a cruel life, and I have often thanked God
on my knees that my darling was spared it. I know you love
her and have taken care of her. Don't let her forget me, dear
father and mother, and don't ever let her go from you. She is
yours--I give her to you, and I thank you with all my heart for
all you've done for her. Give her my love--oh, that I could
kiss her dear little face again! Good-bye, dear father and
mother, I can never forgive myself for all the misery I have
caused you; but I know you will forgive me, and believe I loved
you all the time. The woman here is kind to me, and she has
promised to keep this letter safe, and send it to you when I am
gone. Good-bye."
"Your loving daughter,"
"Lizzie."
The letter, which had been placed in an envelope and directed by
Lizzie's own hand, came in a larger envelope, and with it a slip of
paper on which was written in a good firm hand, "Your poor daughter
died this morning. Yours truly, Mary Smith."
The letter bore the Birmingham postmark, but no other clue.
"We don't even know where she died," sobbed Thomas, "that I may go
and bring her home to bury her," and this thought hurt the poor old
man cruelly.
"If you did know, he probably wouldn't let you have her poor body,
not if he thought you wanted it," cried Patience bitterly. She could
not bring herself to mention her son-in-law by name. "He would hurry
her into her grave rather than she should come back to us," and then
she burst into bitter weeping again.