MISS PATCH.
The opportunity Jessie yearned for came before long. One morning her
mother had, unexpectedly, to go out very soon after breakfast.
"Jessie," she said, "I haven't been able to touch Charlie's room,
more than to make his bed; you must tidy it while I am out. I shan't
be very long, and there won't be anything more to do than just keep
in the fire in the kitchen."
Jessie was delighted. As soon as her mother had gone she mounted to
Charlie's room laden with brush and dustpan, and a bit of rag for a
duster. Charlie looked up in astonishment when she came in, then
with delight; he loved to have Jessie doing things for him, she did
them so thoroughly and daintily.
"I am going to brush down the cobwebs first," said Jessie, "at least
all that I can reach," she added thoughtfully, "so put your head
right down under the clothes. I wish I had a dust-sheet, but it
can't be helped, I must do without one. Now, steady! I am going to
move your bed out from the wall. One, two, three, and be off!" and
with a tug of her strong young arms she truckled the bed out into the
middle of the room. Charlie was enraptured. He found it impossible
to keep his head covered, dust or no dust.
"How funny it looks, and how nice, everything seems different.
Jessie, don't you think my bed could stay out here?"
"Well, no," said Jessie, "it would be too much in the way stuck right
out in the middle of the room, but I dare say mother wouldn't mind
your having it somewhere else for a change. We'll try it, and ask
her when she comes in," and Jessie quickly swept a clear space and
pushed the bed back against the wall.
"Oh, that is nice!" said Charlie. "If I lie on my side a little I
can look out of the window and see the houses opposite, and I haven't
got the light shining right in on my eyes as I had before. It was
dreadful when my head was aching."
"I thought it must be," said Jessie sympathetically, busily sweeping
all the time. There was a great deal to be done, and she was very
anxious to have it all looking nice by the time Mrs. Lang returned.
She ran down with the bits of carpet and beat them, then she dusted
the mantelpiece and the furniture, and arranged everything in the
room to what, she thought, was the best advantage. She cleaned the
window, too, which was a great improvement to the look of the room.
Charlie was delighted. "Oh, it is nice! It looks like a new room, I
feel as if I had gone away for a change. Everything seems different.
Jessie, do go and ask Miss Patch to come and see it, will you?
She'd love to."
Jessie flew away, willingly enough, and up the stairs until she came
to the big attic at the very top of the house, which she knew was
Miss Patch's. She had not spoken to Miss Patch yet, but she had
heard a good deal about her from Charlie, who seemed very fond indeed
of her, and often bemoaned the fact that she lived at the very top of
the house now, for he very seldom saw her; she was lame and suffered
a good deal, and could not get up and down the steep stairs very
well, and he could not go up to her.
As she approached the door Jessie heard a sound of a soft voice
singing, and paused a moment to listen, she could not bear to
interrupt.
"I may not tell the reason,
'Tis enough for thee to know
That I, the Master, am teaching,
And give this cup of woe."
The singing ceased for a moment, and Jessie gently knocked at the
door.
"Come in," said the same voice brightly; "open the door, please, and
come in."
Jessie did as she was bid, and stepped into one of the neatest and
cleanest and oddest rooms she had ever seen in her life.
The furniture in it was scanty, but what there was was old-fashioned
and good, there was a bright rug on the floor, a few pictures on the
walls at each end, an old-fashioned wooden bed at one side, a dear
little round table before the fire, and a large arm-chair. The room
was a large attic which really stretched over the whole of the top of
the house, but though it was so large, there was really not very much
available space in it, for the sides sloped steeply. Miss Patch had
curtained off the sides, and out of the long narrow strip down the
middle had formed, in Jessie's opinion, one of the nicest rooms she
had ever seen.
The owner of the room looked up at Jessie with a bright smile, a
smile which brightened still more when Jessie gave her message.
"Please, Charlie wants to know if you will come down and see his
room. I have been tidying it a little, and I moved the bed, and he
is so delighted with it he wants you to see it."
"I should like to, very much," said Miss Patch, "but I have
rheumatism in my knee to-day, and I can't get up and down stairs very
well. Perhaps, though," she added, with sudden thought, "you will
help me?"
"Oh yes," said Jessie, advancing further into the room, "I would like
to if I can. What shall I do?"
"I will ask you to let me lean on your shoulder a little, that is
all, dear. But will you wait just a moment while I finish preparing
the potatoes for my dinner?"
"Oh yes. I will wait, and--and--I'd like to help you," said Jessie,
half eager, half shy. "Thank you, dear, but I've nearly done, and it
isn't worth while for you to wet your hands. Sit down instead and
talk to me. I heard that Mrs. Lang was having a little daughter to
help her, and I have been hoping I should see you--but I haven't even
heard your name yet!"
"It is Jessie."
"Oh, is it. I am very glad, for I had a dear little pupil once
called by that name, and I have been fond of it ever since. She was
really, though, christened 'Jessica.'"
"I am only _called_ Jessie. I was christened Jessamine May,"
explained Jessie seriously. "Grandfather has got a jessamine growing
all over the front of his house, and he has ever such beautiful red
may-trees in the garden. They were there when mother was a little
girl, and she loved them so dearly she called me after them, to keep
her in mind of home."
"What a pretty name," said Miss Patch gently, "and what a beautiful
thought. You are a little bit of a sweet garden transplanted into
the midst of a dingy street to brighten us up, and bring beautiful
and fragrant things to our minds. Jessamine and may blossom," she
repeated softly; "oh, the picture it calls up, and the sweet
fragrance! I seem to see them and to smell them, even here! I am
ready now, little Jessamine May; shall we go to Charlie?"
Jessie sprang to her feet. "I think yours is such a pretty room,"
she said half timidly; and then her eye falling on a rose-bush in
Miss Patch's window, all her timidity vanished, and she sprang
towards it with a cry of mingled pleasure and pain.
"Oh, you have a rose-bush, too!" she cried eagerly. "I had one at
granp's, and I loved it so." The quivering of her lips prevented her
saying more, and the tears in her eyes made the rose-bush look all
misty and dim.
Miss Patch saw and understood, and it was a very loving hand she laid
on Jessie's shoulder. "I know, dear, I know how it feels--and you
cannot understand the why and the wherefore of it all now--but you
will some day--and in the meantime you are come to be a bit of sweet
garden in our midst, to cheer us as your rose cheered you--and we do
need some brightness here, little Jessamine May, I can assure you."
And, somehow, Jessie felt much of her overwhelming sorrow vanish at
the little old lady's words, and as she helped her down the stairs
she felt quite cheered and happy again.
Charlie's delight more than repaid Miss Patch for the pain and effort
of going down to see him, and whilst they were all looking and
admiring, and agreeing what a wonderful improvement it was, and how
much more comfortable and spacious the room looked, and in every way
desirable, Mrs. Lang returned and came up-stairs to see how her boy
had got on in her absence.
Jessie had been rather dreading this moment, for she could not help
feeling that she had been taking a great liberty, but Mrs. Lang was
too weary and anxious to make troubles of trifles, and anything that
pleased her darling was sure to please her too.
So she expressed her approval of their doings and sat down on the
foot of Charlie's bed to hear all about it, and all the advantages,
and new charms and interests of having his bed in this position.
Miss Patch sat on the ricketty chair and joined in occasionally, but
her quick sympathy was aroused by the weariness on Mrs. Lang's face.
"You look tired out," she said kindly.
"I feel so," said Mrs. Lang listlessly. "The wind is almost more
than any one can battle with, and the damp seems to get into one's
bones. I feel ready to drop--and, oh, I've such a lot to do!"
"Mother," said Jessie eagerly, "shall I make you a cup of tea?
I know the kettle is boiling by this time. Don't you think it would
do you good?"
Charlie's face lit up again. "Oh do, mother, do, and have it up
here, and Miss Patch have one, too, and Jessie, and me."
"Well, I declare!" cried Mrs. Lang, quite taken aback. "What next! I
never heard of such a thing! I believe, though, that one would do me
good, and I know I'd enjoy it ever so much. Miss Patch would, too, I
believe!"
Miss Patch smiled. "I'd enjoy one," she laughed, "if I had to get up
in the middle of the night for it."
Without waiting for another word Jessie flew off to the kitchen.
This was her chance she felt to do things nicely, so, while the
kettle came to the boil, she polished the shabby tray and the
tea-cups and spoons. She had no pretty white cloth to lay on the
tray, unfortunately, but she had a sheet of white paper that she had
saved from a parcel, and she spread this on the tray, then arranged
on it the cups and saucers and milk-jug and sugar-basin. She made
the tea next and put out some biscuits on a plate.
She could not carry all up at once, so she took the tray first, then
came back for the teapot and kettle. A second chair was got from
Mrs. Lang's bedroom, and then the sociable little meal was begun.
It did not last long, but half-an-hour, at the longest. Yet it was
one of those bright little spots which linger long in the memory and
make one glad, though sometimes sad, to look back upon.
"Well, I must get on, my work won't do itself, I guess," sighed Mrs.
Lang, at last reluctantly preparing to rise, but Charlie put out his
hand to detain her.
"Don't go yet, mother, wait a minute, I want Miss Patch to sing.
Miss Patch, you will sing to us, just once, won't you?" he pleaded.
"That one you used to sing to me. Oh, do! please! please!"
"But, my dear, my dinner is on cooking, and--and"--Miss Patch's
cheeks flushed a delicate pink, she was very shy--"I--I ain't
accustomed to singing, except to myself, and--well, I used to sing to
you sometimes when you were very little and didn't know what good
singing was."
"It was lovely," said Charlie earnestly, "and nobody ever sings to me
now," he added wistfully.
Miss Patch's tender heart was touched, and her shyness overcome.
"Very well, dear, I will," she agreed bravely, and it was really
brave of her, for to do so cost her a great effort. "Perhaps we
could choose a hymn we all know, and we could all join in. I am sure
we all know 'Safe in the arms of Jesus,' or 'There's a home for
little children.' You know them, don't you, Jessamine May?"
"Yes," said Jessie, "granp and I used to sing them on Sunday
afternoons."
But when they had begun "There's a home for little children," Miss
Patch was soon left to sing it through alone, for Charlie was too
exhausted, and after the first line or so Mrs. Lang could not get out
another word for the pain at her heart and the lump in her throat,
and taking Charlie in her arms she sat with bowed head looking down
at him.
"Would it be better--for him," she thought heart-brokenly, "would not
that home be better than this--the only one she could give him--and
what was to become of him if he lost her?" But she forced the
thought away. "And what is to become of me--if I lose him?" she
asked herself fiercely--and found no answer.
The last verse was reached, and she felt almost glad, the pain and
the pathos were more than she could bear.
"Now, one more," pleaded Charlie's weak voice from the shelter of his
mother's arms, and Miss Patch in her thin, sweet voice sang to a
plaintive chanting air of her own the beautiful hymn written by Miss
M. Betham-Edwards--
"God make my life a little light
Within the world to glow;
A little flame that burneth bright
Wherever I may go."
"God made my life a little flower,
That giveth joy to all,
Content to bloom in native bower
Although its place be small."
"God make my life a little staff,
Whereon the weak may rest,
That so what health and strength I have
May serve my neighbours best."
"It isn't a real tune," she explained shyly, when she had reached the
end. "I liked the words so much that I learnt them by heart, and
they ran in my head until I found myself singing them to any sort of
drone that would fit them."
"I think it is all lovely," said Charlie; "don't you, Jessie?"
"Oh, _lovely_," breathed Jessie softly. She was too deeply impressed
to be able to talk much. "God make my life a little flower," the
words repeated themselves again in her brain. "Miss Patch called me
a piece of sweet garden. I wonder--" But what Jessie wondered she
could not put into words.
In a vague way, that she scarcely as yet understood, it had suddenly
come home to her that, perhaps, after all it was for some good
purpose that she had been called upon to bear all that she had to
bear. Without those sweet, happy years at Springbrook she could
never have come as a little piece of sweet garden to this sad corner
of the world. Perhaps God had something for her--even a little girl
like herself--to do for Him. And she would try her utmost, she
determined--yes, her utmost; to do her best in the new life she had
been called to, and to make others happier by her presence.