MRS. THOMPSON DISOBEYS ORDERS.
“When that grim smith, Adversity, stalks unannounced and unwelcome into
the abode, erects his forge, bares his strong arm, and sets himself to
work among our affections, feeding his fire with earthly treasures,
perhaps too fondly prized; or poisoning the air with unhealthy vapors,
that blight with disease; or shaping upon his anvil the arrows of
death, for instant use among the loved ones,--it is a hard task to
meet him hospitably; to be patient under the agony of his blows; to
realize, in his presence, that in his forge is the soul whitened and
made pliable, that under the heavy hammer he relentlessly wields it is
shaped to nearness of perfection.
“But when time has cooled the beaten soul, then it realizes how much
stronger it has grown through that dread experience; how much better
fitted it is to meet the ever-returning guest; then it recognizes in
this hard-hitting smith, Adversity, an earnest worker for the universal
good.”
Thus preached Parson Arnold, the salaried fountain from which the good
people of Cleverly drew the living waters for their spiritual needs.
His auditors were Captain Thompson and his good wife, to whom the
parson had just communicated the misfortunes of the Sleeper family, on
the day of their occurrence, he having picked up the intelligence at
the blacksmith’s shop, while awaiting the setting of a tooth into an
iron rake, upon which he was now leaning in the sitting-room at Captain
Thompson’s. Perhaps the skill of the agricultural dentist had suggested
the illustration with which he seasoned his short discourse upon the
uses of adversity, for he was an earnest worker both in his Master’s
vineyard and his own, and used both logical and local arguments to
drive home to the hearts of his people the great truth which he
honestly believed.
“Poor soul! struck down in an instant! what will become of the
children?” said Mrs. Thompson.
“The town will have to take care of ’em. After this caper I’ve done
with ’em. I wash my hands of all responsibility,” growled the captain.
“That young tomboy of theirn has kicked about until she’s broke her
mother’s heart; and I hope she’ll have to suffer for it.”
“Nay, nay, brother; we must be charitable. Remember her youth and
inexperience,” the parson mildly remonstrated.
“Well, I ain’t likely to forget it. It’s been a dear experience to me;
and I won’t have anything more to do with them.”
“Don’t say that, Paul,” said Mrs. Thompson, rising from her chair.
“They need kindness more than ever. Their poor mother can no longer
guide them: shall we desert them now?”
“Guide them! Stuff! She never did guide them. If she had, she’d have
been saved all this trouble.”
“Well, well, they’re in the Lord’s hands,” said the parson; “in his
hands who suffers not a sparrow to fall to the ground without his
notice. Leave all to him.”
The parson put on his hat, shouldered his rake, and departed. Mrs.
Thompson attended him to the door, returned, folded up her work,
and left the room. The captain followed her motions with his eyes.
Something was wrong. There was no _heart_ in his obstinacy. He
evidently felt ill at ease. He walked about the room rapidly, as though
endeavoring to rouse up something like an angry spirit; but the fire
would not kindle. Instead of the angry flash which should have shone in
his eye, there was a tear, and the muscles of his mouth quivered with
suppressed emotion. Mrs. Thompson entered the room, equipped in bonnet
and shawl.
“What! going out again, Rebecca?”
“Yes, Paul; I am going at once.” Mrs. Thompson looked almost defiantly
at her husband, expecting the next question, and fully prepared to
answer it. But the second question was indefinitely postponed. It
trembled on the captain’s lips, but something in his wife’s face told
him if he asked it his power to rule was gone forever.
“Well, don’t be gone long; it’s lonesome here without you.”
Mrs. Thompson seemed in turn disappointed, but she said nothing, and
departed. The captain took a seat upon the sofa, whence he had a view
of the road, and deliberately watched his wife.
“Hum! told you so,” soliloquized he; “there she goes--straight down
the hill! There never was such a woman! Deliberately disobeying her
husband. Bless her good heart! I knew she’d go. Never could stand
that--never! It’s wrong. Obedience is a wife’s first duty. Won’t she
make things fly over there! Poor Delia! She shan’t want for physic as
long as I live; and those young ones--well, well, boys will be boys,
and girls will be--tomboys, sometimes, I suppose. There she goes, up
the hill, now. Disobedience,--rank disobedience! I can’t endure the
sight of it, and I won’t! I’ll just saddle Uncle Ned, and go and see
the doctor. She must have constant attendance; and my wife,--no, I
won’t forgive her disobedience--never!”
The captain now went to the window, and watched until his wife
turned into the gate; then, heaving a sigh (more closely resembling
satisfaction than regret), went in pursuit of Phil and Uncle Ned.
Lightning, that swift agent of destruction, has been known, in the
midst of its vagaries, to smite gigantic rocks, and lay open veins of
wealth never before discovered. When the bolt of misfortune struck
the Sleeper house, it brought to light a much-needed treasure in the
person of the forlorn, complaining Aunt Hulda. She seemed electrified
by the stroke that paralyzed the languid mother, and all the powers of
her being sprang into active life. All the theoretical knowledge she
had acquired by her long, useless “helping” of other people, burst into
fruitful bloom. From the moment Mrs. Sleeper was laid upon her bed,
she was the careful, watchful nurse, quietly but hurriedly arranging
everything for the comfort of the invalid, laying her plans for a long
fit of sickness with all the skill of an old campaigner. Nor did her
usefulness end here. From the chamber to the kitchen she flew, washed
and put away the dishes, replenished the fire, swept and tidied up the
kitchen, re-filled the kettle, made up a batch of bread and set it
“rising,” and back again to the bed-side of her patient, without one
thought of her own magazine of combustible troubles ready to explode at
a spark of complaint. All this with a feverish uneasiness, as though
she feared the coming of somebody to take the power to do out of her
hands. A gentle knock at the door of the sick chamber, and the entrance
of Mrs. Thompson, told her the somebody she feared had come.
Mrs. Thompson gave her hand to Aunt Hulda with a quiet smile, and went
to the bed. What there was left of life in the body of Delia Sleeper
seemed concentrated in her face. She could not move foot or hand; but
the same watchful glance was in her eyes, and the shadow of a smile
played about her mouth, as her old friend bent over her and kissed her.
“So kind! so good! I knew you’d come.”
Faint and tremulous was the voice of the invalid.
“Yes, dear heart; I’ve come to nurse you, to make you strong and well
again.”
Aunt Hulda groaned. Her power was slipping from her.
“No, no. Aunt Hulda--so kind--she does everything. She will nurse
me--thank you. Let me--see you often--that’s all.”
The eyes wandered to Aunt Hulda with a beseeching look that Mrs.
Thompson divined at once.
“Bless you child! I’ll not interfere with her. She shall be mistress in
the house; and a good one she’ll make.”
This was said with a smile for Aunt Hulda that warmed the heart of the
spinster towards the visitor. There was a pleased look in the eyes of
the invalid, as those of Mrs. Thompson came back to her full of love
and sympathy.
“Thank you. Come closer. Becky--my Becky--don’t let her believe she
did this. I’ve brought it on myself--the doctor said so. Too much
watching--you know--it’s been wearing upon me. The ship--that never
comes--never, never comes. But it will--I know it will.”
“I wouldn’t speak of that, Delia, now. The ship will come in God’s good
time,” said Mrs. Thompson. “Remember the dear ones here, and trust the
absent one to his care.”
“Yes, yes; but I didn’t,” said the sick one, sighing. “I forgot my
treasures here, hoping to clasp that other every day; and now I’m
punished. Wasted life! Wasted life! Poor little girl! with her mother’s
heart shut against her, drifting away--running to waste; and so smart
and apt to learn! God pity me! God pity me!”
“Leave all to me, Delia. Let no thought of Becky disturb you.”
“I cannot help it. It seems to me as though I had wilfully neglected
her.”
“Not as I have, Delia. With all your household cares, my little
namesake claimed some portion of my attention; and we have not met
for years. Delia, you know the reason. I blame myself for this long
neglect.”
“No, no; you were always a kind, good friend. But I suppose he thought
it best. Becky is in the sitting-room; won’t you see her and comfort
her?”
“Now and always. With Aunt Hulda’s permission, she shall be my especial
charge hereafter.”
“O, you are so good! No wonder people love you.”
Mrs. Thompson kissed her friend, and passed out of the room. Aunt Hulda
smoothed the bedclothes, and looked at her patient inquiringly.
“Yes, go, go,” said Mrs. Sleeper. “But first kiss me, Aunt Hulda--won’t
you my best friend?”
Aunt Hulda made a dash at her lips, and a loud smack resounded through
the room.
“You dear, dear, dear child! May the Lord give me strength to do for
you as you deserve!”
With her apron to her eyes, Aunt Hulda left the room, leaving the
invalid to her solitary vigil. Already was adversity working in her
for good. The mother-love so long repressed in her heart had, by one
of those strange phases of illness, at once asserted itself the ruling
power. Only a few hours had the active forces refused to obey the
will; only a few hours had the brain caught this new power from the
heart; yet it had travelled over years and years of neglect and wasted
opportunity, with bitter regrets that might yet shape themselves into
guiding forces, in the lonely vigils of the years to come.
Becky Sleeper, under the shadow of this sudden visitation, had in turn
received a shock. The terrible sequel to her frolic had, upon her
revival, produced such a nervous state, that for two hours she lay upon
the sofa, trembling and weeping, in the presence of the astonished
Teddy, who never before had seen a tear in the eyes of his volatile
sister. Harry Thompson had, when he found her in no danger, consulted
his own safety by driving to the house of Mr. Drinkwater for a change
of raiment. Aunt Hulda’s attention was required at the bed-side of
her patient, and Miss Becky was left to recover at her leisure. The
period of lamentation having passed away, she lapsed into a state of
dejection, so long and silent that Teddy, weary with waiting for her to
break the silence, quietly fell asleep.
Becky’s thoughts ran over and over the recent events; but in the
midst of them all this was uppermost: “I’ve killed mother.” Again she
swept across the Basin; again clutched at drifting Teddy; again fell
splashing in the water; again glided down the stream, heard the roar of
the dam, the voice of Harry; but all mixed with this one thought, “I’ve
killed mother.” And she buried her head in the sofa, shut her eyes
hard, and thrust her fingers into her ears, in vain attempts to shut
out the thought. What would become of her? Would she be locked up in
jail--hanged? She must be, for it was murder!
Becky was not well skilled in reasoning. She could not have told why
this feeling took possession of her; but there was a dim consciousness
that she must be an awful wicked girl, and that it was somebody’s duty
to punish her for this, and a wild wish that somebody would be quick
about it, and have it all over with. In this state she was conscious
of the opening of the door, and the presence of some one in the room.
There was a light step by her side; a soft hand was placed upon her
head.
“Becky, my child, you are making yourself miserable.”
Becky knew that well enough. Why should she be told what she knew so
well? It was nobody’s business, any way. Why didn’t people attend to
their own affairs? She failed to recognize the voice, and, being in an
ugly state of misery, snatched the soft hand from its resting-place,
and flung it rudely from her, with her eyes defiantly closed.
Mrs. Thompson did not replace the hand, did not repeat the words. She
stood looking at the girl a moment, then passed across the room, and
took a seat by the window. This movement set Becky to thinking. Who
could it be? It was a kind voice, a warm, soft hand. There was no
feeling of punishment in either. Why didn’t the visitor speak again?
How rude she had been! Then there came a long pause. She was listening
intently for some signs of her visitor’s presence. Hush! No; that
was Teddy, snoring. She recognized that; and then--yes, some one was
breathing by the window. Who could it be? Some one quietly waiting for
her to get over her ugly fit. She felt a pair of eyes were fastened
upon her. Wondered if her hair was fit to be seen, if there were any
rents in her dress, and--and--O, dear, this was terrible! She would
know the worst.
Suddenly she sprang up, and looking across the room, met the loving
eyes of Mrs. Thompson; saw a smile wreathing about the lips; saw the
arms of the good woman stretched out to her so invitingly, that,
without further invitation, she ran into them, and nestled her head
among the plaits of Mrs. Thompson’s merino, as if she had an undoubted
right there. Then of course, she fell to crying again.
“O, Aunt Rebecca! you’re so good! and I’m so wicked!”
“No, no, pet. I’m a wicked woman for neglecting you so long. But it’s
all right now. I have you in my arms, just as I had you when you were a
baby; and I don’t mean to let you go. Now tell me what’s the matter.”
“Why, don’t you know? I’ve killed my mother!”
“No, no, pet. Dismiss that fear from your mind. She is very ill;
perhaps may never recover; but the doctor says her disease has been a
long time coming on.”
“And that I tumbled into the water, got most drowned, and frightened
the life out of her,” burst out Becky. “O dear, dear! what will become
of me?” And another deluge of tears swept over the placid bosom of Mrs.
Thompson.
“Hush, hush, dear child! You were not to blame. Any sudden shock might
have caused the disaster.”
“Aunt Rebecca, do you mean to say I am not a bad, wicked girl?”
Becky straightened up with such an air of _injured guilt_ that Mrs.
Thompson looked at her in surprise.
“Becky, how old are you?”
“Sixteen, Aunt Rebecca.”
“Quite a young lady, I declare. Now that mother is laid upon a sick
bed, the care of the house devolves upon you. Girls of sixteen are
usually fitted for that position. Do you feel prepared to attend to
those duties?”
Becky hung her head.
“No, Becky, you are not a wicked girl. But it is time for some good
friend to show you how you have wasted the powers God has given you.
Had you given the same attention to learning to keep house that you
have to playing ball and tag, to robbing orchards and shooting the
Basin, you would have been ready to take your place at your mother’s
bed-side, or to take charge of cooking. You would have gained the good
opinion of everybody, instead of being shunned as a tomboy; and you
would not then have reproached yourself, as you do now, for being the
cause of your mother’s illness.”
“I know it, I know; ’tis all my fault, ’tis all my fault!” sobbed Becky.
“Not altogether your fault, pet. You have had no one to lead you
aright. But ’tis time you learned a young woman’s duties. You are
quick, intelligent, apt to learn. Will you let me give you a few
lessons, Becky?”
“O, Aunt Rebecca, if you don’t hate me, if you will try and make
something of me, I’ll never go out doors again as long as I live!”
Mrs. Thompson smiled.
“Plants will not thrive without air, Becky: you shall have plenty of
it. Now, dry your eyes, and come with me to see mother.”
“Not now, Aunt Rebecca; I’m not fit. I hope you’ll make something of
me; but it’s an awful bad job. One thing I mean to do. I’ll try just as
hard as ever I can to do just what you tell me.”
“That’s right, Miss Becky Sleeper; and if you do what that angel woman
tells you, you are on the straight road to heaven, I can tell you.”
Mr. Harry Thompson came running into the room.
“Don’t scold, mother. I’ve been listening outside the door for the last
five minutes. Let me congratulate you on your promising pupil.”
“I think I can make something of her,” said Mrs. Thompson looking with
pride at her handsome son.
“Not without my help, mother. I know all the good points of that
sportive genius, for, alas! I helped to train them in the wrong way.
So, to make amends, employ me in the good work of training this
wandering vine in the proper direction. What do you say, Miss Becky?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Harry,” said Becky, soberly. “Is it some
new game you want to teach me? If it is, I can’t learn it, for I’ve
promised not to play any more.”
Harry laughed.
“Yes, Becky, ’tis a new game. We’ll call it ‘Excelsior,’ a game which
requires work, and not play.”
“Don’t puzzle the child, Harry,” said Mrs. Thompson.
“Child!” echoed Harry. “Sweet sixteen; and yet she’s but a child.”
“You saved my life, Harry,” said Becky, with tears in her eyes. “I
don’t know as I ought to thank you for doing it, for Aunt Rebecca says
it’s been a wasted life. But I do thank you all the same.”
“Perhaps I’ve brought you into a new life, Becky. I hope I have--the
life of usefulness we all should live.”
“Look out, Becky! she’s drifting!” shouted Teddy, in his sleep. “She’s
drifting! she drifting!”
He moved uneasily in his sleep, started, rolled off his chair, and
_drifted_ on to the floor, with a crash that shook the house.
“Teddy Sleeper, what ails you? Wake up!” cried Becky, running to him,
and shaking him. “Don’t you see we’ve got company?”
Teddy rolled over, sat up, and stared wildly about him.
“I don’t care, Becky Sleeper. I ain’t a goin’ to be stumped by a girl,
any way.”
Harry Thompson laughed so loud that Teddy sprang to his feet in
confusion.
“Stick to that, Teddy, and we’ll make a man of you.”