BECKY’S NEW BIRTH.
Into the life thus accidentally opened to her, Becky dashed with the
same vigor and determination which had characterized her dealings with
the sports of tomboyhood.
On the departure of the Thompsons, she marched into the kitchen, and
surprised Aunt Hulda by pulling the table into the middle of the floor,
spreading the cloth, and arranging the dishes for supper.
“Goodness gracious, child! What’s come to you?” cried the spinster, in
astonishment.
“Don’t say a word, Aunt Hulda. I’ve been a bad girl, but I mean to do
better. I’m not going to let you do all the work in this house.”
Aunt Hulda looked at the girl uneasily. Was this madcap endeavoring to
take the reins out of her hands?
“Indeed! Praps you’d like to be mistress, and order me round.”
“No, indeed, Aunt Hulda; you shall be mistress, and I’ll be maid. It’s
little I know, shame on me! but I want to learn; and you know how to
teach so well that I shan’t bother you long with my clumsiness, I
guess.”
“Well, that’s clever. You’re real handy, too; only you’ve put the
knives and forks on the wrong side of the plates.”
“So I have,” said Becky, quickly “changing sides.” “Where are you going
now, Aunt Hulda?”
“After wood; the fire’s getting low. It’s got to be chopped, too. But I
can manage that.”
“No, you must not.--Here, Teddy, bring in a good big armful of wood;
and don’t you never let Aunt Hulda bring another stick.”
Teddy had been standing by the window, gazing, in open-mouthed
astonishment, at Becky’s proceedings. He roused himself at her sharp
call, and obeyed.
“Guess Becky’s a little out of head,” he soliloquized, in the woodshed.
“Got too much water on the brain in the dam.”
Supper finished, Becky washed the dishes, cleared away, and swept
the kitchen, under the direction of Aunt Hulda, and then insisted on
making bread, after careful directions from the mistress. All this was
faithfully reported to Mrs. Sleeper by Aunt Hulda.
“I tell you, Delia, there’s the making of a smart woman in that girl;
and it’s coming out fast.”
When bed time came, Becky went in to her mother with a sad face. The
idea that she had caused her mother’s illness was so strong upon her,
that it could not be easily dissipated. Perhaps it was better so, if it
only strengthened her in her determination to achieve success in the
new life.
“How do you feel to-night, mother?” said Becky choking down a sob, and
laying her hand on her mother’s head, with a caress.
“Happy, Becky, very happy,” said the mother, with a smile. “The
light step of a little woman about the house has made me wonderfully
contented.”
The “little woman” blushed, then said, with a smile she found it hard
to muster,--
“Sick people should not listen. But I’m glad it made you happy, mother.
Shall I stay with you to-night?”
“No; Aunt Hulda will take care of me. Good night.”
“Good night, mother” with a kiss. “Don’t worry about me. I mean to try,
O, so hard--”
She could say no more. The tears would come, spite of her efforts to
repress them; and she ran from the room.
She slept little that night; the new tenant--thought--rambled strangely
about in its unfamiliar quarters, as if uncertain at what task to set
itself, in what corner of this little head to find a resting-place.
Mr. Drinkwater was no better the next morning, and Harry Thompson
opened the school, as usual. He was gratified, on casting his eyes
about the room, to see Becky and Teddy in the places assigned them the
day before; and very much surprised, when the religious exercises were
concluded, to see Becky rise from her place, and march to the centre of
the room.
“Master Thompson, if you please, I was very rude to you yesterday. I
want to beg your pardon before all the scholars.”
“Very well, Miss Becky; you were somewhat rude; but this free
confession amply atones for it. You are forgiven.”
“I want all the scholars to know, if you please, that after school,
when I was told to take my place upon the platform, I jumped out of the
window.”
Harry bit his lip. This was just what he didn’t want the scholars to
know; and they never would have known how he had been outwitted, but
for Becky’s confession. She was altogether too penitent.
“That will do, Miss Becky. You have said quite enough. I shall expect
better conduct from you in the future.”
“I mean to try, sir.”
Becky returned to her seat. She did try hard that day; and not only
that day, but every day, found her trying, and succeeding, too. She
diligently applied herself to the studies assigned her, watched her
conduct carefully, and in a very short time Harry Thompson had reason
to be proud of his pupil. She gave Teddy a helping hand, also. She was
pained to hear the laugh when Teddy blundered; so every night at home
Teddy was carefully tutored by his sister for the next day’s task; and
in a short time he, too, accomplished wonders.
As soon as the brain was trained to systematized labor, Becky’s sharp
eyes traced the difference in her attire and that of the girls about
her; and very soon improvement was noticed in this. Mrs. Thompson,
whose visits to the brown house were now of daily occurrence, taught
her to sew. Material was readily found among the stock of presents the
sailor husband had been accustomed to bring his wife, and which had
never been made up; and thus Becky was as neat and well dressed a girl
as there was in the school. She made quick progress with her studies.
In one branch she excelled all--that of drawing. Harry had introduced
this as a pleasant study, with no idea that Becky had such a genius for
it as she rapidly displayed.
Mr. Drinkwater continued ill all the winter, and Harry kept the school,
by his orders; for, contrary to his expectations, Captain Thompson did
not come into the school. The shrewd proprietor evidently discovered
the trick to bring about a reconciliation, and, with his usual
obstinacy, defeated the well laid plan. And so, autumn gave place to
winter, and the snow lay heavily on the ground. Winter, in turn, gave
place to spring, with all its opening beauties; and school was over.
Harry Thompson stood upon the steps of the school-house, the door
locked behind him for the last time, the key in his hand. His scholars
had gone; up and down the road he could hear their merry voices,
as they wended their ways homeward. But one was left to keep him
company--Becky Sleeper. She stood beside him, anxiously watching
his troubled face; for the master was looking across the road at
the home of his childhood, where he could not now enter. He was
bitterly disappointed in his labors; they had not brought about the
reconciliation for which he had plotted, and which, for his mother’s
sake, he had so longed for. He turned, with a sigh, to Becky.
“Well, little one, school is over.”
“Yes, Harry. It’s been a pleasant time for me. How can I thank you for
having been so kind to me, for having taught me so much, and being such
a dear, kind friend?”
“Yes, I have been able to do you some good, Becky. My labor has not
been fruitless, after all.”
Fruitless! No. One look at the thoughtful face beside him, one glance
at the trim figure, might convince him of that. Six months ago a
hoiden, to-day a woman; bright, young, beautiful, still; but strong,
energetic, persevering, rapidly unfolding the intellectual graces of
true womanhood.
He was fond of his pupil; and to her he was a hero--always had been;
but for the last six months they had been constantly in each other’s
company. Out of school, many of the old familiar ways had been revived.
They had ridden, sailed, rowed, even indulged in an occasional game
of cricket. At her home he was a constant visitor, that being the
established rendezvous for meeting his mother; and mother and son had
diligently wrought--quietly, but earnestly--a great change in her life.
She knew it, and blessed them for it. These two were very dear to each
other, and, without knowing it, were passing beyond the boundaries of
friendship into the perplexing maze of love.
“Harry,” said Becky, suddenly, “where does all the money come from?”
“Money, Becky! What money?”
“The money that gets us all we have at home. Mother’s went long ago;
and yet we are always well supplied with food and clothing. Does it
come from your father?”
“I think it does, Becky. My angel mother possesses a key which unlocks
all his treasures; and I suspect that some of them fly across the
bridge to your home.”
“I thought so. It isn’t right. Is there not some way in which I could
earn money?”
“Well, I don’t know of any. Stay. You might blow the bellows for Fox,
the blacksmith, or get employment in the shipyard.”
“O, stop. That’s not what I want. Couldn’t I work in one of the mills?”
“Yes, I suppose you could; but I wouldn’t, at least until after we’ve
had a consultation with my angel mother.”
“Then let’s have one, quick. I’m determined to earn money some way; and
if you don’t find me something better I _will_ blow the bellows for Mr.
Fox.”
“Well, I’ll come over to-night, and we’ll have a grand council of war.
Good by, Becky.”
“Good by, Harry.”
He turned up the road, and she stood and watched him as he stepped
briskly along, swinging the key in his hand, and whistling merrily.
“He’s just splendid! O, if I was only a man, to follow him into the
world! For this life will not content him long. He’s restless now,
eager to be at work among men. And he’ll go, too. And, O, dear! how
lonesome it will be without him!”
Even then Becky felt a lonesome shadow gliding into her heart with its
oppressive weight, felt the tears gathering in her eyes. Then, when he
was still in sight! How would it be when he should be far, far away?
Yet she stood and watched as he descended the hill, till he was out of
sight; longer still, her eyes fixed upon the spot from which he had
vanished, her thoughts shaping themselves into queer notions of the
future, in girlhood’s flattering mirror of romance, building bright
pictures of renown for him,--her hero,--in which she bore no part.
From this sudden romantic attack she was aroused by the appearance
of another figure in the place on which her eyes were fixed. Slowly
toiling up the hill came a girl, pale-featured, poorly-clad, deformed,
and crippled. With the aid of a crutch she stumped along the path until
she reached the school-house; then, with a pleasant nod to Becky, and a
sigh of relief, she seated herself upon the steps.
Becky returned the nod, and seated herself by the side of the cripple.
“You seem to have a pretty hard time of it.”
“Do I?” said the cripple, smiling. “Well, I suppose to you, who have
two feet to run about on, it does seem hard. But it’s the best I can
do, the best I ever could do; and so I don’t mind it a bit.”
“You don’t mean to say that you like being a cripple,” said Becky, in
astonishment. “I never could be contented in that way--never!”
“No, I don’t think I like it; but I cannot help it. It must always be
so. It’s hip trouble. I only try to make the best of it. The hardest
to bear are the hard, grinding pains that come sometimes. O, they
are terrible! But they come and go; and after they’re gone I’m real
comfortable till--the next.”
“Well, you’re a brave girl, any way,” said Becky. “What’s your name,
please?”
“Why, don’t you know Jenny York? I thought everybody knew me. What’s
yours?”
“Becky Sleeper.”
“What! the tomboy?”
A dark shadow passed across the face of Becky.
“I was the tomboy, Jenny; but I’ve outgrown that name. I think I’m
something a little nearer what a girl of my age should be now.”
“I beg your pardon for speaking so, Becky. I’ve never met you before;
but I’ve always heard of you and your--your--”
“Capers, Jenny. Don’t be afraid. I don’t mind it a bit. Thank goodness,
I’ve outgrown all that folly. But tell me, are you Silly York’s sister?”
“Yes. She’s number one, and I’m number two; then there’s Johnny, three,
and four and five. They’re little tots, and don’t count for much yet.
Silly works for Mrs. Thompson, and I work at the mill.”
“_You_ work! At what mill?”
“The paper mill, sorting rags. It’s profitable business, too. Some
weeks I make five or six dollars.”
What a strange meeting! A little cripple earning six dollars a week,
and a great, strong, healthy girl, who never earned a cent. Becky could
scarcely believe her ears.
“Why, Jenny York, you’re worth a dozen girls like me. I never earned a
cent in my life. I wish I could, though.”
“It’s easy enough. Mr. Small wants some help; he told me so to-day.
The work is not very clean; there’s plenty of dust to get down your
throat, and up your nose, and into your ears. But it never gets into my
eyes thick enough to prevent my seeing the wages every Saturday night.”
Jenny York laughed merrily, making it evident that the dust had no
effect on her good humor.
“There, I guess I’ve had a good rest. I must be going.”
“Let me go with you,” said Becky, springing up, and assisting Jenny to
regain her feet.
“O, thank you! That will be nice. I can put my arm about your waist, if
you’ll let me, and you can shoulder the crutch, if you like, and ’twill
be a pleasant change for me.”
Warm-hearted Becky quickly adjusted herself to the requirements of her
companion, and they started off down the road.
“Do you walk up and down every day, Jenny?”
“O, no. Almost always somebody comes along and gives me a ride.
Everybody is very kind to me, and I get along famously.”
Ah, Jenny, if everybody had your cheerful spirit, how much better
and brighter the world would become! how pleasantly we should all get
along! The hard, grinding times come to all, in different shapes, to be
rightly borne in patience; but between the past and the coming are long
reaches of level life which the sunshine of a contented spirit can make
glad and happy.
That long walk opened a fresh path in the new life to Becky. For two
years Jenny York had worked at the mill. She gave her companion a full
description of her duties, and eagerly pressed her to come and try
her luck. They parted at the door of Mr. York’s house, sworn friends.
Becky, refusing an invitation to enter, remembering her charity visit,
gave Jenny her promise that the next day should find her at the mill.
So homeward tripped Becky, thanking her lucky stars for this
providential meeting, thinking how oddly it had come about that just at
the right moment a weak, crippled girl had been able to point out to
her the road to independence.
The “council of war” that night deliberated long and earnestly on
the question which Becky laid before that body. Harry opposed, Mrs.
Thompson hesitated, Becky was resolute.
“I hate to oppose you, Harry, who have been so good to me. But I can
earn money there; and it’s high time I did something for the support of
the family.”
She had taken the precaution to win Aunt Hulda and her mother to her
side before submitting her plan to the others. Aunt Hulda, whose
admiration for Becky sometimes was unbounded, had been first consulted.
This mark of confidence had won all that remained of Aunt Hulda’s
heart, and she readily acquiesced, as she would have done had Becky
proposed to shingle the church. The mother had read in the sparkling
eyes of her daughter, now so very dear to her, the earnest desire
to work and earn, and could not, if she would, disappoint her. Thus
thrice-armed in a just cause, Becky met her councillors, and bore off
the victory at last.
With these stipulations: she should give just the time daily which had
been occupied by her school duties to rag-picking--no more. She should
perform her household labors as usual, and be ready at other times
for out-door exercise at the will and pleasure of Harry Thompson. His
consent could be gained on no other terms. Mrs. Thompson was doubtful
of the influences which might be brought to bear upon Becky at the
mill, yet could not but admire the spirit she displayed. She hesitated
on Becky’s account a while, then smilingly gave her vote in favor of
Becky, and the field was won.
The next morning found her at the mill equipped for dusty labor. Mr.
Small received her kindly, made a satisfactory bargain with her, and
she at once entered upon her duties.
The paper mill was composed of three buildings; the main section,
comprising the business office, the machine-room, the pulp-vats, and
the bleaching-tubs, was built of bricks. At right angles with this
structure, and attached to it, was a flat-roofed wooden building. In
the lower story of this were stored rags in bags; from this room they
were hoisted to the second story, where they were sorted, then taken
to the main building to be bleached. At the end of this building was
a low, slant-roofed stable. In the sorting-room from ten to a dozen
females were usually employed; and to this section of the paper mill
Becky was assigned.
To no pleasant work did Becky set her hands; in no very pleasant
companionship did she find herself. With the exception of Jenny York,
the “girls” were middle aged and old women, loud-tongued, and very apt
to be quarrelsome. At first Becky tried to make friends with all of
them; but, finding her overtures met with rudeness, she desisted from
further attempts, and drew the closer to the little cripple.
As time passed on, and she grew familiar with her labor, stronger
grew her friendship for Jenny. These two made a corner of their own,
a little removed from the Babel of tongues. Jenny, rejoicing in the
companionship of one so near her age, was always bright and happy.
Becky, catching the inspiration of her cheerful spirit, overflowed with
mirth and humor, and oft-repeated stories of tomboy adventures made
them both merry over their work.
But Becky never lost sight of her independence. She worked gaily, but
she worked with a will; and the sight of her wages when Saturday came
was a reward of merit dearly prized. Steadily she worked through the
hot months of summer, until she could count ninety dollars in her
strong-box; and then a sad disaster befell the mill.
The machinery of a paper mill seldom stops, night or day, save for
repairs. It was in the month of September that it was necessary to
stop for the repair of a broken wheel. The sorting-room, however, was
kept in operation.
At twelve o’clock the “girls” repaired to their homes for dinner--all
but Jenny York. Occasionally Becky staid to keep her company, but not
often, the stipulations with the council requiring her to be punctual
to her meals at home. Certainly Jenny fared all the better for this,
for Becky’s return always added something nice to her plain fare.
But one day Jenny had a fierce attack of her grinding pains, and all
the forenoon she lay upon a couch of bags, and when dinner time came,
spite of her wishes, Becky would not leave her. They were alone; Jenny,
just recovering, was faint and ghostly white; Becky, bending over her,
was bathing her temples, when, suddenly, outside, the cry of “Fire!”
was raised. Becky sprang to her feet, to find the room thickening with
smoke, coming up through the chinks in the floor. A too common accident
in paper mills had occurred. A bag of cotton waste had burst into
flames, and the store-room beneath was a furnace of fire. Her first
thought was--no thought at all. The instinct of self-preservation took
her into the machine-room very quick, and then she thought of Jenny.
She ran back to the terrified girl, crying,--
“Don’t be frightened, Jenny. The mill’s on fire; but I’ll save you.”
She stooped and lifted Jenny in her arms. All the “waste” of her early
life served her well now. Exercise had made that small frame tough and
muscular, and she easily bore Jenny towards the door. But suddenly the
iron doors between the two buildings were closed with a crash. Some
crazy operative, thinking only of the danger to the main building, had
taken this precaution, without looking into the room. Becky dropped her
burden, and flew to the doors. She screamed for help; she beat the iron
with her fists in vain. Then she ran to the windows on the sides; there
were none at the end. But the thick, black smoke, rolling up outside,
obscured the light. No escape there; they were walled in on every side.
The smoke in the room was so thick it was with difficulty they could
breathe.
No escape? Yes, one. Becky cast her eyes aloft. In the centre of
the roof was a scuttle, ten feet above her. Lying along the side of
the room was a ladder. Becky sprang for it. It was very heavy; but
desperation nerved her arms, and it was raised.
All this time Jenny lay upon the floor, watching with wishful eyes the
movements of Becky. O, if she only had a little strength now! Becky
came to her side, and raised her once more in her arms.
“Now clasp me close, and we’ll soon reach the roof, and be out of this
stifling smoke, any way.”
With her heavy burden she toiled up the ladder, rested a moment at the
top, then threw up the scuttle, and reached the roof. There she laid
Jenny down and ran to the edge. Right and left the smoke was rising in
dense volumes; but at the farther end all was clear, and beneath it
was the steep roof of the stable. There was her chance for escape. She
could drop easily; it was but ten feet. But Jenny! The poor girl would
scarce escape without injury. Only a moment she pondered, then ran back
to the scuttle, and descended the ladder, at the risk of her life.
Near the iron doors the flames were shooting up through the floor, and
dancing on the wall. The smoke was stifling. She caught up several
empty bags, and quickly regained her place upon the roof.
“Quick, Jenny, quick! Help me to tear these bags to pieces. We must
have a rope.”
They tore the bags apart, divided them, with the aid of their scissors,
into long, narrow strips; then Becky’s nimble fingers twisted them
together.
“Now, Jenny, I’m going to lower you to the shed; and then we’re safe.”
She fastened the improvised rope about Jenny’s waist, and bore her to
the edge of the roof. She then passed the rope around the chimney.
“Once more, Jenny. Slide over the roof, and hold on to the rope.”
The rope slid through Becky’s hands, and Jenny was upon the roof
below. Then the brave girl, casting loose the trusty cord, advanced to
the edge of the roof, and, supporting herself a moment by her hands,
dropped beside her friend. None too soon; for, while she clung there,
up through the scuttle appeared the flaming head of the advancing
column of fire.
It was still ten feet from the stable to the ground, and no time to be
lost.
“Slide down the roof, Jenny, and drop again. I’ll hold you; never fear.”
She stretched herself flat upon the roof, with the rope in her hands.
Jenny slid down, and dropped as directed. But now a new danger to
Becky arose: the cord had become entangled in her dress; and, as Jenny
descended, she found herself being dragged down the roof. But she held
all the tighter to the rope, fearing the shock to Jenny, should she
fall, more than the danger of being herself plunged headlong from the
roof. Faster and faster they went; she was nearing the edge; she must
go over. No. Suddenly the cord slacked. Jenny had touched the ground.
She dropped the cord, clutched the gutter with all her strength, her
body swung round, and she dropped to the ground, very ungracefully, but
unhurt.
“O, Becky, you’ve saved my life! Can I ever repay you.”
Jenny lay upon the ground, with clasped hands and streaming eyes. Becky
stood by her side, looking ruefully at the burning building. No more
work there.
“Yes, Jenny, I believe I’ve saved both our lives. But there’s one thing
I forgot; and it’s just like me. Your crutch! I might have saved that
too.”
Not quite a thoughtful, earnest woman yet, Becky; but this day the
climbing frolics of the tomboy days have enabled you to glorify
humanity with its proudest triumph--an heroic act!
[Illustration: THE BURNING MILL.--Page 142.]