_SALOME'S TEA-PARTY._
"HUSH, dear!" said Salome. "You must try to be more quiet to-day."
"I can't be quiet," said Sydney in a discontented little voice; "I've
been quiet a 'great' while."
"So you have," began Salome, but Ruth struck in:
"I don't call it at all long, Sydney; it only began this morning."
Poor little Sydney, not yet recovered from his bronchitis, and wrapped
up in a shawl, looked ready to cry at this contradiction.
"It is long," persisted Sydney, "'cause I'm a little boy."
"I say it 'isn't,'" said Ruth, who was as tired of the long quiet day
as her little brother.
Salome looked from one to the other, and then she said softly, "Come
here, dearies, and I'll tell you somethin'. You like stories, though
old Salome don't tell them nothing like Miss Marian."
"What is not like Marian?" asked a voice at the door, and a sweet rosy
face peeped in.
"Oh, missey, you de very one I was wishin' for! Dese dear little ones
is mighty tired of de long day, and de dear missis wished dem to be
quiet cause of de funeral, and so dey fell to squablin', and I was
wishin' you were here to tell dem one of your stories."
"I guessed as much," said Marian, "and so I came over, and who do you
think I've brought with me?"
Sydney turned his little face round. He had been pretending not to
listen to the conversation, but a little curiosity came to the aid of
his dignity, and he said, "Who, then?"
"I only came up first to ask Salome if you were well enough. Is he
Salome?"
"He's well enough if dey don't go rompin' nor leavin' de doors open,
missey. But 'tisn't likely, as dey'll be noisy on such a day as this;
and as to de door, I'll mind that."
Marian ran down, and returned in a minute with Leslie and Muriel, who
came in with very sober faces. They had just seen the carriages start
for the cemetery which bore Mrs. Bruce from The Towers to her earthly
resting-place. It had brought back very vividly the remembrance of the
time when Claude had been carried away from them, and they felt as if
it were that day come back again.
Marian gathered them all near the window, and put them in comfortable
places, reserving her lap for frail little Sydney, who soon forgot his
grievance, and nestled happily in her arms.
"So you've thought a good way to pass a long day was to get tired of
each other, eh, Ruthie?"
The words were not satirical but gentle, accompanied by an arch look
into the little faces.
"Well—" began Ruth.
But Marian stopped her by asking, "Is that little chair 'quite' cosy,
Ruthie, because I'm going to begin?"
Ruth said "Yes."
And as Marian was just on the very point of speaking, they all settled
themselves as quickly as they could, and she began.
* * * * * *
"Get along into the corner, and bide there; that's what you'd better
do," said a strong-looking man, laying down a bag of heavy tools, and
throwing himself into a chair by the fire.
The child addressed shrank into the place allotted to him, where
already three or four small children were congregated; while the father
turned to his wife, and said roughly, "Ain't the tea ready?"
"In a minute," she answered, putting down the whining baby, and
stirring up the little fire so that the kettle might boil quickly.
The baby went on whining, and there was a stir in the crowded corner,
and a little thin pinched form came slowly to the child, and a small
hand was put out and drew it nearer, till it was safely in two arms,
whose tenderness was quickly perceived, and the crying stopped.
"Janey, I'm so tired and hungry; can't yer get us a bit of bread?"
"Hush, Jacky! Mother 'll be ready presently. Look here, feel in my
pocket, and see what you can find there!"
Jacky answered somewhat disdainfully, "There ain't nothing there, 'I'
know, but stones and shells, and I'm sick of 'them.'"
"Then ye don't know nothing about it," said Janey in a whisper; "you
jest feel."
Jacky condescended to put out his hand, and Janey moved so as not to
disturb the baby, and yet to let him get at her pocket.
In the shallow depths of it, he found something round. And on drawing
it out, to his delight, it was a ball, or something so like a ball that
he was nearly uttering a cry of delight. But Janey's hand was quickly
placed before his mouth only just in time for him to escape notice.
"Let me see," said Dick, snatching at it. "Where did you get it, Janey?"
"I made it," answered his sister, "for all of you. But look 'ere, don't
grab, there's a good boy, but let's 'ave a game here in the corner. You
send it across to me, and I'll send it over to you, Jacky, and then
Jack send it to Pollie, and round agin, till supper's ready."
The children were tired of nothing to do, and the little peacemaker's
advice was generally good, so the home-made ball went round and round,
while Janey rocked the baby to and fro till it ceased fretting, and
then she left the ball to the others, and softly crept round the little
kitchen till she came to a wooden box in the corner, which served for a
cradle, into which she placed the now sleeping child.
Then you might have seen her put her hand on a chair near, and
straighten herself up as well as she could, but it was not much after
all, for her poor little back was terribly crooked, and now ached
almost insupportably with the weight of the baby.
But no cross, irritable word passed her lips. She went back slowly to
the little ones, and then their worn mother's welcome call came, and
the children started to their feet.
"Mind you don't get to no play," she observed, opening the staircase
door for them to go through, when she had given each of them a slice of
bread.
Then the little deformed sister hobbled after them in the hope that she
might get them to bed without further trouble.
When she came down again, the father had finished his supper, and the
mother was clearing up for the night.
"He ain't in again," he was saying angrily; "what's he up to now?"
"I don't know, I'm sure," said the tired mother. "He ain't often as
late as this."
"Often!" growled the man. "I say, Janey, what's that good-for-nothing
brother of yours about?"
Janey had come to the fire. Her face was very pale, and her hands blue
with cold.
"Why, father," she said, "you know what a hard master Jim has, and he
can't always be sure of his time. He must stay if he's wanted, ye know."
Janey spoke gently, but the father only answered:
"That's always what young folks say. I don't believe anything about it,
but if he wanted to be home, he could."
Janey was silent for a moment; it was difficult to know whether to
speak or to be quiet. At last she said:
"You know, father, when you sent me out t'other night to 'The Bells,'
when you was suspecting of Jim's being up to mischief, just the same as
you are to-night? Well, I met him coming out of his master's all right
enough, and three or four more of 'em too. They said 'Good-night' as
pleasant as anything, and he set off tearing home as fast as he could.
He never see'd me, he was in such a hurry."
"Well, well, girl, let him alone now, and get to bed. I don't want to
be too hard on him, only I'll not have him taking to bad ways."
He had looked in the little thin face, and her words and her pleading
eyes had softened even his heart for a moment.
"May I have some supper, mother?" asked Janey, as she heard the
cupboard door slam, which was a sign that all had been put away.
"There, yes, child; why didn't ye ask before?"
Janey did not answer, and her mother cut her a slice of bread, adding a
piece of cheese, which was a great treat.
Janey put it down on a side shelf, and began to draw the fire together.
"What's that for?" roughly asked the father.
"He'll come in cold," faltered Janey, "and ain't you going to leave any
supper for him, mother?"
"Yer father says I ain't to," she replied, and went slowly upstairs,
followed by her husband, and Janey was left alone.
How nice that cheese smelt! How hungry she was! But though she went and
looked at it longingly, she left it untouched. After a little time, her
brother's quick step came running along the pavement, and he came in.
"Hulloa, Janey, you up? I say, don't he keep me awful late; it's a
shame. I say, Janey, where's my supper? Ain't mother got it for me?"
Then, before she could answer, his clear brow darkened, and he said:
"I see what it is. Father thinks as it's my fault, and he won't allow
me none. But it's cruel hard to work as I do, and then to go to bed
without no vittles."
"Here's this, Jim," said Janey. "I've saved it for you from supper."
The hungry boy asked no questions, but seized upon it, saying, when it
was nearly gone, "I could 'a eaten three times as much, and not 'a hurt
myself, that I could."
Janey sighed.
Her brother looked up. "Well, it ain't your fault, and I'm much obliged
to you for seeing to me. Look here, Janey, I forgot I'd got a' apple in
my pocket for you; a chap as I knows gave me two, and I saved this one
for you."
"Oh, Jim!" she said gratefully, tears coming into her eyes.
"You look mighty pale," he said, as he stuffed in the last mouthful.
"Janey, what did ye have for supper?"
"This," she said, smiling, holding up the apple, which she had already
begun on.
"And this bread and cheese—was—yours? Oh, Janey!"
"That don't matter a bit," she answered; "and now you've brought me
this nice apple, I don't feel at all hungry."
Jim looked ruefully at her, and at his empty plate. Then a sudden idea
seized him; he got up and went determinately to the cupboard.
"Oh, 'don't!'" said Janey, coming and putting her little thin hand on
his arm. "Jim, I wouldn't have you do that for anything you could give
me."
She pulled him away with gentle force, and he sat down again sullenly
in his chair. "Janey, I can't stand this much longer."
"Oh, yes!" she answered beseechingly. "You can. I know it's terrible
hard, but, Jim, father 'ull be better by-and-by. I know he will, 'cause
I'm always praying about it, and if you'll 'ave patience a little
longer—"
She hung round his neck and kissed him, telling him in broken words how
the Saviour she loved would help him, even in this, if he would ask Him.
And at last, Jim said huskily that "he'd try."
And then they blew out the lamp, and went upstairs in the dark. Jim
crept into the little cupboard on the stairs he called his room, and
the little peacemaker went in among her little sisters, and wearily
took off her clothes.
"'They shall be called the children of God,' my text said this
morning," she whispered softly to herself as she lay wakeful, because
of the pain in her back. "I wonder who it is who's to be called the
children of God? I wish I could be, but I think I am, because, though
I'm so very unworthy, if Jesus is my Saviour, I 'am' a child of God."
With this thought, so resting, so large, so full, came other thoughts
of the wonder and delight which would one day be her portion, instead
of the pain and weariness and strife of her present life. Her tired
eyes closed, her back ceased to ache so badly, and with a sweet smile
on her pale lips, and a prayer that her father might soon be kind to
Jim, she slept.
"'Blessed' are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children
of God.'"
* * * * * *
Marian stopped, and the eager little listeners said, "Isn't there any
more?"
"No more," said Marian, shaking her head.
"And did the father get kind?" asked Ruth.
"Yes," said Marian; "for I've found that when we trust things to God,
He sees to it."
"I have found that also," said another voice behind her, and Marian
turned round in dismay to find that Mr. Fortescue had been a listener
too.
"It was not fair," she said, feeling mortified.
"I did not think you would mind, Miss Marian," he answered. "I came in
as Salome went out just now, and you were all too busy to see me. I sat
down without any pretence of quietness. Pray, forgive me."
"I thought it was Salome who came in again," said Marian; "I should
have been dreadfully shy if I had known."
She tried to laugh off her annoyance, and began to put on her hat to go
home.
"There is tea coming," said Sydney. "I did not know it was tea-time."
"That's because Marian has kept us so happy," said Ruth. "Marian, do
stay and have a cup of tea with us."
"Yes, do, missey," said Salome; "I've brought up lots of dese cups on
purpose for you. Mr. Fors'cue will have one of Salome's cups of tea
like de others?"
"Certainly I will," he answered, well pleased. "I've never had tea with
you up here before. This is delightful."
He took Sydney on his knee, and then told them how nicely everything
had been arranged for Mrs. Bruce's funeral, and said what a comfort it
was it had been fine.
"And did poor Margaret keep up well?" asked Marian.
"She was very, very pale, and Mr. Courtenay seems very anxious about
her. I fear she will feel her mother's death more than anyone will
know."
"You see she has had so many losses."
"Yes, and her constant attendance on her mother, which has been so
beautiful to witness, will make the blank doubly great."
Salome had been busy with her cups, but now, as she handed them to her
visitors, she said:
"De best thing you can do for de dear young misses is to pray dat de
Lord may comfort her. I've seen in my time so many things that do dear
Lord help in—numbers of things. You go on askin', and you see if de
answer don't come."
"I am sure of it, Salome," said Mr. Fortescue, "if it is in accordance
with His will. We must wait for that. Look what an answer I have had
about my dear father, and now I am praying for my only sister. She
cannot understand it at all, and thinks both my father and I must be
mad."
"Does she?" asked Marian. "I thought she was so very very kind to you."
"Kind? Yes, but displeased and disappointed that I have come back an
altered man. But she is a dear sister for all that, and I want you to
know her, Miss Marian."
"Did not Margaret propose to ask her to The Towers?" said Marian.
"Yes, but Mrs. Bruce's death has postponed it. I want her to know you,
so much."
"Do you?" asked Marian. "I am afraid I should not do her any good."
"Why?"
"Because I am only fit to talk to children, and do home duties. I'm not
grand one bit, or able to make myself agreeable."
He laughed pleasantly.
"At any rate you satisfy your friends," he said. "Salome, what a
delicious cup of tea this is! I never tasted anything so good."
"Perhaps it's de colour of de cups makes a difference," answered
Salome, with a shadow of a twinkle in her eyes.
"I don't see how it can be," began Leslie.
But Mr. Fortescue only smiled, and said he would notice that another
time; and when he set up housekeeping, would be sure to get the same
colour as Salome's.
And so the tea-party ended. It had already got dark, and Marian once
more sought for her hat, and prepared to go.
"Come, Muriel and Leslie," she said. But they were quicker than she,
and were down the stairs before she could turn round.
"I am coming with you," said Mr. Fortescue, "so do not trouble about
them."
"I do not mind going alone," laughed Marian; "there are no wild beasts
in our garden, and if there were, Leslie and Muriel would not be much
protection."
"Still, you do not mind my coming?"
"Not at all, only I did not wish to bring you out of your way."
She peeped into the dining-room to bid her aunt good-bye, and then went
out into the garden.
Mr. Fortescue was silent till they reached the gate, then he said
rather anxiously:
"I fear you have not forgiven me for coming in, Miss Marian? I would
not have vexed you for the world."
"Oh, no," answered Marian, feeling very hot and uncomfortable, "I shall
not think of it again! I ought to beg your pardon for speaking so
hastily. I ought not to have been so vexed; I do not know why I was."
"When I heard your voice, I thought at first you were reading aloud
(for I could not see your face), and then when it began to dawn upon me
that you were not reading, I so longed to stay that—"
"That you put your honesty to sleep?" asked Marian, trying to laugh.
"Something like it. And it is that I want you to forgive, will you?"
"Oh, yes!" answered Marian. "Please say no more about it."
"I have had such a happy fortnight, Marian, since I came back; so
different from the long, weary, weary months when I could only know for
a certainty, as I thought, that no bright future would ever be in store
for me."
But Marian answered, "Ever? I thought—"
"Oh, yes! I was only referring to earthly happiness. You cannot think
how nice it has been to get to know you better, and to be with you
without that weight crushing me."
"What weight?" asked Marian, her heart standing still; for why did Mr.
Fortescue keep on linking her name with all he said.
But this time he did not answer, and Marian grew a little frightened.
They had come almost to the door at Sunnyside, and the light of
the hall lamp fell on his face. He looked down at her with sudden
inexpressible tenderness.
"Marian," he answered, "I know I am many years older than you; I know
you have never given the matter a thought. And yet—yet ever since I
first began to teach you, ever since I first saw your peacemaking way
with the little ones—long before I had a hope that I should be able to
marry,—I had made up my mind that you and you only of all the world
would be the wife I should have, if I ever had one at all."
"I?" echoed Marian, too surprised to say another word.
"Yes, you, Marian. Now I have told you; and what do you say about it?
But I do not want you to say one word till you have thought it over;
only tell me that you do not think it utterly impossible."
Marian was very pale; she looked up in his face, and then on the ground.
"I will wait," he said gently. "You have been taken by surprise. I have
been worse than one of those wild animals my little dove was not afraid
of."
His tender tone reassured her, and she was just going to speak when
Leslie rushed to the glass door and threw it open.
"Oh, there you are!" he exclaimed. "What a time you have been!"
"Yes, I have," answered Marian, gaining her voice at last. Then,
turning to Mr. Fortescue, she added in a low tone, "I feel so surprised
that I do not know what to say, but I should not like you to be
unhappy."
"And I shall be if you do not say 'Yes.'"
"Shall you?" asked Marian, looking up.
"Very unhappy; so you will think kindly of it, I am sure."
And Marian nodded, and went indoors. She ran up to her mother's room,
and throwing her arms round her neck, burst into tears.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "Blessed are the peacemakers:
for they shall be called the children of God."]