HULDAH'S NEW HOME.
And there was very much to be faced, she found as the days came and
went, for within a week of that afternoon when Emma Smith crossed her
path again, much had been discussed and arranged, and another change
was to come into Huldah's life.
The doctor, the vicar's own doctor, had seen and examined Emma Smith,
and had given her but another year to live. He had not told her
that, but he had warned her very gravely that she was in a very bad
state of health, and that he would not answer for the consequences,
if she did not obey him; and something in his voice or manner had
stopped her peevish complainings, and set her thinking seriously.
The doctor strongly urged that she should go to the workhouse
infirmary. "She will be well nursed and looked after there," he
said, "and she will be provided with all she requires," but she
herself showed such violent opposition that at last, in fear for her
health, they ceased to press it. Had they done so, she would surely
have run away. At the same time she had no other home, no means, and
what powers she had had of earning any were fast failing her.
"I thought you'd be able to help me, now you'm getting on so well,"
she said to Huldah. "We fed and clothed and did everything for you,
and now's your chance of returning some of it." Then her mood
changed, and she wept and moaned, and clung to the girl passionately.
"Don't you leave me!" she pleaded, hysterically; "don't you go and
turn your back on me, too. You was mine before you was hers,"
nodding her head towards Mrs. Perry.
Her clinging to Huldah was more than a passing fancy, as they found,
when they tried to get her to go into a home where she could have had
rest and change and food and nursing. She sobbed and pleaded, then
flatly refused to go, unless Huldah went too.
"She's the only one in the world I know," she cried. "Don't send me
away with strangers, they'll all look down on me, and--and I--no, I
couldn't bear it. I won't go, I won't, I won't! I'll go off on the
tramp again, where none of you will ever find me, and I won't ever
bother any of you any more."
At last Huldah went with tears in her eyes to Miss Carew. "I'll have
to go with her, miss," she said, piteously. "She can't go away on
the tramp all by herself. I can keep us both pretty well. I must go
with her, Miss Rose, wherever she goes; she hasn't got anybody else."
This of course they could not allow. They could never send such a
child as Huldah out into the world, with only a dying woman as
companion and protector, to live where and how she could, in nobody
knew what dreadful haunts. So it was decided between them that Emma
Smith was to settle down amongst them, and Huldah must leave Mrs.
Perry and go to live with her. No lodgings could be found for her,
for in that village the houses were not big enough to hold in comfort
even the families that lived in them, and there was certainly no room
for a lodger. And houses were as scarce as lodgings.
At last a brilliant idea came to Miss Carew, and with her father's
permission she hurried off with the good news.
"You shall have the two rooms over our coach-house," she cried,
delightedly, for it was a real relief to her to feel that Huldah
would be so near her, and under her own eye. "They are a good size,
and dry and airy; and we must all pull together to get what furniture
we can."
Huldah's face grew brighter and brighter with every word Miss Rose
uttered, for she had begun to fear that they would have to go
elsewhere.
To be near Miss Rose, too, would help to make up for the pain of
leaving Aunt Martha and Dick and the cottage, a parting which had
been weighing on her more heavily than she would have liked anyone to
know. Dick, it was decided, was to remain with Mrs. Perry, for
without him she declared she could not live on in the cottage when
Huldah was gone.
As soon as the rooms had been cleaned and papered, the furnishing
began, and that was really rather fun. No one was rich, and no
one could give much, but what they gave they gave with a will.
Miss Rose turned out some sheets and pillow-cases, a table and a
chair, the vicar ordered in half a ton of coal, the doctor's wife
gave them a bed, some pieces of carpet, curtains, a kettle and an old
basket chair. Mrs. Perry gave a teapot, cups and saucers, and a
rag-rug of her own making. The doctor sent in some pots and pans,
and meat and other food to put in them, and the folks in the village,
who had come to know Huldah's story, turned out something, and sent,
a jug, a brush, a sack of firewood, a bar of soap, and all manner of
odds and ends, every one of which came in usefully. Huldah's own
little bed and looking-glass and odds and ends came from her bedroom
in the cottage, and all together helped to make the two bare rooms
look home-like and comfortable.
The furniture was scanty and shabby, but to anyone accustomed to
rough it as Emma Smith had done, the place was beautiful, and full of
comfort and rest.
When it was ready, and she was first taken into it, she dropped into
the basket chair by the fire, and burst into grateful tears.
It was the first time she had shown any gratitude or pleasure in what
was being done for her.
"It's like 'ome," she sobbed, weakly, "and I've never had one since I
got married, till now,--and now--how I'm ever going to thank
everybody, I don't know. I never seem able to do any good to
anybody, I don't. 'Tis all take, with me, and no give, and I'm
ashamed of it."
Huldah felt some of the load slip off her spirits as she looked about
her. Here really was a home for Aunt Emma,--and now it rested with
herself to make it as neat and comfortable and happy as a home could
be. She would keep it as clean as a new pin, and as pretty as lay in
her power. She tried to conquer her sadness by hard work, to put
away her sorrow at leaving Aunt Martha and Dick and their happy life
together.
"Brownies always go where there's most to be done, Miss Rose says,
not where they'll be most comfortable," she said to herself, bravely,
but her poor little face was very wistful. A few days later, though,
when, after a long day's work, she sat down and looked about her, she
remarked cheerfully, "I don't think anybody can go on feeling very
miserable when they've lots to do and somebody to take care of."
A glow of pride warmed her heart, as she sat there drying her
water-soaked hands, and glanced from the gleaming stove and
fire-irons to the speckless window, and well-scrubbed table.
On the table stood a jar full of autumn flowers, and on the
window-sill a box full of brown earth and little roots, double
daisies, primulas, wallflowers. This last was Huldah's special joy
and pride.
"We'll have a proper little garden there, when the spring comes," she
remarked proudly to Aunt Emma.
Aunt Emma shook her head in melancholy fashion. "I shan't be here to
see it."
"Oh yes you will. You'll be helping me with the spring cleaning,"
said Huldah, trying to keep cheerful,--one of the hardest of her
daily tasks, for Aunt Emma's melancholy seldom left her. She never
saw the bright side of anything, poor soul, nor the best, nor did she
try to; and the depressingness of it told on the child's spirits more
than anyone knew.
She worked very hard indeed at this time. The vicar had given them
the rooms rent-free; but Huldah's basket-making had to supply almost
everything else--food, clothing, lights, and many an extra--needed
for Aunt Emma. Their rooms were few, and there was not much in them,
but all that had to be done fell to Huldah to do. Emma Smith never
put her hand to anything, not even to wash a dish, cook a meal, or
make her own bed. She needed a great deal of waiting on, too, and
was very fretful. She did not like to be left alone, even while
Huldah went out to do the errands; and on the days when the poor
child had to go to Belmouth to deliver her work, or get more raffia,
Aunt Emma had always a very bad turn, and an attack of melancholy.
It was quite pathetic to see the way she clung to the little waif she
had treated so cruelly when she had her in her power. She wanted no
one but Huldah now, and she wanted her always. She loved her
brightness and cheerfulness. When Huldah laughed and sang she was
quite content, but the moment she was sad or quiet, Aunt Emma would
grow peevish and uneasy.
"You'm fretting because you've got to stay here with me, I know.
You'm longing to be back with that Mrs. Perry. I know it's 'ard to
'ave to live with a poor miserable creature like me, and I wonder you
can bear it as well as you do."
Then she would burst into tears. It never occurred to her that she
might try to make it less miserable for Huldah, by trying to be
cheerful herself sometimes.
"I'm not fretting. I love taking care of you," pleaded poor Huldah.
"I was only trying to think how to make a new-shaped basket that
people might take a fancy to. Shall I read to you, Aunt Emma?"
Emma Smith loved being read to, and hour after hour Huldah spent over
a book when she knew she ought to be at her basket-making. To try to
make up the time, she got up at four or five in the morning, but in
the winter that meant burning oil, and they could not afford that.
Then one day it occurred to her to sing instead of reading, and after
that she found things easier, for she could sing while she worked.
It was a strange medley of songs that echoed through the rooms in the
thin child-like voice. "Home, sweet Home," "Father, dear Father,
come Home," "God save the King," "The Old Folks at Home," were some
of their favourites, and if the words and air were not always
correct, they never failed to bring pleasure to both performer and
audience.
Of hymns Huldah had a greater store in her brain, and by degrees
these ousted the songs as favourites.
"Sing that one about the green hill without any wall round it," Aunt
Emma said one day. "It does mind me so of 'ome when we were
children. Our cottage was just at the foot of a hill like that, and
mother used to turn us out there to play together by the hour.
It was what they call a mountain. We used to dare each other to go
to the top."
"Did you ever do it?" asked Huldah, plaiting away industriously.
"Never; we was so afraid. It was so high up, and the top looked so
far away, and--oh, it used to frighten me! I'd dream at night that I
was lost up there, and I'd call and call, and nobody ever heard me or
came to save me."
"_He'd_ have saved, if you'd asked Him," said Huldah, gravely.
"I wonder why He didn't save Himself," said Aunt Emma. "I spose He
could have, couldn't He?"
"Oh yes, He could, and He could have struck all His enemies down dead
if He'd liked, only He was always one for thinking about others,
never about Himself."
"And that's the sort that always gets put upon," said Aunt Emma,
quickly.
"He died that we might go to Heaven,
He died to make us good,
He died that we might be forgiven--"
Aunt Emma's voice failed, and she suddenly burst into tears.
"I couldn't never be good enough," she sobbed, piteously. "I haven't
been good since I was a child, and now I'm going to die--I know it, I
feel it, I see it in the doctor's face, and--and everybody's.
I've got to die, and just when I'm happy for the first time.
He says He loves everybody, but nobody ever loved me, I never gave
'em reason to, and--and I'm afraid to die, Huldah! I've been so bad,
and it'll be so lonely! I wouldn't mind so much if there was
somebody over--over the other side that loved me."
There had been a footstep on the stair, but neither of them had heard
it, and when Miss Rose entered the room neither of them saw her, for
their eyes were blinded with tears.
"Oh, Aunt Emma!" cried Huldah, springing to her bedside, "I love you!
I do, I do, and--and oh, I wish someone would tell you all about it,
so that you'd understand, and feel happy!"
A soft, light step crossed the room, and a gentle hand was laid on
Huldah's bowed head. "Dear, shall I try? Shall we try together?"
Huldah sprang to her feet with a glad cry. "Oh, Miss Rose, I was
longing for you to come. You can tell Aunt Emma."
Miss Rose sat down beside the bed, and laid her hand gently on Emma's
hand. "I wish I was more clever," she said, wistfully. "I wish I
could make you feel how dearly Jesus has always loved you, how He has
wept for you and longed for you, how He has forgiven you all the
neglect and insults you have heaped on Him, and has held out His
arms, beseeching you to come to Him! At this very moment He is
standing at the door, patiently waiting for you to let Him in.
Will you keep Him outside, dear Emma?"
Miss Rose's voice died away, and silence reigned in the darkening
room; the fire fell together and sent up a cheerful flame, Emma Smith
lay thinking,--"Was it really true that He wanted her?" That she had
turned her back on Him, and mocked and insulted Him, she knew, knew
better than anyone else could,--and could He really love her in spite
of all?
Miss Rose's voice broke the silence, singing softly,
"Knocking, knocking, who is there?
Waiting, waiting, oh, how fair!
'Tis a Pilgrim, strange and kingly,
Never such was seen before;
Ah, my soul, for such a wonder
Wilt thou not undo the door?
Knocking, knocking--what, still there?
Waiting, waiting, grand and fair,
Yes, the pierced hand still knocketh,
And beneath the crowned hair
Beam the patient eyes, so tender,
Of the Saviour, waiting there."
Low sobs broke from the poor soul on the bed, sobs of grief and joy
and repentance. "If He really cares--if He is really like that!" she
sobbed. "Oh, I want Him! I do want Him to love and take care of me,
too!"
Miss Rose's arms were round her, her lips were on her brow.
"My dear, He is all that, and more. He will take care of you always,
in this world and the next. He will love you so that you cannot feel
lonely any more. Put your hand in His, put all your troubles off on
His shoulders, trust Him, and follow where He leads you, and nothing
can harm you. Don't be afraid. He will lead you to a home, and love
and happiness such as no one could know in this world, where we are
all so weak and full of faults."
"Home! Will it seem like home?" she asked, timidly.
"I'll soon be at home, over there,
For the end of my journey I see,
Many dear to my heart over there
Are watching and waiting for me,
Over there, over there,
I'll soon be at home over there."
sang Huldah, softly. The flame died down, and left the room very
dim, but still the three sat on, silent, thoughtful. Miss Rose sat
between them, holding a hand of each.
"I expect 'twas Him as led me back to Huldah," said the weak voice,
presently.
"Yes, dear. He was bringing you together, that all might be made
happy between you."
"I am very glad He did. 'Twas more'n I deserved--after the way I'd
treated one of His."
Huldah threw herself across the bed, her arms thrown round the dying
woman. "Aunt Emma--Aunt Emma, don't! That's all forgotten.
I deserved what I got. It's all over now; don't let's remember it
any more!"
"Will you tell--Him you've forgiven me?"
"Yes, oh yes; but He knows, there's no need to tell Him. He knows we
love each other now,--oh, Aunt Emma, if you can only get well, how
happy we shall be!"
Miss Rose got up and stirred the fire to a blaze again. Her heart
was glad, yet sad. Glad that this poor soul was coming to her
Father, but at the same time sad, for she knew how little hope there
was of Huldah's wish coming to pass. It was sweet, though, to the
dying woman to hear the wish from the child she had ill-treated and
neglected so long, and she clasped her to her in a paroxysm of love.
For a moment they lay thus, then Miss Rose put a handful of wood on
the fire, and made the blaze grow bright and brisk.
"I am not going to talk any more now," she said, cheerily, "or let
you talk, Emma, or I shall have a scolding from the doctor, but I am
going to ask you and Huldah to give me a cup of tea, here in the
firelight. Then, after that, I am going to tell you a little piece
of news."