THE EMPTY PAN.
It was Saturday, and Meg had plenty to do, so that her mother-in-law's
wish to have her at once was a little confusing.
When she got down to her own room again her fire was low, her breakfast
table untidy, and things less bright and orderly than they had been once
since her marriage.
She felt inclined to go up to her mother-in-law and excuse herself for
to-day; but the remembrance of Jenny's breach of faith made her pause.
"No," she said to herself, "even if my bread has to be given up for
to-day I must not disappoint mother."
She ran up again and tapped at Mrs. Seymour's door.
"Mother, I want to arrange my work; how long will your ironing take me?"
"Why," answered Mrs. Seymour, "I've got behind this week, else I do say
if they won't bring it to me before Friday, I can't do it! But you
see, my dear, I've to take it pretty much as I find it. Poor folks
haven't many clothes, and when they spare them, they want them done up
quick. These came in yesterday, and if Jenny had come to her time,
they'd have been half done by now."
[Illustration: She sat holding it, the mother looking on at Meg's swift
gentle ways.--p. 75.]
"And they will take----?" began Meg.
"Three hours at least," answered Mrs. Seymour.
"All right," answered Meg, "I'll be up in about an hour. I must set
Jem's dinner on."
She hastened away, and Mrs. Seymour turned into the bed-room to see
after her invalid lodger.
"I like her," said Miss Hobson. "Jem's got a good 'un."
"Yes," answered Mrs. Seymour, a little shortly.
The invalid noticed the tone, and answered,
"Now don't you 'spose I've known Jem long enough to be free to pass a
remark on his wife?"
"As you like," answered Mrs. Seymour.
"But _you_ don't like, I can see that," answered Miss Hobson.
Mrs. Seymour did not reply, for she and her charge were apt to get into
a little wrangle unless she could be very forbearing. The thought of how
hard it must be to be in bed for years generally came to her aid, added
to another thought, deeper and sweeter: "I forgave _thee_ all that
debt."
Miss Hobson was reminded by her silence that she too had some one else
to please, and she proceeded with her morning toilet with a softer
feeling in her heart.
Meanwhile Meg quickly washed up her breakfast cups, and spread the
things ready for making a meat pie. There were the remains of the
chickens, and a little fresh meat which she and Jem had gone out last
night to buy. It was the middle of June, and very warm, and Meg had
fried it that it should keep the night.
So she made her pie and set it ready to bake at the right time; she
peeled her potatoes, and left them in a basin of clear water; she made
up her fire so that it should burn as little coal as possible till she
needed it for cooking, and then, after a glance to see if all were
right, she went to the door.
Here she nearly stumbled over the boy with her flour and yeast. She took
it from his hand, and putting it in her cupboard, once more set out for
her mother-in-law's room.
"You've come within the hour!" remarked Mrs. Seymour contentedly. "Now,
my dear, while I starch these few things, will you iron those pinafores?
They belong to the family on the ground floor, where there's such a lot
of 'em."
"Are there?"
"Such mites; there's six of them, I think, and one above another like so
many steps. Poor thing, you've seen her, haven't you, standing at the
door with her young baby? It ain't two months old yet."
"I've seen her," answered Meg, leaning on her iron and pressing very
hard. She remembered the glimpse she had had of the full room--the
fretting babies, the general air of untidiness which only a half-open
door had revealed.
"She's no hand at washing,--leastways not to make anything
respectable,--so I take a few of her things cheap. She was a tidy enough
woman when she came; but poor living and many cares have beaten the life
out of her."
Meg sighed, and wondered if there might be anything _she_ might do to
lighten the burden; perhaps some day she might hold the baby or
something.
Mrs. Seymour did not sit down to doze in her chair this morning. She
kept Meg well supplied with things to iron, and Meg satisfied her as
much as on the previous day.
"You do it just right," she said, approvingly. "You don't fiddle over
it, and you don't hurry over it. Now, Jenny slights some of it, and puts
so much work into the rest, that I tell her it's a wonder if there's a
bit of profit left."
"I'm glad I do it right," said Meg, smiling. And then she thought of
Jem's dinner, and ran down-stairs to put her pie in the little oven.
"How's your bread getting on?" asked Mrs. Seymour, when she came back.
"Oh, I left it for to-day. It does not matter," said Meg, rather
hurriedly, for she did not want her mother to know what a disappointment
it had been to have to give it up after all Jem's care and trouble.
Mrs. Seymour made no remark, but she drew her own conclusions; and when
Meg had finished the ironing and had gone down-stairs, she went into the
back room, and said to Miss Hobson--
"Did you hear that about the bread?"
"Yes, I did. I don't know as I could 'a done it; only married hardly a
week. That's what I call thinking of others afore yerself."
Mrs. Seymour nodded and went back to clear her table for dinner, Miss
Hobson's eyes watching her with interest meanwhile. On the whole, she
did not feel sorry that she had given up her room to Meg.
When Jem came in at dinner-time and went to peep into the red pan, clean
emptiness reigned there, and Meg sat quietly working by the window. As
he understood nothing about bread-making, he concluded it must be in the
oven. But when Meg went to that to lift out the pie, and he saw no bread
there, he was fairly puzzled.
"Where's the baker's shop?" he asked playfully.
"Oh, Jem, I'm so sorry; but Jenny went out, and mother wanted the
ironing done. I could not manage the bread too--so it's not done."
Meg looked so concerned that Jem had to get up and kiss her.
"Never mind," he said, "We must try again on Monday."
"Yes; but I'm afraid the yeast may not be good this hot weather. Still,
we can see. Jem, I did think it was what my hand found to do--"
"I haven't a bit of doubt about that, little woman," he answered. "How
did you find time to make this nice pie, or did a fairy come in?"
Meg shook her head, while she was delighted with his praise.
"This is for to-morrow as well," she said, "because you know we agreed
we'd only cook potatoes on Sunday."
"So we did; it could not be a better dinner."
"How nicely this oven will bake our potatoes while we are at service,
Jem!"
"Everything's nice," answered Jem, smiling. "Meg, I shall not be home
till four o'clock this afternoon; but if you'll be ready we'll take a
penny boat, and have a turn up the river. This is our honeymoon, you
know."
Meg blushed and smiled.
"Oh, Jem," she said, leaning her head on his shoulder, "I hope I shall
be all you wish!"
He looked down at her with eyes that said a great deal, but he only
answered--
"Mind you're ready, little woman."
So Meg set to and made her rooms as clean and beautiful for Sunday as
she could devise. It was true, they were already nearly as clean as they
could be; but London smoke penetrates everywhere, and Meg knew that a
little sweeping and scrubbing would do no harm. When it was nearly four,
she went up to ask a favour of her mother-in-law.
"Jem's going to take me up the river," she said, smilingly; "but I'm
afraid the fire will go out, and there'll be no hot water for tea. Would
you think it a trouble to look to it for me, mother?"
"Not a bit, my dear. But if Jem and you are going out, let out your fire
this hot day, and come up and have tea with me when you come in. I was
thinking I'd come and ask you."
Meg promised to do so if Jem were agreeable, and hastened away to take
off what little fire she had, and to lay it again to be ready whenever
it might be needed. And then she stood looking out of the window
watching for Jem.
The look-out was not as cheering as the look-in. Tall sombre houses
across the narrow street, with dirty tattered blinds, bedsteads half
across windows, dirty children leaning out and risking their necks, here
and there a few sickly plants. Such was her outlook in front. Behind it
was still worse. A double row of forlorn little courts, where stunted
fowls were kept, where badly-washed clothes were hung from Saturday to
Saturday all the week round, where rubbish was thrown, where children
made mud-pies, where old boxes and firewood were heaped, and every
imaginable untidiness congregated to depress the spirits and health of
the crowded houses abutting on it.
Meg never looked out if she could help it. People must live in London,
she supposed, and Jem had asked her to come and make London bright for
him, and she meant to do it if she could. And then her eyes went up
above the narrow street, and looked into the clear June sky, and she
whispered: "They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength:
they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be
weary; they shall walk and not faint."
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