A GARDEN LEVEE
In a little over a year great alterations had been made in Ralph
Waring's establishment. The shop next door had been duly taken, the
partition wall broken down, and the grocery business started. The only
part of Ralph's plan which had not come about was the throwing in of the
back parlour into the business portion. "No," said Phebe firmly, "in
this department I mean to come first. I am not going to vote for
everything being sacrificed to the business; to have a dining-room
upstairs means a great deal of extra work. I must also have the parlour
of the other shop to convert into a decent kitchen. How can we expect
Janie to be bright and happy with nothing better than a scullery to sit
in? I mean my kitchen to be as bright and cheery as any room in the
house."
"I wonder who's master here!" said Ralph, with a snap.
"We are partners--at least, that is what you have said, and you rule in
one department and I in the other. I have no objection to you having
one of the front rooms upstairs for a show-room." Ralph had never
thought of that, and as it sounded rather "big," it pleased him, and so
the dispute ended.
But if changes had been effected in the front premises, a greater change
had come about in the back garden, which at first had only looked like a
walled-in yard. Where the dandelions had grown was a trim little lawn,
with a flower-stand in the centre nearly covered with pink ivy
geraniums; there was no space for any elaboration of design, so a narrow
bed of flowers round the lawn touched the surrounding walls, which were
already nearly covered with shoots of ivy, climbing roses, and that
industrious plant, Virginia creeper. In one corner a little arbour had
been erected, and, till the climbing plants had completed the covering,
a gay red-striped awning had been fixed up, adding still more colour to
the scene.
Here one sunny August day Neighbour Bessie found her friend, Mrs.
Waring, nursing her baby.
"Well, you do make a pretty picture! Talk of gold pictures in silver
frames, you are a picture of love in a frame of flowers."
"Now, no more flattery, neighbour, for a week, or I'll send you to
Coventry."
Bessie at once sat down on the grass at Phebe's feet. She was never so
happy as when resting on "Nature's bottom shelf." Her mother said this
was a sign of laziness; Bessie said it was a sign of economy, because
she did not wear out the chair-cushions, and also the sign of a cautious
nature, because there was no fear of falling.
"You haven't kissed the baby."
"I don't much care if I do or not, so long as I can kiss you." After the
process was over, she added, "If it had been a boy, I just wouldn't have
kissed it, so I tell you." Knowing this was a very saucy little speech
to make, she did not give Phebe a chance to reply, but hurried on, "It's
fairly wonderful the change you have made in this place, and fancy you
doing it all yourself! I used to call it 'Dandelion Farm.'"
"What do you call it now?"
"I haven't thought; let me see," leaning her head on her hands and
puckering up her brow as though to press the thought in, "it's just like
a patch of sunlight; yes, that would do, something out of the
usual--Sunshine Patch."
"Yes, that will do," said Phebe, laughing, "but it reminds me how much I
disliked the place when first I had a peep of it; these walls fairly
made me shudder, and now I wouldn't have them one brick lower, because
they give privacy; and see how refreshing they will be to look at when
covered with greenery; and look at that lovely laburnum of our
neighbour's drooping over the wall; and in the spring that high
lilac-tree was a perfect picture. This little patch, as you call it,
Bessie, dear, has taught me a lesson I hope I shall remember all my
life."
"Whatever is that, teacher?" Bessie asked, looking up with mock wonder.
"But I am serious, Bessie; it is that most of our dark patches we could
turn into sunshine patches if only we had the will."
"Do you know," said Bessie, with a real sigh, "my mother is my dark
patch, and she walls me round like anything. I wonder if I could plant
ivy slips round her!"
"You are a naughty girl," said Phebe, trying hard not to laugh, "I think
she has more need to plant them round you."
"Phebe, where are you?" Ralph called out.
"Oh," said Bessie, suddenly springing up, "I'll go at once and consult
the gardening book," but Phebe knew this was only a pretence to avoid
having to talk to Ralph.
"It is fine to be you," said her husband, "to be able to sit in this
retreat doing nothing this broiling hot day. How cool you look! but
there, everything goes peacefully with you, while everything goes cross
with me."
"Can I put anything right for you?"
"Of course you can't. I've been thinking," sitting down by her side,
"what a stupid I am to put myself to so much trouble for people. You
know I went last night to Hawtree Hall; I've been going there now for
three years, and I haven't one customer in the place."
"But, Ralph, dear, you have a higher aim surely than to get customers."
"Of course I have; dear me, how you do misunderstand me! But surely
decent, common gratitude would lead some of the people to deal with me,
if they had any. They don't pay for my services!"
"Of course not."
"And why, pray, 'of course not'? The more I get, the more good I can do.
Do you think I want money for any special, selfish gratification? God
has called me to make money as well as to make speeches, and I can serve
Him equally well in both ways."
"Certainly, but I think we all have to watch lest we cloak our ambitions
with the appearance of doing God's service, and so deceive ourselves."
"A very nice way of calling me a hypocrite."
"Oh, Ralph, Ralph, it is nothing of the sort! I have often had to watch
against that sort of thing."
"Well, don't measure my corn with your bushel, that's all. We'll change
the subject. I see you opened that letter of Deason's, asking for that
money. I am not going to pay him yet. I want that money for buying a
'new line' with. I am going to try another experiment this winter."
"But, Ralph, that man needs his money, he is poor."
"You can leave all those matters to me. You talk like a--but there, what
do women know about business?" And he got up and walked towards the
house, but before entering turned round and said, "I shall not be home
till late; when it gets cooler perhaps you will be able to make me out a
few bills."
She felt inclined to answer, "I don't know enough about business to do
that," but wisely kept silence. She had been taking lessons of late in
the right use of the lips, and was getting them pretty well under
control.
When the cool of the evening came she was again sitting in Sunshine
Patch, from whence she got just a little peep of the sunset sky. The
baby was asleep; Janie was reading; Phebe had already spent two hours in
bill-making and thought she might now conscientiously take the luxury of
sitting and doing nothing, except having a good think. All day long
there had been in her mind old Mrs. Colston's words about the process a
Christian has to go through. "I think," she sighed, "instead of the
creases getting out of my character, more creases get in. See how I seem
to aggravate Ralph. Then to think of Bessie; I thought I might do real
missionary work with her, and she's just as naughty as ever, and Janie
is just as dull," and the tears began to come.
"Please, ma'am, here's Mrs. Colston." It was Janie's voice, and Mrs.
Colston herself immediately appeared. The old lady at once noticed the
tear marks, and exclaimed, "I can see you are quite tired out; you must
come in and lie down on the couch, and Janie shall get you
something--no, I'll get it myself," and after half carrying Phebe
indoors, she bustled away to the kitchen.
"Now, Janie, get some milk, a saucepan, and an egg." While she was
watching the milk lest it should boil over, she went on talking. "Look
here, Janie, you are to look well after your mistress, or she'll slip
through your fingers."
"You don't mean to say she's going to die!" exclaimed Janie, in horror.
"Oh, dear, what should I do! You don't know how different this place has
been since she's been here, and you don't know what she's done for me."
"No, I don't, but I can guess. You mustn't speak so loud or she will
hear, and mind you don't go and tell her what I've said. Just shake
yourself together a bit, my girl, and look well after her; be sure and
feed her well, and see that she rests."
Mrs. Colston having seen to her favourite's bodily wants, sat down to
have a talk. "I suppose you've tired yourself with writing lectures and
speeches."
"'Lectures and speeches'!" exclaimed Phebe, trying to laugh, "whatever
made you think I'd been doing that?"
"You told me yourself you were going to help Ralph write his lectures
and speeches."
"Oh no, I do nothing of that sort," and try as she might the tone of
disappointment would not be kept down, and the old friend caught it and
guessed something of its meaning.
"You've never told me baby's name yet."
"She has two names."
"That's right; that's one for each of you."
"My name, I mean the one I chose for her, is Mary. I did not want to
call her Phebe, because I don't see why married women should lose their
Christian name, and they always do if they have a daughter called after
them. I think no name can be so beautiful as Mary, because it was the
name of the mother of Jesus. Ralph chose the other name; he said,
simply Mary Waring would sound mean."
"Perhaps so; Phebe Mary go well together, and it was only natural he
would like her named after you."
"It is not Phebe. Baby's name is Victoria Mary."
Mrs. Colston had long ago commenced the training of her lips, and for a
moment did not speak.
"And may the little dear always have the victory. That's my wish for
her."
"And you don't think it sounds ridiculous then?" asked Phebe, raising
herself up on her elbow, "I mean for a draper's daughter?"
"Certainly not; why shouldn't a draper's daughter have as good a name as
anybody else? I hope she will grow up a real queenie."
"I was thinking, dear Mrs. Colston, as you came into the garden, that
the process of Christian-making is slow work with me. Indeed, sometimes
I am afraid it has stopped altogether."
"Not it, my dear; not a wee bit of it," stroking her hair. "If you had
said, 'I'm getting on fine--shall soon be a saint,' I should have said
it was pretty nigh all up with you. But, bless you, my dear, you've got
that feeling just now because the Lord's been dealing with you. I
watched old Robert in the spring cutting his vine; my, there was a
slaughtering! I fancy the poor old vine thought it was almost done for,
but you should just see it now!"
* * * * *
As Mrs. Colston stepped out of the shop door that evening she nearly
fell into the arms of Neighbour Bessie, as Phebe loved to call her. "How
is Mrs. Waring?" Bessie asked anxiously. "Do you think she is all
right?"
"Yes, she'll get on with care."
"Oh, she is a dumpling!" said the girl, with all her impulsive
enthusiasm.
"Well then, take care and keep her warm, for cold dumplings aren't up to
much! She needs a lot of warmth--love, that's what I mean."
"I'll see she has that," exclaimed Bessie, "if my sort is any good."
"All real love is good, my dear, you may be sure of that."
That night as the old mangle started its tune again, these were the
words that went along with it. "There, bless me, how that dear Miss
Phebe of mine has won those two girls! Why, she'll win them for Jesus
yet. I know she will! Yes, I dare say she thinks she's done nothing. How
little we can judge of our own work, or, come to that, of anybody
else's, either. It's only our dear heavenly Father, who gets such a high
view of things, seeing all over and into all the corners, that can
really know how we're getting along."