FOR some time Nelly's reading-lessons went on very prosperously.
Kitty, though not a very experienced, was a very zealous teacher,
and Nelly was extremely anxious to learn. Mrs. Powers herself took a
great interest in these lessons, and gave Kitty many hints as to the
best way of proceeding, besides now and then hearing a lesson herself;
and Nelly, whenever she went down to the shop with her work, carried
her spelling and reading book with her, to display her progress to
Miss Powell. She had learned to make tatting with great rapidity and
precision; and Granny Ryan, reviving the knowledge she had acquired in
her childhood, showed Nelly how to make several different patterns,—the
shamrock, or clover-leaf, the daisy, and so forth.
Nelly was now always clean and neat, with well-washed hands and face
and nicely-brushed hair; and Mrs. Kirkland, finding her both handy and
trustworthy, used to employ her in little matters about the store.
Sometimes she dusted show-cases, and baskets which were hanging up;
sometimes she sorted out worsted from a large box of coloured odds and
ends, which ordinarily resembled the box of coloured silks presented by
the fairy Disorder in Miss Taylor's Original Poems. Nelly was not in
the least aware that she was under close observation at these times;
but such was the case. Mrs. Kirkland and Miss Powell had a benevolent
design for her, and they were at the same time educating her for the
place and trying her fitness for it. Nelly was now earning a good deal
of money; and, as she had no occasion to spend it in a new dress, she
allowed it to accumulate in Mrs. Kirkland's hands.
Nelly had made up her mind, after some consideration, that her promise
to Mr. Lambert obliged her to go to Sunday-school at once, without
waiting till she should learn to read. How much her new hat and frock
had to do with this decision, I cannot say; but certain it is that she
presented herself at the school the very next Sunday, and was placed,
at Miss Powell's special desire, in her own class,—Miss Powell herself
undertaking to see that she had her lessons.
Fortunately for both Nelly and her teacher, the whole of the
intermediate department of the large school learned the same lesson,
five verses in the Gospel of St. Matthew every Sunday, to be recited
word for word. Nelly was soon able, with Kitty's assistance, to spell
out the lessons for herself, and Miss Powell showed her how to learn
them easily and perfectly, by committing one verse to memory every
day and repeating it many times over, reviewing the verses which went
before. Kitty, who had been learning verses and hearing the Bible read
ever since she could remember, was astonished at the interest Nelly
took in these lessons. Kitty never thought of learning more than her
allotted five verses; but Nelly always wanted to read on to the end of
the story, however long it might be. Especially was she interested in
any thing about heaven. It was a subject on which she was never tired
of thinking and talking.
For Nelly, though her condition had considerably improved since we
first saw her at her grandmother's gate, was not very happy. She was
a child of strong and deep feelings; she had—however she came by it—a
natural taste for every thing neat and pretty and graceful, and there
was very little in her own home to gratify these tastes. She would have
been glad to clean up the house and to put the garden in some kind of
order; but granny was very jealous of any interference within doors;
and as for the garden, where was the use in trying to plant any thing,
so long as Crummie was allowed to run at her own sweet will about the
place? In vain Nelly represented to her grandmother the convenience of
having lettuce and peas of their own raising, and the advantages which
would be derived from planting out the raspberry-shoots Mrs. Powers had
offered to give her. Mrs. Ryan thought the peas would want sticks; and
where were they to come from? and the cow—poor craythur—would break her
heart entirely if she had to be tied up at night.
"Do you think you know more than your granny that brought you up? And
where would you have been now, if I hadn't taken care of you? And now
you set yourself up to teach me! Sure you're growing proud, and ashamed
of old granny, that has worked and slaved for you all your life,
because you've got some grand friends all at once."
And then the old woman would break out into a passionate lament over
her hard fate and her child's ingratitude; and Nelly, vexed and
grieved, would give up the subject for that time, or she would lose her
own temper, and scold back again,—which was much worse; for it made
granny ten times more unreasonable, besides leaving a sore pain in
Nelly's own conscience, which lasted long after granny had regained her
good humour.
It was a certain case that granny was becoming more and more irritable
all the time. Perhaps she was only jealous of Nelly's new friends;
perhaps there was some other cause; but the old woman grew very hard to
get on with. Then Nelly disliked her work more and more. She did not so
much mind watching Crummie on the common, or driving her farther out
in the country, where the grass by the road-sides was fresh and green,
and where she could sit on a fence or a stone and work on her tatting.
But she hated putting on her old frock and going about gathering swill;
and she was always afraid that some of the ladies she saw in Mrs.
Kirkland's shop would recognize her. This did actually happen one day,
to Nelly's intense mortification. A lady who lived on the Avenue, and
to whose house Nelly often went for swill, saw and spoke to her.
"Why, Nelly, is this you? What are you doing here?"
Nelly coloured, and muttered something in answer; and when Miss Powell
came back she found her crying. It was some time before she could get
at the cause of grief; but at last out it all came, and a great deal
more,—ending with Nelly's old complaint, "There is no use in my ever
trying to be anybody."
"Nelly," said Miss Powell, gravely, "I am afraid you have a great deal
of false pride."
"I don't know what you mean, Miss Powell," said Nelly.
"Is there any thing wrong in gathering swill or feeding the cow?" asked
Miss Powell.
"No, ma'am; it is to help granny."
"Then it is right, instead of wrong."
"Yes, ma'am. But if I could only help her in some other way."
"If you could work in the shop, as I do, for instance, you would not be
ashamed of that, you think?"
"No, ma'am; I should be very silly to be ashamed of that. I should be
proud of it."
Miss Powell smiled.
"And yet, Nelly, a great many of the ladies you see here would almost
as soon gather swill, as you do, as work in the shop. There is a lady—I
tell you this in confidence, and you must not repeat it—who makes
tatting for us, and does beautiful embroidery. We pay her a great deal
of money every year, yet she is always in a fright lest some of her
genteel acquaintances should find out that she works for a shop; and, I
am sorry to say, she has told a good many wrong stories about it. What
do you think of that?"
"She is very silly," said Nelly. "I should think she would be proud of
earning money."
"On the contrary, she thinks it a degradation. She feels herself
lowered by it; and, if any of her fine acquaintances should meet her
here and see her receiving pay for her work, she would cry as bitterly
as you did just now, and with just about as much reason."
Welly blushed scarlet. "But, after all, Miss Powell, it is not nice
work," said she. "It is nasty, disagreeable work, and gets my hands and
clothes all dirt."
"That is a very good reason why you should dislike it, and why you
should want to do something better as soon as possible, but no reason
why you should be ashamed of it, so long as it is necessary. If you
were depending on other people for support while you could help
yourself, or if you were pursuing any dishonest course to obtain money,
you would have good reason to be ashamed of that; but you need never
blush to have people know that you do any kind of honest and necessary
work."
"I am ashamed of our house, sometimes," said Nelly. "It looks so
shackling and dirty, and every thing lies all about; while all the
places around are neat and pretty, and painted up so nice. I do try,
sometimes, to put things in order; but granny is put out when I do, and
says I feel above her."
"You see, granny has her pride too, Nelly. But I would not worry her
about it. She is growing an old woman, and, I dare say, does not feel
very well."
"Granny is very different from what she used to be," said Nelly,
after she had worked a while in silence. "It worries me a great deal,
sometimes."
"How different?" asked Miss Powell.
"She used always to be so good-natured," said Nelly; "nothing ever
seemed to put her out, hardly. And now every thing makes her cross.
Some days she frets from morning till night, and I can't do any thing
to please her."
"Poor granny!" said Miss Powell. "You must try to be very patient and
gentle with her, Nelly. Don't contradict her or try to argue with her.
Just let her have her own way."
"I do try," said Nelly; "but sometimes she provokes me, and I answer
back, and scold; and then I am always sorry."
"Yes; it is not a good plan. You must learn to have patience, Nelly;
and when you find it hard you must ask God to help you."
So Nelly did, and she tried very hard to keep the peace with granny.
But she was not happy. She had little comfort at home; and when she
thought about going to heaven, as she did whenever things went wrong,
she began to find herself oppressed with a new trouble. She did not
see how she was ever going to get there. Mrs. Brown had told her that
she must be good in order to go to heaven; and Nelly knew very well
that she was not good. She began to see new faults in herself every
day,—faults that she had never before thought of as faults. She tried
very hard to conquer them; but she did not always succeed, and they
were constantly coming up again when she thought them vanquished. She
always meant to talk the subject over with Miss Powell; but she could
not do so without confessing how naughty she was, and her pride (always
one of the strong points of her character) forbade her doing that. So
she went on with more or less of a load on her mind all the time,—doing
her best to conquer herself;—always defeated, soon or late,—and, with
the perseverance which she showed in every thing, always trying again.
It was now the middle of November. Nelly had learned to read pretty
well,—and also to write a little, by means of Kitty Brown's old
copy-books, which her careful mother had preserved. She had not only
learned to make tatting, in which she excelled, but also to sew more or
less neatly, and to do several different crochet stitches. She seemed
to have a natural talent for using her hands; and all she undertook
she accomplished with a deft quickness that constantly surprised Miss
Powell. Book-learning came a good deal harder; and Nelly was sometimes
inclined to give up in despair over her words of three syllables and
her first attempts at understanding figures. Nevertheless, she kept
on, determined not to be overcome, and encouraged by Miss Powell's
assurance that she would find it easier by-and-by. She had made a great
deal of tatting, and had kept a rude account of the number of spools of
thread she had worked up; and she was already calculating what sort of
a warm shawl she should buy for winter,—when something occurred which
upset all her fine plans.
One day she came home from the shop in excellent spirits. She had
learned some new work,—how to embroider with worsted,—and Miss Kirkland
had lent her a simple pattern, with the shades to work it, and a square
of canvas. She had asked the price of some pretty woollen shawls, and
calculated that she could afford to buy one and still have money to
spare for a present for granny. Moreover, Mr. Garland, the pastor of
the church Nelly attended, had recognized and shaken hands with her,
and had called her Miss Nelly. Nobody need laugh at Nelly. She had a
right to be pleased. It was a mark of respect, and showed her that she
looked like a lady.
Nelly had another cause of rejoicing that, day. She had at last opened
her mind to Miss Powell and told her all her troubles, and she had
learned that she was not expected to work her way to heaven,—that a
way had been provided, not for saints, but for sinners,—that Jesus had
died that she might live, and because He lived she should live also.
Nelly had not understood clearly all Miss Powell told her; she had
laid up a great deal for thought and future inquiry; but she felt that
God was her friend, that he was not a taskmaster, exacting from her so
much for so much, but that he was more desirous to have her in heaven
than she was to go there; that all her debt was paid and overpaid, and
her service was now a labour of love and thankfulness to Him who had
bought her with so great a price. Nelly felt as though she could never
commit another wilful sin. All the lingering flowers in the gardens she
passed, all the gay leaves strewing the side-walks under the maples,
every thing, from the clouds over her head to the beautiful soft wools
she held in her hand, had a new beauty in her eyes. As she approached
the gate, and remembered how utterly miserable she had been the first
day she saw Miss Powell, she could hardly believe she was the same
person.
As Nelly drew nearer, she was rather surprised to see the gate hanging
open, and Crummie with her head almost in at the door, lowing in vain
for her mid-day pail of water. Her grandmother was nowhere to be seen.
Much startled, Nelly hurried forward, and entered the house. The fire
was out, and granny sat on her stool by the side of the cold stove, her
pipe on the floor, her head between her hands, and rocking back and
forth, now and then giving vent to her feelings in a low wail,—that
terrible Irish keene, more harrowing to the nerves than almost any
other sound I have ever heard.
It was a long time before Nelly could get at the truth, through
her grandmother's passionate words and lamentations, her bitter
denunciation of the hard-hearted man who would turn Nelly upon the
street and herself into the poor-house, and her recollections of the
ancient grandeur and wealth of the Butlers, who would never have
demaned themselves to speak to the like of him; but at last all came
out.
She learned that Mr. Grayson, of whom her grandmother had bought the
place long before, had been to see her that morning. She learned, to
her utter amazement and consternation, that the place had never been
paid for, that it did not belong to them, and that they were likely at
any time to be turned out into the street.