CAN AND CAN’T.
JACK caught Maimie’s little hand and kissed it. “To be sure,” he said.
“Ask anything you like. I don’t see how you can help me, though.”
“What are all these mistakes that you make?” she inquired.
“Oh,—stupid things,—all sorts. In spelling,—words that I really know
quite well I go and spell all wrong, and don’t see till the mischief
is done. And then there’s scratching out, and spoilt paper, and wasted
time. I’m an awful idiot, of course,—I know that well enough. You can’t
think worse of me than I think of myself, Maimie.” And he sat as if he
were awaiting her sentence.
“Jack,—” she said slowly. Then she stopped, and began again,—“But,
Jack,—you know what it all means?”
He looked at her questioningly.
“It means want of attention,” she said. “It means that you don’t give
your mind to what you are doing. And, Jack,—you can get over that.”
Neither Cherry nor I spoke. Jack stared hard at Maimie for some seconds.
“Yes,” he said presently. “Yes, of course I could get over that. It’s
stupidity.”
“No, not stupidity. It is a bad habit of letting your mind wander. And
bad habits may always be got over,—always,—only the longer you put off,
the harder your fight will be. Jack, you can get over this, for Aunt
Marion’s sake, and because it is right.”
“Yes; of course I can,” assented Jack, looking like one in a dream.
“It will be a fight,” repeated Maimie, standing by him still. “But you
must fight it out, Jack. You must make up your mind that there SHALL
NOT be one single more mistake from carelessness. I don’t mean only
making up your mind to try a little more, but making up your mind to
no. And, Jack,—if you pray to be helped—”
Jack looked up at Maimie, as if she had been a sort of guardian angel.
“Yes, yes, I will really, Maimie, really and truly.”
“That would be like a man,” pursued Maimie. “But to be always
blundering, and always saying you can’t help it, is not like a man.”
Jack stood up, and stretched himself. “Thank you, Maimie,” he said, in
quite a different voice from his common voice. “I shan’t forget this.
I will be a man now, God helping me; and I’ll fight against all this
folly. I do really believe it has been half laziness.”
And where Cherry or I would have protested, and tried to make our dear
Jack think better of himself, Maimie said quietly, “Of course it has.
But you are not going to be lazy any more.”
“No, I’m not,” he said earnestly.
“Perhaps, though, there are some mistakes which you really can’t help
making.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Jack said doubtfully. “I’m awfully stupid over
figures, and I never can learn the multiplication table.”
“I have thought of that,” Maimie said. “I have often wished to help you
there, Jack; only I didn’t quite like to propose it. But I know I’m
good at figures, and I’m quite sure I could help you. There are all
sorts of little catches and dodges for a bad memory at figures, and I
could put you up to some of them. I don’t mean tricks, but real ways of
helping you to be quick in calculation, and not to forget. I am quite
sure you can learn the tables, and all the weights and measures too, if
only you make up your mind not to be beaten.”
“Mother, you hear!” cried Jack.
“Maimie is right,” I said. “There is a wonderful difference between
setting to work with ‘I can’t’ and with ‘I will.’”
“I’ll leave off saying ‘can’t,’ and take to ‘will’” said Jack. “But,
Maimie, we mustn’t have you fall ill, teaching me.”
“O there’s no fear about that,” she said brightly. “I love books and
teaching more than anything. It will be so nice to do something useful.
Jack, I don’t see why we shouldn’t read history together too.”
Jack looked doubtful. “I’m not fond of history,” he said. “But I could
read it with you.”
“If you don’t like it, you must learn to like it,” said Maimie. “I
do wonder at you sometimes, Jack, when I see you wasting your whole
evening doing nothing,—and you might be studying hard all the time.”
“I’ll begin to-morrow. I didn’t think before,” said Jack. “Mother has
tried to make me read often enough, and I never took to it,—but I will
now.”
And my love for Maimie was of such a nature that I could bear to see
her succeed where I had failed, without even a temptation to jealousy.
“There’s one thing more,” she said slowly. “Jack, you must see your Mr.
Morison to-morrow, and tell him you are sorry not to have done better,
and beg for one more fair trial. Tell him you are going to make a fresh
start, and really and truly to do your very best.”
“Well,—I will,” Jack said, though he did not look at all delighted with
this last advice.
“And, Aunt Marion,” pursued Maimie,—“I want to ask something else of
you. May I in a few days help with the boys’ lessons,—Bob and Ted’s, I
mean? I should so like it. If you would only let me, I might take them
quite off your hands. And that would leave you so much more time for
other things. May I be your little governess? May I just try?”
I do not know exactly what answer I made at the moment; but before long
this arrangement came to pass. The relief to myself was not small. I
think I disliked teaching as much as Maimie disliked needlework. It
soon became a settled thing that Maimie should give the two little
boys their daily lessons, and should help Jack every evening with his
studies.