READY AND UNREADY.
MISS LAWTON had only employed her maid's hand to write as she dictated,
and her own name was signed at the bottom, though Fanny could at first
hardly believe that the signature was really that of her dear teacher.
The writing was so sadly different from that in the prizes she had
received, and which she so greatly valued as Miss Lawton's gifts.
Mrs. Crook looked eagerly for the message to herself, and she soon
found it, for the note was not a long one.
"Give my kind love to Mrs. Crook, and say that I shall consider it a
great favour to me, if she will allow you to come and see me to-night.
I say to-night; because, though my life may be spared for a few days,
there is no certainty when I may be called to be with Jesus. I should
like to see my old scholar once again, but if we should not meet here,
I pray that we may meet in His presence, to part no more. I know you
love Jesus, dear Fanny, and I trust that each day you may become more
truly His, and more like Him. I can ask nothing better for you than
this, that you may grow in grace and in the knowledge of our Lord and
Saviour Jesus Christ.
"Come to me, if you can, but do not displease Mrs. Crook if she
refuses permission. I should like to see her, too."
Here the note abruptly concluded.
"To think Miss Lawton should send her love to me!" exclaimed Mrs.
Crook, as usual, thinking most of what referred to herself. "How
strange that she should care so much about a common servant-girl like
Fanny! I must let the girl go, though it is not her night. If the young
lady should die, it would be very unpleasant for me to think that I had
denied her such a small favour. One doesn't like to say 'no' to a dying
person."
So when Fanny was summoned to clear away the tea things, Mrs. Crook
said, "I will let you go to Miss Lawton's. You need not stay to wash
the china before you go, because there is no saying what may happen,
according to this letter."
Fanny uttered a thankful exclamation as her mistress gave the desired
permission, but her eyes filled with tears again, at those last
foreboding words.
It was evident that Mrs. Crook realised that Death might be
hovering near to Miss Lawton, though she deemed he must be at least
two-and-twenty years distant from herself.
"Shall I give any message from you, ma'am?" said Fanny. "Miss Lawton
sent her kind love to you."
True; and this had puzzled Mrs. Crook. "What could have made her send
it?" she asked herself.
She hesitated, unwilling that Fanny should take no return message. Mrs.
Crook was truthful. In fact she prided herself on telling the whole
truth, when sometimes it was likely to give pain, and silence would
have been better than such plain speaking.
At last she decided on her message. "You may give Miss Lawton my best
respects, and say I am very sorry to hear she is ill, and I do wish her
better."
Mrs. Crook could say this much truthfully. She did respect Miss Lawton.
She was more sorry to hear of her illness than she could have believed
possible; and she even concluded that she should be willing to give
something out of her own pocket, if by so doing she could insure the
fulfilment of her wish for the young lady's recovery.
Before Fanny was well out of sight, Mrs. Crook was wishing she had sent
her love to Miss Lawton, instead of her best respects. Her thoughts
were so fully occupied by the sick girl, that she could not settle
to work of any kind. She usually spent her evenings at her knitting,
because it did not try her eyes.
One of Mrs. Crook's great subjects of comfort was her excellent sight,
and she strove to preserve it. However, she could not endure to sit
still, and she walked up and down the room, whilst comparing Miss
Lawton's position with her own.
"Only two-and-twenty," said she to herself. "I have lived more than
twice as long. Eight years more and I should be three times Miss
Lawton's present age. How curious that I have just been reckoning that
I ought to live at least two-and-twenty years, for I am only in my
prime as yet!
"Fanny says that Miss Lawton is quite ready to die, if it should be
God's will, and, though she is so young, she neither grieves nor is
frightened at the prospect; whilst I—"
Mrs. Crook stopped and shivered perceptibly. Conscience told her that
the very thought of death filled her with terror now, and that during
her fifty-eight years of life she had always tried to put it away from
her mind. If she were even to live twenty-two years more, would she
be better prepared to die than at this moment? She had certainly not
made up her mind to begin any preparation; and though, on the whole,
Mrs. Crook was well satisfied with herself, she could not say that she
needed none. The very best people reckoned that something had to be
done, and she had certainly never quite understood what the something
was.
There was another thought suggested by Fanny's words. The girl had said
so many people would grieve to lose Miss Lawton, though she was not
sorry at the prospect of death.
Mrs. Crook thought it was most desirable that there should be a fair
amount of weeping at a funeral. There was something respectable in
being very much lamented. To have it said that "nobody shed a tear,"
was almost a certificate of bad character with regard to the departed.
And yet, when she began to reckon up her own acquaintances, she could
not think of anybody who was likely to shed many tears at her funeral,
whenever it might take place.
A further self-examination, and Mrs. Crook was fain to confess that she
had done nothing to call for any.
It was certainly a very humbling view she was getting of herself and
her deservings. Why, even the very money she had saved, and which she
could not carry away with her, was more likely to cause rejoicing in
the hearts of those who inherited it than sorrow for her loss. She had
a tidy sum well invested, far more than any one would have supposed;
but even small savings grow satisfactorily, when it is all putting in
and no drawing out, either of principal or interest. Besides, Crook had
left what he did without any restrictions as to its final disposal.
She could make somebody more than comfortable in turn, if she chose to
bequeath all to one person.
But, so far, Mrs. Crook had never liked any individual well enough to
make a will in his or her favour. Crook had no relatives, or a certain
sense of hard justice might have disposed her to leave the money to
them. The few relatives she had were very distant ones, both as to
kindred and place of abode, and clearly had no claim upon what came by
her husband.
She had been saving for somebody; but she had no idea for whom, and she
did not like to picture any person in possession of this pretty home,
filling her favourite chair, even wearing her best dresses.
Mrs. Crook had many a time felt certain that people were "making up
to her," for the sake of her money, and the moment this thought took
possession of her mind she had "given them the cold shoulder," as she
expressed it, and let them see they need not come canting round her for
the sake of what they could get.
But the world is not quite so selfish and mercenary as Mrs. Crook
pictured it. There had been many warm-hearted, kindly Christian people
who, during her ten years of widowhood, had felt honestly anxious to
brighten a life that seemed so lonely and so self-absorbed. People,
too, whose own worldly circumstances might have placed them above being
suspected of wanting to benefit by Mrs. Crook, and whose sole desire
was to do her good and make her happier.
They had all been driven away discouraged, and, in some cases, pained
and grieved, by ill-disguised taunts. Now, as the "comfortable" widow
paced up and down her parlour, she could remember no acquaintance or
friend who would be likely to shed a tear if she died to-morrow.
"Really," thought Mrs. Crook, "I believe that little simpleton of a
Fanny cares more for me than anybody else does. She is a soft-hearted
thing, and I tell her sometimes that her tears lie very near her eyes.
But she is true, and there is no crocodile crying or deceit about her.
I wonder what it is that makes her different from so many of the girls
I have had. Most of them would be fair to my face and cheat me almost
before my back was turned. I had to spend half my time looking after
them to see that they did the work properly, but it makes no difference
to Fanny, whether I am at hand or no. She never leaves speck or spot
that hard rubbing will remove. As to talking back again! She never
gives me a saucy word when I find fault."
By Mrs. Crook's own confession, strictly private and made only in
her own mind—it became evident, even to herself, that she did not
behave with strict justice towards Fanny. If the girl did her work so
conscientiously, surely there was little room for fault-finding; and
yet, it was so much the mistress's habit to grumble, that Fanny had
often to bear the weight of her tongue, whilst feeling that she did not
deserve to be scolded, and that at times, try as she might, she could
do nothing right.
Fanny could not, however, know that scolding at regular intervals was
a matter of principle with Mrs. Crook, who had long ago settled in her
own mind that if a girl were not idle and careless to begin with, she
would certainly become so, unless kept up to the mark by judicious
fault-finding. Girls needed to be "taken down," or they would become so
conceited there would be no bearing them.
Mrs. Crook was like many other people who are past middle age, and
who take no trouble to remember their own young days. They expect an
amount of patience and forbearance from the girls who serve them, which
they, as mistresses, are by no means willing to exercise in turn. And,
knowing the unreasonableness of such expectations, they can hardly
believe the fact when they are occasionally realised.
A good many little scenes which had taken place between herself and
Fanny, passed before Mrs. Crook's mind's eye during her little maid's
absence. Memories of sharp words, followed by sharper still, because
the girl did not retort, but lifted up tearful appealing eyes that
seemed to plead, not for indulgence but justice.
"I am afraid I have sometimes been a little hard on Fanny," mused Mrs.
Crook; "though, if I have, it has been for her good. I dare say she
would feel a sharp word sooner than some of those brazen-faced things I
had before she came, for though she is full nineteen years old, she is
as simple in her ways as a child."
Mrs. Crook's mode of comforting herself, when conscience reminded her
that she might have been kinder to the honest, tender-hearted girl who
faithfully did her best, was by no means peculiar to herself.
There are many amongst us who admit that the inward monitor was right
to remind us of our hardness towards some dependent fellow creature.
But we make ourselves quite comfortable, nevertheless, by insisting
that the motive was right, and the hard words calculated to benefit
their object.
Thought is rapid, and, though Fanny was not long absent, her mistress
got through a deal of thinking before her return; moreover, her
cogitations were of a very unwonted character.
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