_November 23._
We have had our first frost early this year--four days' skating on the
High Pond before the middle of November! But it was sad to see the poor
folks' corn still out, the stalks, stiffly frozen, piercing the couple
of inches of frozen sleet that covers the ground.
They have had harvest festivals down in the town churches. But Fuz said
that if they had taken up collections to help pay the farmers' rents,
_that_ would have been the best sort of festival, and he would have
attended. As it was he stopped away, so as to let in somebody who was
grateful for a late harvest and spoilt crops!
Fuz says that it is no use sending the _Monthly Visitor_ to people who
don't have a daily dinner, and that anything he has to spare will go
towards the dinners. But then, Fuz does not mean all he says. For though
he growls at the Tract Distributors, he always finishes by giving
something so that they will not go sorry away.
Elizabeth Fortinbras goes to the shop opposite the Market Hill every
day. She has a nice gray dress now which she made herself, a water-proof
cloak, and a pretty canoeing hat. She is quite ignorant of all that the
good people are getting ready to offer her. Will she accept? Possibly
Hugh John could tell. Certainly _I_ can't.
The young couple down town have come home--Meg Linwood and her husband
Nipper, I mean. His father has explained the situation very sharply to
him--that is, in so far as the business is concerned. I think he is
waiting about the house and furniture till Elizabeth has said "yes" or
"no."
It is a good time to tell about our churches. Ours is the nicest. For
though we are not compelled to go to any particular one, yet Somebody
thinks it is a kind of point of honor to attend the one in which we were
born and brought up. There are all sorts of things going on, too, and
young people who don't have parties and dances get to know each other at
_soirees_ and social meetings. It acts just the same--even quicker, I
have noticed. They get married to each other all the same.
Hugh John, who has studied the subject, says he can stand all sorts of
"flirts," except the one who asks you about your soul before she knows
whether _she_ has got one herself!
Now there is Thomasina Morton, the doctor's daughter, and a smart girl
too. Only she never could get away from two or three catchwords, caught
up from all sorts of people. She got fearfully anxious about the souls
of all the good-looking young men, and made them come into her father's
consulting-room so that she could "plead with them." Of course it was
all very good and, I dare say, most necessary, but I _don't_ think it
was fair on Dr. Morton. You see, he is a good man, but much exposure to
all sorts of weather has told on his temper, and really I can't blame
him for what he said when he stumbled upon one of these reunions in the
dusk of a November afternoon. It was Billy Jackson's legs he fell over,
and they say Billy has had to walk with a stick ever since.
But Thomasina declared that her father was hard-hearted, and even went
to consult her minister about it. But Mr. Taylor is a sensible man, and
said that thirty years of Dr. Morton's life would weigh against a good
deal of strongish language in the archangel's scales! He also asked
Thomasina where her father had been that day, and she said, "Out seeing
his country patients, since eight in the morning!" Then Mr. Taylor asked
who they were, and Thomasina told him.
"The Doctor knows as well as I do," he said, "that he will never see a
penny of fees from any of them. Don't you trouble, my young lady, about
the hardness of your father's heart. And tell Mr. William Jackson that
it will be more suitable for him to come and see _me_ about his soul. I
am at his service from eight till ten every evening--except Wednesday
and Saturday!"
I don't know if Billy Jackson felt that this was not quite the same
thing, or whether the minister's hours did not suit him. At all events
he never went.
Thomasina Morton, however, was not pleased with Mr. Taylor, and left his
church. She joined the Salvation Army, but soon left it, because she
found the costume unbecoming. She did better as a nurse, and had
splendid chances there. Because, you see, the dress was all right, and
her patients could not get up and run when she had them good and safe
within the four walls of an hospital!
I dare say, however, it helped to pass the time for the poor fellows.
For, you see, Thomasina was pretty, and knew it. She would sing sad,
faint, die-away hymns in the twilight, till she made these bad young men
just lie down and cry. They were generally pretty weak, anyway,
especially when Thomasina used to talk to them about their mothers.
(When they were well, you might have talked those mothers' heads off
without reforming their sons the value of a row of pins.) But Thomasina
talked to them in a dreamy voice, till they all were willing to go out
as missionaries to the most cannibal-haunted regions--that is, if only
Thomasina would come along with them.
But when they asked her, as they mostly did, Thomasina said she was very
sorry, but she had never meant it that way. She was "vowed to a
vocation," and mere commonplace marriage would be sinful. Besides
(mostly), the young men had nothing to keep themselves on--much less a
wife.
Oh, Thomasina made the winter very cheerful at Edam, especially after
the Cottage Hospital was opened, and the cutting of the new railway
brought a good many into the accident ward.
To listen to Thomasina (and believe her), all these, though mere
"_navvies_" now, were Oxford or Cambridge men, and either the sons of
purple Indian colonels, very peppery, or (which she preferred) of
white-haired old clergymen, who were never known to smile again after
their only sons had left the family roof-tree.
Surely there was a lack of imagination in that accident ward. Hugh John
would have made cartloads of plans, and as for Sir Toady--well, he could
have evolved something fresh each journey, and never charged a penny
extra. He would have been ashamed of so many colonels and white-haired
clergymen.
But Thomasina was quite content, and read all manner of nice
uninteresting books to the poor storm-stayed ones, who sometimes looked
at the angelic expression on her face, and sometimes had quite a decent
little sleep on the quiet. Her voice was naturally soothing.
Thus time passed none so evilly in the Cottage Hospital accident ward,
and Thomasina came and got nice jellies from Mrs. Donnan, very
sustaining, and "let on," as Sir Toady asserted, that she had made them
all herself! But there is more--oh, ever so much more about Thomasina
Morton. I hope you are not tired hearing about her--I am not of telling.
But you will see the funny thing that happened. Among all the imaginary
sons of purple colonels and sad, saintly clergymen whom Thomasina had
corralled into her hospital ward, there happened to be a real one. His
name, he said, was Henry Smith--which is just one of those names that
people take, like Jones and Wood and Robinson in England, and Dubois,
Durand, Duval in France, thinking to be unknown, and lo! every
hotel-keeper and policeman immediately is on the qui vive to find out
what bank they have robbed.
Well, this young fellow's real name did not matter to anybody. Thomasina
called him "dear Harry," and had him to sit beside her in the
dining-room of the convalescent home (one of her pet hunting-grounds).
And one day after he had been in training to be good for quite a while,
he came in to dinner as usual, and, just as he was sitting down at the
table, up jumps Master Harry Smith and bolts out of the room! Naturally
enough, Nurse Webb thought there was something wrong with him, and would
have gone to see, but Thomasina restrained her with a motion of the
hand--very solemn, impressive, and "I-know-all-about-it-if-_you_-don't!"
"He has forgotten to say his prayers!" she whispered. "He promised me!"
And Nurse Webb sank back appalled, wondering what they would have said
at "King's." But Thomasina was quite calm, and laid her hand soothingly
on that of "dear Harry" when he returned from his (very short)
devotions.
And do you know, all the time he was what Sir Toady calls "a regular
rip." Only he was a real colonel's son, and had been tried
everywhere--only no one would have him about on any account.
But old Dr. Morton did what Thomasina said, and got this young fellow
dressed out in new clothes, till he looked as smart as a paper of new
pins. Then who so proud as Thomasina! She was so glad that Harry had
turned out so well that she said she would marry him. Then he was
fearfully noble, and said that he wasn't worthy of her, but that he
would wait for the day when he would lay the world at her feet. Oh, he
said ever such a heap of what the boys call, with a certain rude
correctness, "tommy-rot."
And old Papa Morton got him a place in a ginger-beer factory, to manage
the accounts, where Mr. Harry Smith behaved pretty well for three
months. But on the eve of his marriage with Thomasina he disappeared,
taking with him a whole fortnight's wages of the ginger-beer factory
workmen.
Instead, he left a letter full of consolatory texts for Thomasina, which
I would quote, but Fuz says I must not. Only he concluded by saying that
his dear Tommy was not half a bad little thing, only her company and
conversation were wearing for a man of his tastes and antecedents. If
she had only seen her way to giving him a "let up" every ten days or so,
he might have stayed on. But as it was, there was nothing left for him
but to borrow her father's fur-lined overcoat, and bid Thomasina a long,
last farewell through floods of burning tears. She was to remember,
however, that, in spite of all appearances to the contrary, he was ever
her own Harry. Also that the next time he needed nursing and advice,
both of superior quality, he would not fail to think of the happy days
in the convalescent ward of Edam Borough Hospital.
"Harry Smith" was seen no more on Esk waterside, and by last accounts
Dr. Morton is still awaiting the return of his fur-lined overcoat.