FOR FATHER'S SAKE
Betty stands gazing at the ambulance, as it passes steadily out of
sight, and a feeling of deep loneliness sweeps over her heart. No one
loves her, no one understands her as father does, and now he has gone
from her.
"Ah! there I am, thinking about myself again--I _won't_ do it!"
She rouses herself with a brave effort, and goes back into the house.
A house full of noise and confusion just now. Mother sobbing loudly in
the little sitting-room. Jennie and Pollie, awakened from sleep,
shrieking themselves hoarse in their bedroom above. Clara helpless; Bob
dazed-looking; Lucy tearful. Only Betty still manages to keep her wits
about her.
"Lucy, run upstairs and quiet the children--mother, mother, you mustn't
upset yourself so--father will soon be better, I'm sure--such a nice,
sweet nurse came to look after him. Come, mother, you're quite tired
out; lie down on the sofa, and I'll make you a cup of tea."
"Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?" moans Mrs. Langdale.
"Father will soon be in less pain, and----"
"But what shall _I_ do? Most likely he'll never be able to walk again.
Mr. Duncan will get some one else to collect his rents and look after
the houses, and we shall all starve."
"Mother, you really must not worry about all that to-night. Father told
me to go and see Mr. Duncan to-morrow, and perhaps he'll do something
for us."
"Mr. Duncan do anything? Why, he's as hard as flint, always grumbling at
your father for not getting the last penny out of the tenants; _he_ do
anything? Oh, no, no!"
"Well, we don't know how it will be yet. Come, mother, I'm going to make
you that cup of tea, and you must lie down while I get it."
Betty makes the tea, and coaxes her mother into taking it, and presently
persuades her to go to bed.
It is very late by this time, the house is quiet, and Betty goes to bed
herself.
Now, at last, in the silence, she has time to think.
This morning--was it really only this morning that she was so foolishly
vexed because her birthday was not remembered? Did she really feel the
sweep's visit a big trouble only a few hours ago? How small, how utterly
insignificant her troubles have been up to now! And yet she has made so
much of them, has felt herself so hardly used!
For a long time she lies awake, turning it all over in her mind.
"Father, dear, patient old father is tossing in pain and fever, and his
worry is much worse than mine, for he must lie still and think, and I
can be up and at work. It is so much harder to bear things when you can
do nothing to make them better. Lord, show me what to do; show me how to
work for our home--for father's sake."
Somehow, soon after that prayer, Betty falls into a sound sleep, and
does not awake until it is morning.
When at length she opens her eyes, it is time to get up. For a moment
she lies still enough, not remembering what has happened; then, with a
rush, it all comes back to her, and she starts out of bed.
Father, mother, children--what can she do for them all? Last night she
had no answer to that question, but now a bright, a daring hope has
flashed into her mind. Why shouldn't _she_ collect Mr. Duncan's rents,
and keep his accounts whilst father is laid by? She wanted to go out to
work for herself. Here is the chance of doing something much better, of
working for father's sake, of lifting a great part of this heavy load
from his heart!
But can she do it--can she? Her heart sinks again. "Oh, will Mr. Duncan
give me a trial?" Suddenly she remembers Grannie. "How sorry Grannie
will be for this--Oh, if I were like Grannie how much easier it would
be! Let me think, if Grannie was in my place, what would she do first?"
The answer to that question is easy enough. "She would pray."
Betty kneels by the bedside. She prays for her father, and then she
prays for herself; prays that she may have strength given her, and
wisdom, and courage, to do her work bravely and well.
Mother is quite unfit for anything this morning. Lucy must give up her
music-lesson to wait on her. The children are very fretful. Clara
declares she is "too much upset to do her usual work, and it ought not
to be expected of her."
Only Betty is patient and gentle, striving to get through the usual
duties. Love is leading her at last--love for her father. Just now no
thought of self dims her memory of his suffering face.
But for all that her heart beats very fast, when at last she knocks at
Mr. Duncan's door, and her grand plan of carrying on a part of dear
father's work suddenly appears quite hopeless.
"I'm afraid it will make Mr. Duncan quite angry to propose such a thing.
Had not I better just give him the money father collected, and say
nothing about my idea after all?" Betty hesitates a moment, then--
"For father's sake--for father's sake," she murmurs to herself.
The door is opened by a neat maid. Yes, Mr. Duncan is at home, will she
please to give her name? Another minute and she is shown into a room,
where an elderly gentleman is writing at a table.
"The young person to see you, sir," announces the maid.
The elderly gentleman looks up with a frown, and fixes a pair of hard
grey eyes on her face.
"Well, what's the meaning of this?" he says gruffly. "Where's your
father?"
Betty pauses a moment.
"Where's your father? I want to see him particularly," repeats Mr.
Duncan, still more angrily.
Betty quakes inwardly; but her courage is of the kind that always rises
at an emergency, and she explains what has happened in a clear
business-like fashion.
"Hem! accident indeed--pretty fix his accident has left me in," grumbles
Mr. Duncan, when she has finished. "Have you the money with you?"
Betty produces it. He counts it over. "Why, how's this? There's two
pounds short!"
"Father was to collect that to-day, sir; there's a note in his book
saying which of the tenants haven't paid yet."
"Hem! bad system. If they can't pay up to time, they ought to go. And
what am I to do now, pray?"
"Please, if you'll let me, I'll go round to the tenants in father's
place," cries Betty, eagerly.
"You? Why, what does a girl like you know about it?"
"I'm good at accounts; and father has told me how it is done, and shown
me the books--I help him with them sometimes. If you would _only_ let me
try, sir--until father gets better----"
"Oh, that's it, is it? _You_ want to take over my work!" and, rather to
Betty's surprise, the hard old eyes give a little twinkle of amusement.
"No--no, my girl, you don't understand; there's a great deal besides
just collecting the money. Repairs to attend to; bad tenants to get rid
of; new tenants to bargain with----"
"But, sir," interrupts Betty, eagerly, "if you would only let me try to
do the best I can until father comes out of the hospital--perhaps the
repairs could wait--and I'd try _so_ hard; and--and we've nothing but a
few pounds in the savings bank, and father said he thought you might do
something----"
"Oh, he did--did he? Very kind of him, I'm sure!" snaps Mr. Duncan, the
hard, suspicious look returning to his face.
Betty feels ready to burst into tears. "He thinks the very idea of
employing me utterly absurd," she thinks, and turns to go.
But hardly have her fingers touched the handle, before Mr. Duncan calls
her back.
"Don't be in such a hurry, young person. Your father is a great deal too
soft with the tenants; but I believe he means well, and I'm sorry for
his accident. Suppose you go round to the tenants who haven't paid this
morning? It will be time enough to talk about your taking on the work
when I see what you can do."
She is to have a trial after all! The expression on Betty's face changes
so quickly, that Mr. Duncan's eyes twinkle again.
"Hem! you needn't look so pleased. I don't promise anything, mind--why,
bless the girl, if she isn't off already! Well, if she takes after her
father, I might do worse. Soft-hearted--a great deal too
soft-hearted--but as honest as the day," and the old gentleman returns
to his writing.
Betty hurries home for her father's little rent-collecting bag; and then
makes her way through the network of narrow streets, in the midst of
which the houses owned by Mr. Duncan stand.
Arriving at the long row, she looks round her in some dismay.
[Illustration: "Rent?" cries the woman bitterly.]
How small the houses are--how dirty! How narrow and wretched-looking
the street!
She consults her list, and knocks timidly at the door of the first
number. No answer. She knocks again. A shuffling of feet follows, and
presently a woman appears. She is haggard and old-looking, and the child
in her arms is wailing pitifully. A second child clings to her skirt,
and mother and children alike are wretchedly clad.
"Rent?" cries the woman bitterly, in answer to Betty's timid request.
"Pray, how do you suppose I'm to pay the rent, and my husband still on
the drink? I told the agent it was no use calling, and if he wants to
turn me out, he must!"
And without giving Betty time to answer, she drags the children in, and
slams the door.
Betty has not the courage to knock again. What a glimpse of dull,
hopeless misery the woman's face and voice have revealed to her! She
passes on to the next house.
The woman who answers this door is rather cleaner. "Called for the rent?
But you're not the agent," she says, looking at Betty very suspiciously.
Betty explains. "Hum! I don't like the look of it. How do I know it's
all right? There, you needn't look so offended. If _you_ had had to work
early and late, denying yourself your proper rest, and a bit of butter
to your bread, to make up the rent, you'd be careful who you trusted it
with, I can tell you."
Betty shows the poor woman her father's collecting book, and after a
while the rent is put grudgingly into her hands. Betty cannot bear to
take it from the poor thing.
It is a slow, miserable business, but before the morning is over Betty
manages to get the greater part of the two pounds together.
"Hem; short, as usual," is Mr. Duncan's discouraging remark, as he
counts it over.
Betty feels sick at heart. The morning's work has been quite a new
experience. Occupied only with her own thoughts and plans, she has
thought very little about other people's difficulties; and the miserable
homes she has just seen have shocked and pained her deeply.
Mr. Duncan weighs the money in his hand for a moment or two, as though
considering.
"Well, I can't be bothered just now with looking up anyone else. I
suppose we'd better go on as we are--for the present. Here's the whole
rent account-book; take it home, and let me know how much rent I've lost
on the half-year. Good morning."
So she is to take up part of father's work, after all! How glad dear
father will be!