FRANK'S MESSAGE TO "MUDDIE."
LITTLE Fred, all alone in the world, and thrown upon the mercy of
perfect strangers, was surely very fortunate in having crept up Betty's
garden walk, rather than to any other cottage in Edgestone. For I
suspect that he would have found his way to the poorhouse, and, in
the state he was in at the time, this would have had most disastrous
effects.
Having been the youngest, and not quick at speaking, he spoke very
indistinctly long after he was voluble enough. His inability to
pronounce the letter "r" made his speech sound babyish. But in two
years, he had grown so much, and had so completely lost the baby
face and the baby ways of the little brother Frank had taken such
care of, that Frank would hardly have known him again. He looked as
old for his six years now as he had looked young for four. A silent,
sad-looking boy, with a half-puzzled expression in his fine dark
eyes, which sometimes made people wonder if he were "quite like other
children." His step-grandmother would never have recognized her merry,
mischievous, laughing torment in this quiet, tall boy, who seemed to
care for nothing but being of use to Betty.
As I have said before, he proved a careful messenger, and earned many a
penny, and every penny was brought to Betty with some little pride. One
day she said to him—
"You earn so many pence, Fred, that I'm going to keep half to buy your
clothes. Think of that, now!"
Fred looked up at her earnestly.
"Don't you want them, Mrs. Betty?" Which was his chosen name for her.
"I don't want them all," she said, wondering what was coming, for he so
seldom spoke except to answer a question.
"Then, if you don't want them, may I keep half for Fwank?"
It was the first time he had named his brother since his own illness.
"Why, child," Betty said tenderly, "Frank wants neither pence nor aught
you could buy with them. He has all he wants. He's quite safe and
happy."
"Yes, Fwank is dead," the boy said after a pause.
Betty was quite pleased to find that he remembered this.
"Yes, dear, he is. Dear little fellow, he is dead surely, so, you see,
he is in heaven now, and those who go there want nothing."
She talked to him for some time, and he seemed to listen, yet when she
ceased, he said again—
"Keep half the pence for Fwank. There's his message, you know."
This rather puzzled Betty, and Fred would say no more. So she told him
that she would lay by the pence carefully, and added—
"By-and-by, when you've saved enough, you shall buy a wooden cross to
put at the head of his grave."
"With the message," Fred put in.
"I don't know about a message, but that's all you can do for him, dear,
and it well becomes you to do it, for I think he gave his life for
yours."
How much or how little of this Fred understood, she could not tell. He
often sat thinking, thinking, with a sad and puzzled look, but he did
not speak of Frank again. Only when he brought his earnings, carefully
divided into two equal portions, he would say—
"Half for Fwank, Mrs. Betty."
After a while he found out, from something the doctor said, that Frank
lay in the old churchyard just beside the grave of little Charlie
Wentworth. There was a pretty headstone to the little Wentworth's
grave, and his poor mother kept it beautiful, with flowers growing
round it. Frank's grave was just a plain green mound. But thenceforth,
when Betty missed her charge, she was pretty sure to find him sitting
beside it. Being a wise old body, she did not interfere, only, after a
time, suggested to him to plant flowers on it like those on the other.
From that time Frank's resting-place was kept in the most beautiful
order. Betty could always spare a few plants for this purpose, and Fred
cut the grass with shears, and trimmed and tended it, until it was a
wonder for colour and smoothness.
After a time, the boy began to speak more frequently, and the doctor
put him to school, where he soon surprised the schoolmaster by his
quickness and ability. But he did not care to join the boys on the
green, unless they were playing cricket or football. In these, he soon
excelled, but for a mere game of romps he did not care at all.
Thus time went on until Fred Giles, as the neighbours called him, was
a fine handsome lad of thirteen, and the schoolmaster informed Dr.
Wentworth that it was a great pity he could have no further education.
"You see, doctor, the boys here generally leave school at about
thirteen or fourteen, which I suppose is about Fred's age now. And I am
too tired in the evening, with this big school on my hands, to give him
private lessons, which I would if I could. He's very clever; there's
nothing he could not learn. I suppose old Betty is making a gardener of
him; the best she can do, but 'tis a pity."
The doctor went home to his delicate wife, who, poor thing, could no
longer take care of her boy's grave, for she was a prisoner on her
sofa, and never likely to be better.
"Lucy, you know the boy whom Betty Giles took to care for, and whom we
have partly clothed?"
"Little Fred? Oh yes, I know him. A very fine boy, though indeed, I
have not seen him for a long time. I hope he is not ill?"
"Not he. But Dale, the schoolmaster, you know, was just speaking to me
about him. It seems he is very clever. You know that he has long kept
his little brother's grave in order, but I never told you that since
you have been laid by, he has done the same for our little grave. I
used to go and look, meaning to have it settled, and I wondered how
your work lasted so long, my poor girl, when one evening I found him
hard at work. Well, now, it seems to me a pity that a boy like this,
evidently belonging to respectable people, should be condemned to leave
school at thirteen and to earn his bread as a labourer. And if his
people ever turn up, it would be a terrible blow to them, don't you
think so?"
"Yes, but really after all these years—nine years now—I hardly expect
his people to trace him. But if he is a fine, clever lad, one would
give him a chance for his own sake. What did you think of? You are well
off, and we have no—no one to come after us, Alick. We might well do
this."
Dr. Wentworth's worn face brightened.
"I was half afraid you might dislike the idea of having a boy about the
house, dear."
"About the house," she said, with a start, "did you say? I did not
understand at first. But no, Alick, I do not object at all. It would be
an interest for you."
"My idea is to train him to help me in the dispensary; Mark Fletcher
will soon be leaving me. Then I can give him lessons myself, and, if he
really is clever, get Mr. Hewson to teach him, and so as time passes,
we shall see what he really is fit for, and how we like him. My dear, I
know you consent only for my sake, but I hope it may prove an interest
for you too, and brighten your life a bit. It seems to me that he is a
boy one would get fond of easily."
Mrs. Wentworth said nothing. She thought that plans for the future
mattered more to the doctor than to her.
Intent on his idea, Dr. Wentworth went to see Betty Giles the next day.
He found the old woman sitting in the sun at her front door, knitting a
stocking, and looking complacently at her crop of young annuals.
"Well, Betty, how goes the world with you?" he said.
"It goes," Betty said cheerily; "that's just it, doctor. It goes, and
it goes, and soon 'twill be gone, or I shall, which comes to the same
thing as far as I'm concerned."
"It is well for those who can, say that cheerfully, Betty."
"Well, now, I do feel cheerful, and I just hope I'm not like Ignorance
in the 'Pilgrim.' Fred read me that book, and surely, next to the
Bible, it comes home to one. But I don't really think I'm like he,
though I'm ignorant enough. Not ignorant of my dear Saviour, though. I
feel Him keeping me, somehow."
"Ah, old friend, many a learned man might envy you. I came to talk to
you about Fred. Where is he?"
"Playing cricket on the green. Schoolmaster tells him he's getting too
old for school, and that he won't learn much by staying on. I sometimes
wish we could find his people. He's growing up—poor Fred!"
"That is just what I came to talk about, Betty. Dale spoke to me about
him. He thinks him very clever."
"About book cleverness, sir, I know naught, but he reads as well as any
clergyman; I'm told he's quite as good at writing and cyphering. But as
to hand cleverness, that I can speak to. There's nothing ever was done
with hands that he couldn't learn to do."
"Well, I want an assistant in the dispensary. Fred is rather young, but
Fletcher will not leave me at once, and I will teach the boy carefully.
If he turns out well, I will take care of his future. You'll be glad, I
dare say, to have a big fellow like him off your hands; you must find
it hard to do for him now."
"I don't, then," said Betty, shortly. "I'll find it harder to do
without him. But I won't stand in his way. I suppose you want to take
him altogether—to live in your house, maybe?"
"I did think of that. You see, my wife could teach him so much, and so
could I. But, to get the full benefit of this, he must be always at
hand."
"Ay, ay, I understand. Well, I've had him a long time, and he's been as
a son to me, and a good son, too. I won't stand in his way."
"I see him coming now, Betty."
And in a moment more, Fred stood before them, having taken off his
straw hat to pay due respect to the doctor.
"Fred, my dear boy, here's good news for you," began Betty, briskly.
"Many a time have I taken a little fret, wondering what would become of
you when I die, and that can't be very far off, for I'm getting very
old and failed. Now, here's Dr. Wentworth offering you a good place
with him, where you'll get learning, and have work to do more suitable
to you than gardening. And I'm thankful to know it, Fred."
Fred looked from one to the other.
"I don't quite understand," he said, "but I'm much obliged to Dr.
Wentworth; he's always been very kind to me."
The doctor, who by this time had found a seat on the doorstep, began
to explain. Fred listened attentively. Then he looked at Betty, who
forthwith assumed what she intended for a pleased and encouraging
smile. Fred laughed, and for a healthy boy, he laughed but seldom.
[Illustration: FRED LISTENED ATTENTIVELY.]
"Ah, Mrs. Betty, that won't do!" he said. "'Tis nine years, or more,
since I crept up to the door, half frozen and half starved, and asked
you to come to—to Frank. I remember all, Betty dear, though I never
could talk of it. Ever since then, you've kept me and cared for me, and
nursed me and borne with me, and—loved me. And now, doctor, she's not
as strong as she used to be, she couldn't live alone now, she couldn't
keep up the garden or the plants and slips without help, and she
couldn't carry the things home. I earn a little money, too, and what I
earn is needed now. I'm very grateful for your kind offer, but I can't
leave her, and if I did, every one would cry shame on me, and I should
deserve it."
"Fred, I won't stand in your way. I shall do very well. I'll get
my grandchild, John's little Kate, to come and stay with me; I
know they'll let me have her. And suppose your own people find you
by-and-by, won't they be glad to find you something better than a
working gardener? No, no, boy; you must go."
Fred stood, looking far away over the fields. He seemed to be trying to
put some thought into words, for his lips moved from time to time. At
last, without looking at them, but still gazing away over the fields,
he said—
"I can remember her face. It was like Frank's, fair and loving. I
think we were well off once, but I don't remember. I seem just going
to remember sometimes, but it all dies off. Mrs. Betty, you know Kate
is only ten, and a little baby of a thing; even if she came, she could
not do all that I do, and the garden would run waste, and there would
be no earnings coming in. And if my mother—if it is my mother that
I remember—I'm very sure that she would be more sorry to find me an
ungrateful brute than to find me a gardener, or anything else. No, Dr.
Wentworth, I cannot leave Mrs. Betty. As she cared for me, so must I
care for her now, and she has been a mother to me all these years. But
I'm not ungrateful to you, sir, and there is nothing I should like
better than to learn from you if it could be; but it cannot."
"I would not say another word, my boy, if I did not see a way out of
the difficulty. I like you the better for being grateful and faithful
to Betty, and I was not aware how dependent she has become upon you.
But I'll tell you how it can be managed. Instead of coming to live with
me, and studying hard, you must go on living here, and only give me so
many hours a day, say from ten a.m. to six in the evening. This will
give you time for your gardening under Betty, and your wages will be
better than your chance earnings now. What do you say to this?"
"May I just run home for a few moments at about one, sir, to see that
she gets her dinner?"
"It is not far; yes, we will manage that. You shall have your dinner at
our luncheon-time, which will save Betty a good deal of cooking."
"Mrs. Betty, does this suit you?"
"That it do!" said Betty. "I won't deny that my heart sank to think
of being without you, Fred, and seeing my poor garden, that's all my
living, going to waste. I was thinking it meant the poorhouse."
"Yet you wanted me to believe you were delighted. Oh, Mrs. Betty, I'm
ashamed of you! I never can thank you enough, Dr. Wentworth, but I'll
serve you faithfully," said the boy, earnestly; and, kneeling down
beside a patch of annuals, he began tenderly to pick out minute weeds
from among the tiny plants.
"Thin 'em, Fred, thin 'em. You're always too shy of thinning. Leave
each plant standing by itself. Yes, that's more like. Doctor, come
closer. I wouldn't allow this, but that I don't think it will be for
very long. I feel very weak sometimes, and they're all doing well, and
now that Fred's provided for, I'm quite ready to go. What is it now,
Fred?"
"I want to ask the doctor a question. Can you tell me, sir, what it
will cost to get a well-made wooden cross, with words cut on it and
painted for Frank? I've saved up a few shillings for it."
"I am going to town to-morrow, and I will order it for you; if it costs
more than you have saved, you must let me pay the rest, as my thanks to
you for all your care of our little grave. What shall I have carved on
it?"
"Just this, sir. First, 'Frank' by itself, and then 'Tell muddie I took
care of Fred.' That's to go across the arms of it. And below the date,
'September 14, 18—.'"
"Why, Fred, I'd no idea you understood or remembered those words,"
cried Betty. "You know, doctor, that's what the little fellow said."
"Yes," said Fred, "I never forgot them. Frank died to save me; I can
see that now. We called her muddie. Some day, perhaps, among the people
who come to see our church and the churchyard, there may be some one
who knows her, who will know what the words mean. Some day, I shall put
a marble cross with the whole story on it, but this will do now."
Fred went back to his weeding, and Dr. Wentworth said to Betty—
"I never heard the boy speak so much before."
"Nor I, sir."
"And he can say Frank and Fred now, I perceive."
"Oh yes, sir; only if he is in a hurry, he slips back into the old way.
Well, Dr. Wentworth, I'm easy in my mind about the boy now."
"You may be, Betty. As far as I can, I will make him my care. He is a
fine fellow."
So, when the midsummer holidays began, Fred left school and began
his new work. The doctor began to teach him enough Latin to read the
prescriptions, or at least that was what he first intended, but the
boy was so eager to learn that the lessons did not stop there, nor
was Latin the only thing studied. Study was a delight to the silent,
somewhat lonely boy, and he made such progress that the good doctor was
proud of his pupil.
And the cross was placed at the head of Frank's grave, but the doctor
persuaded Fred to allow him to give Frank's message in a slightly
different form. Thus—"His last words were a message to his mother, to
tell her that he had taken care of Fred."
For a little more than a year, this arrangement continued to work very
well. Fred became very useful to the doctor, and Betty had no reason
to feel neglected. Then the dear old woman began to fail more and more
rapidly, and Fred spent the greater part of his time with her, but it
was with the doctor's full consent.
One evening—it was now September, and Dr. Wentworth had told Fred that
old Betty could not last much longer—the boy was sitting beside the bed
on which she lay; not suffering, only, as she said herself, "dying, and
very slow about it." They had both been silent for some time, and when
she said suddenly, "Is there any one here but us two, Fred?" poor Fred
started, for his thoughts were far away.
"No, Betty. Mrs. Summers—" Betty's eldest daughter—"has gone home to
see after the children, and John and his wife are coming presently to
stay all night with you."
"Very good children they've always been to me, and I must tell their
father that, for he laid it on them to be good to me. But I'm glad of
a quiet half-hour with you, dear. Sometimes I think you're nearer my
heart than my own children. You're so young, I suppose that's it. It's
just the day, Fred, and very near the hour, when you came knocking,
with your little soft hand, at the door yonder. I think I'd like to die
to-night. I'd like to be able to say, 'Lord, I'm only a poor ignorant
and hardworking woman, and it was very little I ever could do, beyond
earning my bread; but there was one thing—the boy that was sent to me
this very night many years ago, I took him for Thy sake, and I wasn't
bad to him.' I think I'd like to say that."
"It is less than the truth, dear Mrs. Betty. You saved me from misery,
and made me as happy as one so parted from his own people, and with
Frank dead, could ever be. And you'll meet Frank."
"I'll tell him that you were worth saving," said the old woman, fondly.
"Now, my dear, just one word. I've no doubt you'll do well and prosper.
The doctor's fond of you, and he's a good man. But when you're a
gentleman, with learning, and money and all your heart can desire,
don't you forget what I say to you now: If you let those things fill
your heart so that you forget God, and never read the Bible, nor go to
church, nor pray, it would have been better for you if you had died
there on my hearthstone along with your little brother. Don't turn
God's favour into a misfortune, Fred. Mind, Frank's waiting for you
in heaven. Do you know why I say all this? Because I do fancy that,
although the doctor and his wife are kind and good, and will be true
friends to you, yet you won't learn from them such lessons as I'd have
you put first of all. Don't forget God, Fred dear, nor begin to have
high thoughts of yourself, and forget that you're just a sinner, and
want the Saviour, and will never get to heaven any other way. Will you
remember, dear?"
"I will, Betty. God helping me, I will. Oh, dear Betty, how good you've
been to me!"
"And you to me. Ah, here's John and my good Deb. Go you, Fred, and get
a little rest. You're tired out, I know."
Before the day dawned, the simple, true-hearted old woman had breathed
her last. And none of her children or grandchildren mourned for her
more truly, nor half so long, as did the boy she had so lovingly
befriended.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]