A CURE FOR DESPAIR.
[Illustration: LISHA WILKINS.]
When Christie opened the eyes that had closed so wearily, afternoon
sunshine streamed across the room, and seemed the herald of happier
days. Refreshed by sleep, and comforted by grateful recollections of
her kindly welcome, she lay tranquilly enjoying the friendly atmosphere
about her, with so strong a feeling that a skilful hand had taken the
rudder, that she felt very little anxiety or curiosity about the haven
which was to receive her boat after this narrow escape from shipwreck.
Her eye wandered to and fro, and brightened as it went; for though a
poor, plain room it was as neat as hands could make it, and so
glorified with sunshine that she thought it a lovely place, in spite of
the yellow paper with green cabbage roses on it, the gorgeous plaster
statuary on the mantel-piece, and the fragrance of dough-nuts which
pervaded the air. Every thing suggested home life, humble but happy,
and Christie’s solitary heart warmed at the sights and sounds about
her.
A half open closet-door gave her glimpses of little frocks and jackets,
stubby little shoes, and go-to-meeting hats all in a row. From below
came up the sound of childish voices chattering, childish feet trotting
to and fro, and childish laughter sounding sweetly through the Sabbath
stillness of the place. From a room near by, came the soothing creak of
a rocking-chair, the rustle of a newspaper, and now and then a scrap of
conversation common-place enough, but pleasant to hear, because so full
of domestic love and confidence; and, as she listened, Christie
pictured Mrs. Wilkins and her husband taking their rest together after
the week’s hard work was done.
“I wish I could stay here; it’s so comfortable and home-like. I wonder
if they wouldn’t let me have this room, and help me to find some better
work than sewing? I’ll get up and ask them,” thought Christie, feeling
an irresistible desire to stay, and strong repugnance to returning to
the room she had left, for, as Rachel truly said, it was haunted for
her.
When she opened the door to go down, Mrs. Wilkins bounced out of her
rocking-chair and hurried to meet her with a smiling face, saying all
in one breath:
“Good mornin’, dear! Rested well, I hope? I’m proper glad to hear it.
Now come right down and have your dinner. I kep it hot, for I couldn’t
bear to wake you up, you was sleepin’ so beautiful.”
“I was so worn out I slept like a baby, and feel like a new creature.
It was so kind of you to take me in, and I’m so grateful I don’t know
how to show it,” said Christie, warmly, as her hostess ponderously
descended the complaining stairs and ushered her into the tidy kitchen
from which tubs and flat-irons were banished one day in the week.
“Lawful sakes, the’ ain’t nothing to be grateful for, child, and you’re
heartily welcome to the little I done. We are country folks in our
ways, though we be livin’ in the city, and we have a reg’lar country
dinner Sundays. Hope you’ll relish it; my vittles is clean ef they
ain’t rich.”
As she spoke, Mrs. Wilkins dished up baked beans, Indian-pudding, and
brown bread enough for half a dozen. Christie was hungry now, and ate
with an appetite that delighted the good lady who vibrated between her
guest and her children, shut up in the “settin’-room.”
“Now please let me tell you all about myself, for I am afraid you think
me something better than I am. If I ask help from you, it is right that
you should know whom you are helping,” said Christie, when the table
was cleared and her hostess came and sat down beside her.
“Yes, my dear, free your mind, and then we’ll fix things up right
smart. Nothin’ I like better, and Lisha says I have considerable of a
knack that way,” replied Mrs. Wilkins, with a smile, a nod, and an air
of interest most reassuring.
So Christie told her story, won to entire confidence by the sympathetic
face opposite, and the motherly pats so gently given by the big, rough
hand that often met her own. When all was told, Christie said very
earnestly:
“I am ready to go to work to-morrow, and will do any thing I can find,
but I should love to stay here a little while, if I could; I do so
dread to be alone. Is it possible? I mean to pay my board of course,
and help you besides if you’ll let me.”
Mrs. Wilkins glowed with pleasure at this compliment, and leaning
toward Christie, looked into her face a moment in silence, as if to
test the sincerity of the wish. In that moment Christie saw what
steady, sagacious eyes the woman had; so clear, so honest that she
looked through them into the great, warm heart below, and looking
forgot the fuzzy, red hair, the paucity of teeth, the faded gown, and
felt only the attraction of a nature genuine and genial as the sunshine
dancing on the kitchen floor.
Beautiful souls often get put into plain bodies, but they cannot be
hidden, and have a power all their own, the greater for the
unconsciousness or the humility which gives it grace. Christie saw and
felt this then, and when the homely woman spoke, listened to her with
implicit confidence.
“My dear, I’d no more send you away now than I would my Adelaide, for
you need looking after for a spell, most as much as she doos. You’ve
been thinkin’ and broodin’ too much, and sewin’ yourself to death.
We’ll stop all that, and keep you so busy there won’t be no time for
the hypo. You’re one of them that can’t live alone without starvin’
somehow, so I’m jest goin’ to turn you in among them children to
paster, so to speak. That’s wholesome and fillin’ for you, and goodness
knows it will be a puffect charity to me, for I’m goin’ to be dreadful
drove with gettin’ up curtins and all manner of things, as spring comes
on. So it ain’t no favor on my part, and you can take out your board in
tendin’ baby and putterin’ over them little tykes.”
“I should like it so much! But I forgot my debt to Mrs. Flint; perhaps
she won’t let me go,” said Christie, with an anxious cloud coming over
her brightening face.
“Merciful, suz! don’t you be worried about her. I’ll see to her, and ef
she acts ugly Lisha’ll fetch her round; men can always settle such
things better’n we can, and he’s a dreadful smart man Lisha is. We’ll
go to-morrer and get your belongins, and then settle right down for a
spell; and by-an’-by when you git a trifle more chipper we’ll find a
nice place in the country some’rs. That’s what you want; nothin’ like
green grass and woodsy smells to right folks up. When I was a gal, ef I
got low in my mind, or riled in my temper, I jest went out and grubbed
in the gardin, or made hay, or walked a good piece, and it fetched me
round beautiful. Never failed; so I come to see that good fresh dirt is
fust rate physic for folk’s spirits as it is for wounds, as they tell
on.”
“That sounds sensible and pleasant, and I like it. Oh, it is so
beautiful to feel that somebody cares for you a little bit, and you
ain’t one too many in the world,” sighed Christie.
“Don’t you never feel that agin, my dear. What’s the Lord for ef He
ain’t to hold on to in times of trouble. Faith ain’t wuth much ef it’s
only lively in fair weather; you’ve got to believe hearty and stan’ by
the Lord through thick and thin, and He’ll stan’ by you as no one else
begins to. I remember of havin’ this bore in upon me by somethin’ that
happened to a man I knew. He got blowed up in a powder-mill, and when
folks asked him what he thought when the bust come, he said, real sober
and impressive: ‘Wal, it come through me, like a flash, that I’d served
the Lord as faithful as I knew how for a number a years, and I guessed
He’d fetch me through somehow, and He did.’ Sure enough the man warn’t
killed; I’m bound to confess he was shook dreadful, but his faith
warn’t.”
Christie could not help smiling at the story, but she liked it, and
sincerely wished she could imitate the hero of it in his piety, not his
powder. She was about to say so when the sound of approaching steps
announced the advent of her host. She had been rather impressed with
the “smartness” of Lisha by his wife’s praises, but when a small,
sallow, sickly looking man came in she changed her mind; for not even
an immensely stiff collar, nor a pair of boots that seemed composed
entirely of what the boys call “creak leather,” could inspire her with
confidence.
Without a particle of expression in his yellow face, Mr. Wilkins nodded
to the stranger over the picket fence of his collar, lighted his pipe,
and clumped away to enjoy his afternoon promenade without compromising
himself by a single word.
His wife looked after him with an admiring gaze as she said:
“Them boots is as good as an advertisement, for he made every stitch on
’em himself;” then she added, laughing like a girl: “It’s redick’lus my
bein’ so proud of Lisha, but ef a woman ain’t a right to think wal of
her own husband, I should like to know who has!”
Christie was afraid that Mrs. Wilkins had seen her disappointment in
her face, and tried, with wifely zeal, to defend her lord from even a
disparaging thought. Wishing to atone for this transgression she was
about to sing the praises of the wooden-faced Elisha, but was spared
any polite fibs by the appearance of a small girl who delivered an
urgent message to the effect, that “Mis Plumly was down sick and wanted
Mis Wilkins to run over and set a spell.”
As the good lady hesitated with an involuntary glance at her guest,
Christie said quickly:
“Don’t mind me; I’ll take care of the house for you if you want to go.
You may be sure I won’t run off with the children or steal the spoons.”
“I ain’t a mite afraid of anybody wantin’ to steal them little toads;
and as for spoons, I ain’t got a silver one to bless myself with,”
laughed Mrs. Wilkins. “I guess I will go, then, ef you don’t mind, as
it’s only acrost the street. Like’s not settin’ quiet will be better
for you ’n talkin’, for I’m a dreadful hand to gab when I git started.
Tell Mis Plumly I’m a comin’.”
Then, as the child ran off, the stout lady began to rummage in her
closet, saying, as she rattled and slammed:
“I’ll jest take her a drawin’ of tea and a couple of nut-cakes: mebby
she’ll relish ’em, for I shouldn’t wonder ef she hadn’t had a mouthful
this blessed day. She’s dreadful slack at the best of times, but no one
can much wonder, seein’ she’s got nine children, and is jest up from a
rheumatic fever. I’m sure I never grudge a meal of vittles or a hand’s
turn to such as she is, though she does beat all for dependin’ on her
neighbors. I’m a thousand times obleeged. You needn’t werry about the
children, only don’t let ’em git lost, or burnt, or pitch out a winder;
and when it’s done give ’em the patty-cake that’s bakin’ for ’em.”
With which maternal orders Mrs. Wilkins assumed a sky-blue bonnet, and
went beaming away with several dishes genteelly hidden under her purple
shawl.
Being irresistibly attracted toward the children Christie opened the
door and took a survey of her responsibilities.
Six lively infants were congregated in the “settin’-room,” and chaos
seemed to have come again, for every sort of destructive amusement was
in full operation. George Washington, the eldest blossom, was shearing
a resigned kitten; Gusty and Ann Eliza were concocting mud pies in the
ashes; Adelaide Victoria was studying the structure of lamp-wicks,
while Daniel Webster and Andrew Jackson were dragging one another in a
clothes-basket, to the great detriment of the old carpet and still
older chariot.
Thinking that some employment more suited to the day might be
introduced, Christie soon made friends with these young persons, and,
having rescued the kitten, banished the basket, lured the elder girls
from their mud-piety, and quenched the curiosity of the Pickwickian
Adelaide, she proposed teaching them some little hymns.
The idea was graciously received, and the class decorously seated in a
row. But before a single verse was given out, Gusty, being of a
house-wifely turn of mind, suggested that the patty-cake might burn.
Instant alarm pervaded the party, and a precipitate rush was made for
the cooking-stove, where Christie proved by ocular demonstration that
the cake showed no signs of baking, much less of burning. The family
pronounced themselves satisfied, after each member had poked a grimy
little finger into the doughy delicacy, whereon one large raisin
reposed in proud pre-eminence over the vulgar herd of caraways.
Order being with difficulty restored, Christie taught her flock an
appropriate hymn, and was flattering herself that their youthful minds
were receiving a devotional bent, when they volunteered a song, and
incited thereunto by the irreverent Wash, burst forth with a gem from
Mother Goose, closing with a smart skirmish of arms and legs that set
all law and order at defiance. Hoping to quell the insurrection
Christie invited the breathless rioters to calm themselves by looking
at the pictures in the big Bible. But, unfortunately, her explanations
were so vivid that her audience were fired with a desire to enact some
of the scenes portrayed, and no persuasions could keep them from
playing Ark on the spot. The clothes-basket was elevated upon two
chairs, and into it marched the birds of the air and the beasts of the
field, to judge by the noise, and all set sail, with Washington at the
helm, Jackson and Webster plying the clothes and pudding-sticks for
oars, while the young ladies rescued their dolls from the flood, and
waved their hands to imaginary friends who were not unmindful of the
courtesies of life even in the act of drowning.
[Illustration: MRS. WILKINS’ SIX LIVELY INFANTS.]
Finding her authority defied Christie left the rebels to their own
devices, and sitting in a corner, began to think about her own affairs.
But before she had time to get anxious or perplexed the children
diverted her mind, as if the little flibberty-gibbets knew that their
pranks and perils were far wholesomer for her just then than brooding.
The much-enduring kitten being sent forth as a dove upon the waters
failed to return with the olive-branch; of which peaceful emblem there
was soon great need, for mutiny broke out, and spread with disastrous
rapidity.
Ann Eliza slapped Gusty because she had the biggest bandbox; Andrew
threatened to “chuck” Daniel overboard if he continued to trample on
the fraternal toes, and in the midst of the fray, by some unguarded
motion, Washington capsized the ship and precipitated the patriarchal
family into the bosom of the deep.
Christie flew to the rescue, and, hydropathically treated, the anguish
of bumps and bruises was soon assuaged. Then appeared the appropriate
moment for a story, and gathering the dilapidated party about her she
soon enraptured them by a recital of the immortal history of “Frank and
the little dog Trusty.” Charmed with her success she was about to tell
another moral tale, but no sooner had she announced the name, “The
Three Cakes,” when, like an electric flash a sudden recollection seized
the young Wilkinses, and with one voice they demanded their lawful
prize, sure that now it must be done.
Christie had forgotten all about it, and was harassed with secret
misgivings as she headed the investigating committee. With skipping of
feet and clapping of hands the eager tribe surrounded the stove, and
with fear and trembling Christie drew forth a melancholy cinder, where,
like Casablanca, the lofty raisin still remained, blackened, but
undaunted, at its post.
Then were six little vials of wrath poured out upon her devoted head,
and sounds of lamentation filled the air, for the irate Wilkinses
refused to be comforted till the rash vow to present each member of the
outraged family with a private cake produced a lull, during which the
younger ones were decoyed into the back yard, and the three elders
solaced themselves with mischief.
Mounted on mettlesome broomsticks Andrew and Daniel were riding merrily
away to the Banbury Cross, of blessed memory, and little Vie was
erecting a pagoda of oyster-shells, under Christie’s superintendence,
when a shrill scream from within sent horsemen and architects flying to
the rescue.
Gusty’s pinafore was in a blaze; Ann Eliza was dancing frantically
about her sister as if bent on making a suttee of herself, while George
Washington hung out of window, roaring, “Fire!” “water!” “engine!”
“pa!” with a presence of mind worthy of his sex.
A speedy application of the hearth-rug quenched the conflagration, and
when a minute burn had been enveloped in cotton-wool, like a gem, a
coroner sat upon the pinafore and investigated the case.
It appeared that the ladies were “only playing paper dolls,” when Wash,
sighing for the enlightenment of his race, proposed to make a bonfire,
and did so with an old book; but Gusty, with a firm belief in future
punishment, tried to save it, and fell a victim to her principles, as
the virtuous are very apt to do.
The book was brought into court, and proved to be an ancient volume of
ballads, cut, torn, and half consumed. Several peculiarly developed
paper dolls, branded here and there with large letters, like
galley-slaves, were then produced by the accused, and the judge could
with difficulty preserve her gravity when she found “John Gilpin”
converted into a painted petticoat, “The Bay of Biscay, O,” situated in
the crown of a hat, and “Chevy Chase” issuing from the mouth of a
triangular gentleman, who, like Dickens’s cherub, probably sung it by
ear, having no lungs to speak of.
It was further apparent from the agricultural appearance of the room
that beans had been sowed broadcast by means of the apple-corer, which
Wash had converted into a pop-gun with a mechanical ingenuity worthy of
more general appreciation. He felt this deeply, and when Christie
reproved him for leading his sisters astray, he resented the liberty
she took, and retired in high dudgeon to the cellar, where he appeared
to set up a menagerie,—for bears, lions, and unknown animals, endowed
with great vocal powers, were heard to solicit patronage from below.
Somewhat exhausted by her labors, Christie rested, after clearing up
the room, while the children found a solace for all afflictions in the
consumption of relays of bread and molasses, which infantile
restorative occurred like an inspiration to the mind of their guardian.
Peace reigned for fifteen minutes; then came a loud crash from the
cellar, followed by a violent splashing, and wild cries of, “Oh, oh,
oh, I’ve fell into the pork barrel! I’m drownin’, I’m drownin’!”
Down rushed Christie, and the sticky innocents ran screaming after, to
behold their pickled brother fished up from the briny deep. A spectacle
well calculated to impress upon their infant minds the awful
consequences of straying from the paths of virtue.
At this crisis Mrs. Wilkins providentially appeared, breathless, but
brisk and beaming, and in no wise dismayed by the plight of her
luckless son, for a ten years’ acquaintance with Wash’s dauntless
nature had inured his mother to “didoes” that would have appalled most
women.
“Go right up chamber, and change every rag on you, and don’t come down
agin till I rap on the ceilin’; you dreadful boy, disgracin’ your
family by sech actions. I’m sorry I was kep’ so long, but Mis Plumly
got tellin’ her werryments, and ’peared to take so much comfort in it I
couldn’t bear to stop her. Then I jest run round to your place and told
that woman that you was safe and well, along’r friends, and would call
in to-morrer to get your things. She’d ben so scart by your not comin’
home that she was as mild as milk, so you won’t have no trouble with
her, I expect.”
“Thank you very much! How kind you are, and how tired you must be! Sit
down and let me take your things,” cried Christie, more relieved than
she could express.
“Lor’, no, I’m fond of walkin’, but bein’ ruther hefty it takes my
breath away some to hurry. I’m afraid these children have tuckered you
out though. They are proper good gen’lly, but when they do take to
trainen they’re a sight of care,” said Mrs. Wilkins, as she surveyed
her imposing bonnet with calm satisfaction.
“I’ve enjoyed it very much, and it’s done me good, for I haven’t
laughed so much for six months as I have this afternoon,” answered
Christie, and it was quite true, for she had been too busy to think of
herself or her woes.
“Wal, I thought likely it would chirk you up some, or I shouldn’t have
went,” and Mrs. Wilkins put away a contented smile with her cherished
bonnet, for Christie’s face had grown so much brighter since she saw it
last, that the good woman felt sure her treatment was the right one.
At supper Lisha reappeared, and while his wife and children talked
incessantly, he ate four slices of bread and butter, three pieces of
pie, five dough-nuts, and drank a small ocean of tea out of his saucer.
Then, evidently feeling that he had done his duty like a man, he gave
Christie another nod, and disappeared again without a word.
When she had done up her dishes Mrs. Wilkins brought out a few books
and papers, and said to Christie, who sat apart by the window, with the
old shadow creeping over her face:
“Now don’t feel lonesome, my dear, but jest lop right down on the soffy
and have a sociable kind of a time. Lisha’s gone down street for the
evenin’. I’ll keep the children as quiet as one woman can, and you may
read or rest, or talk, jest as you’re a mind.”
“Thank you; I’ll sit here and rock little Vie to sleep for you. I don’t
care to read, but I’d like to have you talk to me, for it seems as if
I’d known you a long time and it does me good,” said Christie, as she
settled herself and baby on the old settee which had served as a cradle
for six young Wilkinses, and now received the honorable name of sofa in
its old age.
Mrs. Wilkins looked gratified, as she settled her brood round the table
with a pile of pictorial papers to amuse them. Then having laid herself
out to be agreeable, she sat thoughtfully rubbing the bridge of her
nose, at a loss how to begin. Presently Christie helped her by an
involuntary sigh.
“What’s the matter, dear? Is there any thing I can do to make you
comfortable?” asked the kind soul, alert at once, and ready to offer
sympathy.
“I’m very cosy, thank you, and I don’t know why I sighed. It’s a way
I’ve got into when I think of my worries,” explained Christie, in
haste.
“Wal, dear, I wouldn’t ef I was you. Don’t keep turnin’ your troubles
over. Git atop of ’em somehow, and stay there ef you can,” said Mrs.
Wilkins, very earnestly.
“But that’s just what I can’t do. I’ve lost all my spirits and courage,
and got into a dismal state of mind. You seem to be very cheerful, and
yet you must have a good deal to try you sometimes. I wish you’d tell
me how you do it;” and Christie looked wistfully into that other face,
so plain, yet so placid, wondering to see how little poverty, hard
work, and many cares had soured or saddened it.
“Really I don’t know, unless it’s jest doin’ whatever comes along, and
doin’ of it hearty, sure that things is all right, though very often I
don’t see it at fust.”
“Do you see it at last?”
“Gen’lly I do; and if I don’t I take it on trust, same as children do
what older folks tell ’em; and byme-by when I’m grown up in spiritual
things I’ll understan’ as the dears do, when they git to be men and
women.”
That suited Christie, and she thought hopefully within herself:
“This woman has got the sort of religion I want, if it makes her what
she is. Some day I’ll get her to tell me where she found it.” Then
aloud she said:
“But it’s so hard to be patient and contented when nothing happens as
you want it to, and you don’t get your share of happiness, no matter
how much you try to deserve it.”
“It ain’t easy to bear, I know, but having tried my own way and made a
dreadful mess on ’t, I concluded that the Lord knows what’s best for
us, and things go better when He manages than when we go scratchin’
round and can’t wait.”
“Tried your own way? How do you mean?” asked Christie, curiously; for
she liked to hear her hostess talk, and found something besides
amusement in the conversation, which seemed to possess a fresh country
flavor as well as country phrases.
Mrs. Wilkins smiled all over her plump face, as if she liked to tell
her experience, and having hunched sleepy little Andy more comfortably
into her lap, and given a preparatory hem or two, she began with great
good-will.
“It happened a number a years ago and ain’t much of a story any way.
But you’re welcome to it, as some of it is rather humorsome, the laugh
may do you good ef the story don’t. We was livin’ down to the east’ard
at the time. It was a real pretty place; the house stood under a couple
of maples and a gret brook come foamin’ down the rayvine and away
through the medders to the river. Dear sakes, seems as ef I see it now,
jest as I used to settin’ on the doorsteps with the lay-locks all in
blow, the squirrels jabberin’ on the wall, and the saw-mill screekin’
way off by the dam.”
Pausing a moment, Mrs. Wilkins looked musingly at the steam of the
tea-kettle, as if through its silvery haze she saw her early home
again. Wash promptly roused her from this reverie by tumbling off the
boiler with a crash. His mother picked him up and placidly went on,
falling more and more into the country dialect which city life had not
yet polished.
“I oushter hev been the contentedest woman alive, but I warn’t, for you
see I’d worked at millineryin’ before I was married, and had an easy
time on’t, Afterwards the children come along pretty fast, there was
sights of work to do, and no time for pleasuring so I got wore out, and
used to hanker after old times in a dreadful wicked way.
“Finally I got acquainted with a Mis Bascum, and she done me a sight of
harm. You see, havin’ few pies of her own to bake, she was fond of
puttin’ her fingers into her neighborses, but she done it so neat that
no one mistrusted she was takin’ all the sarce and leavin’ all the
crust to them, as you may say. Wal, I told her my werryments and she
sympathized real hearty, and said I didn’t ought to stan’ it, but have
things to suit me, and enjoy myself, as other folks did. So when she
put it into my head I thought it amazin’ good advice, and jest went and
done as she told me.
“Lisha was the kindest man you ever see, so when I up and said I warn’t
goin’ to drudge round no more, but must hev a girl, he got one, and
goodness knows what a trial she was. After she came I got dreadful
slack, and left the house and the children to Hen’retta, and went
pleasurin’ frequent all in my best. I always was a dressy woman in them
days, and Lisha give me his earnin’s real lavish, bless his heart! and
I went and spent ’em on my sinful gowns and bunnets.”
Here Mrs. Wilkins stopped to give a remorseful groan and stroke her
faded dress, as if she found great comfort in its dinginess.
“It ain’t no use tellin’ all I done, but I had full swing, and at fust
I thought luck was in my dish sure. But it warn’t, seein’ I didn’t
deserve it, and I had to take my mess of trouble, which was needful and
nourishin’, ef I’d had the grace to see it so.
“Lisha got into debt, and no wonder, with me a wastin’ of his
substance; Hen’retta went off suddin’, with whatever she could lay her
hands on, and everything was at sixes and sevens. Lisha’s patience give
out at last, for I was dreadful fractious, knowin’ it was all my fault.
The children seemed to git out of sorts, too, and acted like time in
the primer, with croup and pins, and whoopin’-cough and temper. I
declare I used to think the pots and kettles biled over to spite each
other and me too in them days.
“All this was nuts to Mis Bascum, and she kep’ advisin’ and encouragin’
of me, and I didn’t see through her a mite, or guess that settin’ folks
by the ears was as relishin’ to her as bitters is to some. Merciful,
suz! what a piece a work we did make betwixt us! I scolded and moped
’cause I couldn’t have my way; Lisha swore and threatened to take to
drinkin’ ef I didn’t make home more comfortable; the children run wild,
and the house was gittin’ too hot to hold us, when we was brought up
with a round turn, and I see the redicklousness of my doin’s in time.
“One day Lisha come home tired and cross, for bills was pressin’, work
slack, and folks talkin’ about us as ef they’d nothin’ else to do. I
was dishin’ up dinner, feelin’ as nervous as a witch, for a whole batch
of bread had burnt to a cinder while I was trimmin’ a new bunnet, Wash
had scart me most to death swallerin’ a cent, and the steak had been on
the floor more’n once, owin’ to my havin’ babies, dogs, cats, or hens
under my feet the whole blessed time.
“Lisha looked as black as thunder, throwed his hat into a corner, and
came along to the sink where I was skinnin’ pertaters. As he washed his
hands, I asked what the matter was; but he only muttered and slopped,
and I couldn’t git nothin’ out of him, for he ain’t talkative at the
best of times as you see, and when he’s werried corkscrews wouldn’t
draw a word from him.
“Bein’ riled myself didn’t mend matters, and so we fell to hectorin’
one another right smart. He said somethin’ that dreened my last drop of
patience; I give a sharp answer, and fust thing I knew he up with his
hand and slapped me. It warn’t a hard blow by no means, only a kind of
a wet spat side of the head; but I thought I should have flew, and was
as mad as ef I’d been knocked down. You never see a man look so ’shamed
as Lisha did, and ef I’d been wise I should have made up the quarrel
then. But I was a fool. I jest flung fork, dish, pertaters and all into
the pot, and says, as ferce as you please:
“‘Lisha Wilkins, when you can treat me decent you may come and fetch me
back; you won’t see me till then, and so I tell you.’
“Then I made a bee-line for Mis Bascum’s; told her the whole story, had
a good cry, and was all ready to go home in half an hour, but Lisha
didn’t come.
“Wal, that night passed, and what a long one it was to be sure! and me
without a wink of sleep, thinkin’ of Wash and the cent, my emptins and
the baby. Next day come, but no Lisha, no message, no nuthin’, and I
began to think I’d got my match though I had a sight of grit in them
days. I sewed, and Mis Bascum she clacked; but I didn’t say much, and
jest worked like sixty to pay for my keep, for I warn’t goin’ to be
beholden to her for nothin’.
“The day dragged on terrible slow, and at last I begged her to go and
git me a clean dress, for I’d come off jest as I was, and folks kep’
droppin’ in, for the story was all round, thanks to Mis Bascum’s long
tongue.
“Wal, she went, and ef you’ll believe me Lisha wouldn’t let her in! He
handed my best things out a winder and told her to tell me they were
gittin’ along fust rate with Florindy Walch to do the work. He hoped
I’d have a good time, and not expect him for a consider’ble spell, for
he liked a quiet house, and now he’d got it.
“When I heard that, I knew he must be provoked the wust kind, for he
ain’t a hash man by nater. I could have crep’ in at the winder ef he
wouldn’t open the door, I was so took down by that message. But Mis
Bascum wouldn’t hear of it, and kep’ stirrin’ of me up till I was
ashamed to eat ’umble pie fust; so I waited to see how soon he’d come
round. But he had the best on’t you see, for he’d got the babies and
lost a cross wife, while I’d lost every thing but Mis Bascum, who grew
hatefuler to me every hour, for I begun to mistrust she was a
mischief-maker,—widders most always is,—seein’ how she pampered up my
pride and ’peared to like the quarrel.
“I thought I should have died more’n once, for sure as you live it went
on three mortal days, and of all miser’ble creeters I was the
miser’blest. Then I see how wicked and ungrateful I’d been; how I’d
shirked my bounden duty and scorned my best blessins. There warn’t a
hard job that ever I’d hated but what grew easy when I remembered who
it was done for; there warn’t a trouble or a care that I wouldn’t have
welcomed hearty, nor one hour of them dear fractious babies that didn’t
seem precious when I’d gone and left ’em. I’d got time to rest enough
now, and might go pleasuring all day long; but I couldn’t do it, and
would have given a dozin bunnets trimmed to kill ef I could only have
been back moilin’ in my old kitchen with the children hangin’ round me
and Lisha a comin’ in cheerful from his work as he used to ’fore I
spoilt his home for him. How sing’lar it is folks never do know when
they are wal off!”
“I know it now,” said Christie, rocking lazily to and fro, with a face
almost as tranquil as little Vic’s, lying half asleep in her lap.
“Glad to hear it, my dear. As I was goin’ on to say, when Saturday
come, a tremenjus storm set in, and it rained guns all day. I never
shall forgit it, for I was hankerin’ after baby, and dreadful worried
about the others, all bein’ croupy, and Florindy with no more idee of
nussin’ than a baa lamb. The rain come down like a reg’lar deluge, but
I didn’t seem to have no ark to run to. As night come on things got
wuss and wuss, for the wind blowed the roof off Mis Bascum’s barn and
stove in the butt’ry window; the brook riz and went ragin’ every which
way, and you never did see such a piece of work.
“My heart was most broke by that time, and I knew I should give in
’fore Monday. But I set and sewed and listened to the tinkle tankle of
the drops in the pans set round to ketch ’em, for the house leaked like
a sieve. Mis Bascurn was down suller putterin’ about, for every kag and
sarce jar was afloat. Moses, her brother, was lookin’ after his stock
and tryin’ to stop the damage. All of a sudden he bust in lookin’
kinder wild, and settin’ down the lantern, he sez, sez he: ‘You’re
ruthern an unfortinate woman to-night, Mis Wilkins.’ ‘How so?’ sez I,
as ef nuthin’ was the matter already. “‘Why,’ sez he, ‘the spilins have
give way up in the rayvine, and the brook ’s come down like a river,
upsot your lean-to, washed the mellion patch slap into the road, and
while your husband was tryin’ to git the pig out of the pen, the water
took a turn and swep him away.’
“‘Drownded?’ sez I, with only breath enough for that one word.
‘Shouldn’t wonder,’ sez Moses, ‘nothin’ ever did come up alive after
goin’ over them falls.’
“It come over me like a streak of lightenin’; every thin’ kinder slewed
round, and I dropped in the first faint I ever had in my life. Next I
knew Lisha was holdin’ of me and cryin’ fit to kill himself. I thought
I was dreamin’, and only had wits enough to give a sort of permiscuous
grab at him and call out:
“‘Oh, Lisha! ain’t you drownded?’ He give a gret start at that,
swallered down his sobbin’, and sez as lovin’ as ever a man did in this
world:
“‘Bless your dear heart, Cynthy, it warn’t me it was the pig;’ and then
fell to kissin’ of me, till betwixt laughin’ and cryin’ I was most
choked. Deary me, it all comes back so livin’ real it kinder takes my
breath away.”
And well it might, for the good soul entered so heartily into her story
that she unconsciously embellished it with dramatic illustrations. At
the slapping episode she flung an invisible “fork, dish, and pertaters”
into an imaginary kettle, and glared; when the catastrophe arrived, she
fell back upon her chair to express fainting; gave Christie’s arm the
“permiscuous grab” at the proper moment, and uttered the repentant
Lisha’s explanation with an incoherent pathos that forbid a laugh at
the sudden introduction of the porcine martyr.
“What did you do then?” asked Christie in a most flattering state of
interest.
“Oh, law! I went right home and hugged them children for a couple of
hours stiddy,” answered Mrs; Wilkins, as if but one conclusion was
possible.
“Did all your troubles go down with the pig?” asked Christie,
presently.
“Massy, no, we’re all poor, feeble worms, and the best meanin’ of us
fails too often,” sighed Mrs. Wilkins, as she tenderly adjusted the
sleepy head of the young worm in her lap. “After that scrape I done my
best; Lisha was as meek as a whole flock of sheep, and we give Mis
Bascum a wide berth. Things went lovely for ever so long, and though,
after a spell, we had our ups and downs, as is but natural to human
creeters, we never come to such a pass agin. Both on us tried real
hard; whenever I felt my temper risin’ or discontent comin’ on I
remembered them days and kep’ a taut rein; and as for Lisha he never
said a raspin’ word, or got sulky, but what he’d bust out laughin’
after it and say: ‘Bless you, Cynthy, it warn’t me, it was the pig.’”
Mrs. Wilkins’ hearty laugh fired a long train of lesser ones, for the
children recognized a household word. Christie enjoyed the joke, and
even the tea-kettle boiled over as if carried away by the fun.
“Tell some more, please,” said Christie, when the merriment subsided,
for she felt her spirits rising.
“There’s nothin’ more to tell, except one thing that prevented my ever
forgittin’ the lesson I got then. My little Almiry took cold that week
and pined away rapid. She’d always been so ailin’ I never expected to
raise her, and more ’n once in them sinful tempers of mine I’d thought
it would be a mercy ef she was took out of her pain. But when I laid
away that patient, sufferin’ little creeter I found she was the dearest
of ’em all. I most broke my heart to hev her back, and never, never
forgive myself for leavin’ her that time.” With trembling lips and full
eyes Mrs. Wilkins stopped to wipe her features generally on Andrew
Jackson’s pinafore, and heave a remorseful sigh.
“And this is how you came to be the cheerful, contented woman you are?”
said Christie, hoping to divert the mother’s mind from that too tender
memory.
“Yes,” she answered, thoughtfully, “I told you Lisha was a smart man;
he give me a good lesson, and it set me to thinkin’ serious. ’Pears to
me trouble is a kind of mellerin’ process, and ef you take it kindly it
doos you good, and you learn to be glad of it. I’m sure Lisha and me is
twice as fond of one another, twice as willin’ to work, and twice as
patient with our trials sense dear little Almiry died, and times was
hard. I ain’t what I ought to be, not by a long chalk, but I try to
live up to my light, do my duty cheerful, love my neighbors, and fetch
up my family in the fear of God. Ef I do this the best way I know how,
I’m sure I’ll get my rest some day, and the good Lord won’t forgit
Cynthy Wilkins. He ain’t so fur, for I keep my health wonderfle, Lisha
is kind and stiddy, the children flourishin’, and I’m a happy woman
though I be a humly one.”
There she was mistaken, for as her eye roved round the narrow room from
the old hat on the wall to the curly heads bobbing here and there,
contentment, piety, and mother-love made her plain face beautiful.
“That story has done me ever so much good, and I shall not forget it.
Now, good-night, for I must be up early to-morrow, and I don’t want to
drive Mr. Wilkins away entirely,” said Christie, after she had helped
put the little folk to bed, during which process she had heard her host
creaking about the kitchen as if afraid to enter the sitting-room.
She laughed as she spoke, and ran up stairs, wondering if she could be
the same forlorn creature who had crept so wearily up only the night
before.
It was a very humble little sermon that Mrs. Wilkins had preached to
her, but she took it to heart and profited by it; for she was a pupil
in the great charity school where the best teachers are often unknown,
unhonored here, but who surely will receive commendation and reward
from the head master when their long vacation comes.