"IN SERVICE TO MY AUNT"
EARLY the next morning she woke, and hearing by her aunt's heavy
breathing that she was sound asleep, she cautiously sat up in her
little iron bed.
She would like to have drawn aside the old curtain from the window, but
she dared not cross the floor.
Her aunt was a light sleeper, and her only chance of an uninterrupted
time was whilst Mrs. Perkins was unconscious of her presence.
So, as quickly as she could, she propped up her bit of glass against
the wall, and proceeded to array herself in her cap. It was rather
a difficult process. First her hair had to be rolled up in a little
knob, and it was too short to be tractable. Ends kept sticking out, and
then nothing would induce the cap to keep in its rightful position.
She pinned it here, and she pinned it there, and each time got it more
crooked. But patience and perseverance at last won the day, and Peggy
surveyed herself with rapture.
"Yes," she said aloud, with a pleased nod at her reflection. "You look
a first-rate servant, Peg. Quite a proper one, and you could open the
door to a dook quite nice. 'Come in, sir, please. Glad to see you, sir.
Will tell my missus you're here, sir. Yes.' Oh lor!"
Her head was tossed so high, that off flew her cap, and a querulous
voice broke in upon her make-believe.
"Now what on earth are you doin' of, Peg? Are you going crazy? What are
you a-dressin up for, at this time o' mornin'?"
Peggy's cheeks turned crimson. She scrambled into bed.
"Are you crazed?" repeated her aunt. "Tell me what you're a-doin' of.
Lookin' like a monkey with a white thing on yer 'ead! Speak at once,
you good-for-nothin'!"
But Peggy felt overwhelmed with shame and confusion. "I 'spect I was
dreamin', Aunt. Leastways you'd think so—I was—I was playin' at bein' a
servant."
She made her confession in a contrite tone.
"Little fool!" said her aunt, but she turned over in her bed and went
to sleep again, and Peggy did not stir till a clock outside struck
seven, and then with a sigh she got out of bed, and carefully secreted
her bit of glass and her cap under her mattress. It was her only
hiding-place, and had held many a queer assortment of articles from
time to time.
When she was dressed, she went out to get a 'ha'poth' of milk for
breakfast, and this was the time that she took to pass through a quiet,
respectable street, not very far away, where servant-girls were to be
seen cleaning the doorsteps. This street—Nelson Street by name—had a
fascination for her; she took great note of the different caps and
aprons worn, and occasionally was fortunate enough to exchange words
with some of these envied young people.
To-day she addressed a new-comer on the doorstep of No. 6. Peggy had
seen a good many fresh girls on these particular doorsteps; some of
them had stayed a few weeks, others for a few days. She always knew the
fresh arrivals by the cleanliness of their gowns and the tidiness of
their hair; but this new-comer seemed a shade fresher and cleaner than
any she had yet seen. She had red hair and rosy cheeks, and her gown
was nearer Mrs. Creek's pattern lilac one than any Peggy had noted.
"You're new," asserted Peggy, as she came to a standstill.
The girl turned and looked at her.
"Who are you?"
She did not say it rudely, but with curiosity. Peggy had had many a
snub from those servant-girls; few of them would deign to notice her,
so she was quite prepared to be ignored.
"Oh," she said, looking at her questioner going admiringly, "I'm going
into a place one day, and I comes and looks along this street, and
wonders which house I'd like to be in. Who lives in yours? Any one
beside the lady that scolds?"
"That be my missus right enough, for I only come in day 'for yesterday,
and never have done nothin' right since. There be two gentlemen
lodgers, and one first-floor lady that teaches music."
"Oh," sighed Peggy, depositing her small milk jug on the step, and
placing her arms akimbo. "If only I could get into service, I'd be real
happy."
"I live down in Kent," explained the red-haired girl. "But the country
is too quiet, I want London; and so I've come up to my uncle's
step-sister."
"But the best places must be in the country," said Peggy. "I'd a deal
rather live out o' London. 'Tis so much cleaner for yer caps and
aprons—Mrs. Creak says so."
"You are a queer one," said the red-haired girl, staring at her.
Then a voice from an open window called to her—
"Liza, Liza! Come this minute!"
She darted indoors with pail and broom.
Peggy walked on.
"No," she said; "I won't take Liza's place, not if I know it!"
She went into Mrs. Creak's little shop soon again.
"You see, 'm," she said, "I believe if some one was to come and talk my
aunt over, she might let me go. There's a girl on the ground floor who
would do for her for sixpence a week. Now, if I was out, wouldn't I be
gettin' that?"
"Well, yes, dearie, and a good bit more."
"Then I'd be able to pay the girl, and aunt would be looked after. Oh,
please 'm, couldn't yer come round one day and talk to aunt."
Mrs. Creak shook her head doubtfully.
"I couldn't myself, but there's the district lady. I could speak to
her."
"She's no good," said Peggy. "Aunt won't let her indoors. She says she
talks too much religion. She giv' her a trac' one day called 'The Happy
Cripple,' and aunt said she were pokin' fun at her."
"Ah," said Mrs. Creak, with a little sigh, "your aunt ain't found out
that happiness is found in the very folk who seem to have the least
to make 'em happy. I should say your aunt would be better for more
religion, my dear."
Peggy leant forward and spoke under her breath—
"She don't like God, 'm, and that's the real fac'! When her legs were
hurt under the waggon, and she never walked agen, she giv' up sayin'
prayers."
"Poor thing! I never knowed your aunt, Peggy. She were a cripple when
I come here, and a person that kept her door shut to most folks. It's
like a person shuttin' out the light o' day, to shut out the Almighty."
Peggy nodded.
"And so I wants to leave her and go to service. Please 'm, did you ever
hear in the Bible of a leper capting and a little servant-maid?"
"Why, certain I have. 'Tis Naaman you'll be meaning."
"That be his name. I'm wantin' to get a place like that. I dessay she
weren't older than me, and see what a lot o' good she did! I mean do an
orful lot o' good when I goes into my place!"
Mrs. Creak gazed at the child's big earnest eyes for a moment without
speaking. Then she put down the stocking she was darning, and tapped
her thimble on the counter.
"Now listen to me, Peggy Perkins. You're in a place now, and in the
place that God Almighty chose for you. You're a little maid to a poor,
unhappy cripple, who can't move from her bed. Now what good do you ever
try to do to her?"
Peggy looked quite startled.
"Why, 'm, aunt is just aunt; I ain't in service."
"Yes you be, dearie. You be servin' her day in and day out. Do you ever
try to make her feel a bit happier? Do you tell her of bits you hear in
Sunday School, to make her know that God still loves her?"
Peggy drew a long breath.
"Why, I never says nothin' to her more than I can help."
Customers as usual interrupted the conversation, but Peggy departed
from the sweet-shop with new ideas in her head.
"'Tis as teacher said to you, Peggy—you're a lookin' for big things and
not mindin' the little. But, oh lor! To think of me bein' in service to
my aunt! If she were a missis, I wonder if I'd like her better!"
She pondered slowly as she walked down the street.
"Wonder what that there maidservant in the Bible would have done if
she'd been lookin' after aunt! But there's no cure for cripples that I
knows of, or I might be able to do her good."
She passed a flower-girl selling violets, then she looked back at her,
and a bright idea struck her.
Hastily she felt for one of her precious coppers, and after
considerable haggling over the bunches, she selected one, paid her
penny, and ran off home as fast as her legs could carry her.
When she came in she found her aunt lying down, her work, untouched,
by her side. This was such an unusual sight that Peggy was quite taken
aback.
She stepped across the room quietly.
"I've brought you some vi'lets, Aunt, to smell."
Mrs. Perkins turned in her bed. Her face looked white and drawn.
"I've that queer pain in my side agen, Peg," she murmured. "Give me a
drop o' gin and hot water."
Peggy put down her violets hastily, and went to the cupboard for the
gin bottle, which, for Mrs. Perkins' credit, I must say, was hardly
ever used by her.
She soon brought her some hot drink in a tumbler.
Mrs. Perkins seemed better after she had drunk it, and once more sat up
in bed.
"It took me all of a sudden," she explained; "and I've a lot of work to
be got through. Here, Peggy, give me over that wool. Did you say you
'ad some vi'lets? Where did you get 'em?"
"I bought 'em, Aunt."
"Bought vi'lets!" Mrs. Perkins' tone changed. "Why, you wicked,
wasteful girl! And where did you get the money? Me lyin' here and
slavin' from morn to night to keep us from starvin', and you out in
the streets a-buying flowers like any carriage lady! You ought to be
ashamed of yerself, that you did!"
Peggy hung her head.
"I bought 'em for you," she murmured. "I thought as 'ow you'd like to
smell 'em!"
Mrs. Perkins gave a scornful smile.
"A very likely story. Don't you tell me no more lies! Bought 'em for
me, indeed! When did you ever do such a wonder? The skies might fall
before you'd give a thought to your sick aunt! You takes her money and
vittles, and the clothes she gives yer, and you grumbles at all you has
to do for her. Oh! If ever you loses your legs and lies on a hard bed,
may you know what it is to have an ungrateful girl a-waitin' on yer!"
A sullen look crossed Peggy's face. She did not attempt to argue the
matter out, or prove herself in the right. But she felt as if she
would never try to do a kindness to her aunt again. She began to make
preparations for tea, and she pitched the violets down on the floor.
That gave an occasion for another scolding, and Mrs. Perkins finally
gave orders that the flowers were to be put in a tumbler of fresh water
and placed on the window-ledge.
"I only 'opes as you came by 'em honest; but there's no sayin'. I may
as well 'ave the good of 'em now they're here."
Peggy was wakened out of her sleep that night by a call from her aunt.
"That old pain agen! It must be those shrimps I took. Oh dear! Oh dear!
I feel as if I can't bear it!"
"Shall I rub you?" asked Peggy.
When her aunt seemed weak and helpless, she felt pity for her at once.
Mrs. Perkins let her try to rub her. Some more gin and water was
administered, and then she seemed easier. Peggy sat at the bottom of
the bed and watched her.
"Ah!" Mrs. Perkins said, with a groan. "I dessay my days are numbered.
These pains are cruel; they must mean somethin'. But if I die, there
'll be no one to miss me."
"I shall, Aunt," said Peggy honestly. "I've been thinkin' I'll be a
better girl to you. And I'll tell you what I hears in Sunday School,
and anythin' to make you a bit happier!"
Mrs. Perkins groaned, and shook her head.
"There's nothin' will make me happy," she said; "but there be plenty of
room for improvement in you, Peg."
"Yea," said Peggy, humbly and determinedly. "I've made my mind up to do
yer good, same as the servant-maid did to the leper capting. An' I'll
tell yer all I hears, and you can pick out the bits that soot yer, and
ease your mind like."
"I don't want ter hear religion," said Mrs. Perkins, with an indignant
sniff. "If there be a God, He have treated me shameful! I won't have
nothin' to do with Him!"
"God loves yer, Mrs. Creak says," said Peggy undaunted. She was still
sitting at the bottom of the bed, staring at her aunt; and now her eyes
took a dreamy turn. "Anyways, you ain't been mocked and whipped and
crucified, same as Jesus Christ, and God loved Him ever so, teacher
said so. I s'pose as how God loved us ever so, and let us come first,
when the Crucifixion come along!"
"Get into bed with yer, and don't talk my 'ead off!" was the irritable
comment of Mrs. Perkins.
Peggy promptly obeyed.
When she woke the next morning, her aunt was much as usual. The
midnight talk seemed a dream; neither of them alluded to it, and life
went on as before till the following Sunday.
Peggy went to school that morning with a fixed resolve in her busy
brain.
She lingered behind the other children when school was over.
"Please, teacher, I wants to arsk you somethink."
"Then you shall walk to church with me, Peggy. We are quite early, so
sit down again. What is it?"
"Please, teacher, is there no ways of gettin' a cripple cured now, same
as the leper capting in the Bible?"
"You mean Naaman? Well, no, Peggy. God does not work miracles now, nor
let His servants do it; there is no need."
Peggy's face fell.
"Then poor cripples can't be done good to by no one?"
"Oh yes, indeed," and Miss Gregory's face brightened. "Their hearts may
be made well and sound and happy, Peggy; and after all, that is the
best part of us, isn't it? We think a lot of our body, with its aches
and pains, but it is only a cage. I passed down a narrow dark street
yesterday, and outside a window there was a thrush, singing as sweetly
as if he were perched on a tree with a beautiful green world all around
him. Do you know where thrushes generally live, Peggy? In the sweet
country, with flowers and dew-laden grass, and the free, clear air to
fly in, with nothing above them but the infinite blue, and other birds
to live and play with all day long. That is the world to sing in, and
this little fellow was in a smoke-grimed cage about a foot square; he
could only see soot and dust and fog, and screaming, quarrelsome men
and women, and children who sometimes tried to hit him with stones.
Yet he sang his song as merrily and sweetly as any free, country bird.
He had a happy heart. And if we have a crippled body, we can have a
singing heart."
"How?" said Peggy, with big eyes and still bigger thoughts.
"By asking Jesus to come into our hearts and make them sing. Have you
ever asked Jesus to come into yours, Peggy?"
"I prays to Him," said Peggy reflectively; "but I don't expec' He'd
care to live in my heart. It ain't fit for Him. Aunt says I be a wicked
girl."
"However wicked your heart is, it can be washed whiter than snow,
Peggy. Jesus will do that if you give your heart to Him. He will make
your heart fit to receive Him, and if He 'abides in us,' we are told we
shall bring forth much fruit; you will be helped to be good and guarded
from evil if Jesus is taking charge of you."
"I'd like Him to," said Peggy, with a determined little nod.
"Then shall we kneel down here together and ask Him? You speak to Him,
Peggy, and remember that He is waiting to hear and answer you."
So Peggy bent her head and shut her eyes.
"I arsk you, Lord Jesus, to take hold of my heart and wash it, and make
it proper; and please come into it and give me a singin' heart, and I
gives it up to you like teacher says I ought. And please help me to be
good, for I'm awful wicked."
There was a little silence in the empty schoolroom. Then Miss Gregory
prayed aloud for her little scholar, that she might be kept a true and
faithful little follower of her Saviour. And when they rose from their
feet, Peggy's face was very sweet and serious.
"I'm never goin' to be wicked no more," she asserted.
Miss Gregory smiled, then told her to follow her to church; and on the
way talked very earnestly to her, trying to make her realise how weak
she was in herself, and how strong her Saviour.
When Peggy reached home, and sat down to the luxury of a mutton chop
with her aunt, she began to think how she could pass on what she had
heard. It was very difficult. Mrs. Perkins was more discontented on
Sunday than any other day in the week. She had time for airing her
grievances, and her tongue certainly never had a Sabbath's rest, if her
hands had.
"Aunt," said Peggy at length, bringing out her words with a jerk, "do
you ever feel like singing?"
"Are you givin' me some of yer imperence?" was the angry retort.
"Oh no, I ain't a-goin' to sauce yer! Teacher, was a-tellin' me of a
sick body havin' a singin' heart."
"I dessay," Mrs. Perkins said scornfully. "Let yer teacher wait till
she has a sick body, and then let her sing!"
"I 'spect she would," said Peggy thoughtfully. "She says how you does
it is to ask Jesus to come into your heart, and He'll make it sing."
Mrs. Perkins gave a contemptuous snort.
Peggy gained courage, and proceeded—
"I was arskin' her if sick folk that couldn't be cured by doctors could
be done any good to, and she says, 'Yes, their hearts could be made
well and sound and 'appy. It sounds cheerful like, don't it? I thought
as 'ow you'd like to hear it."
"Much obliged," said Mrs. Perkins sarcastically.
There was silence. The meal was finished. Peggy washed up and tidied
the room. Her aunt lay back in her bed, and appeared to be studying a
Sunday paper. But suddenly Peggy heard her give a little cry.
"That there pain agen! Oh for! Whatever shall I do? 'Tis a-takin' hold
o' my inside, like a lobster's claws!"
"I'll get the gin," said Peggy.
But her aunt would have none of it. She moaned and cried, and then
began to talk incoherently.
"'Tis nay 'eart, I know 'tis, and I shall be dead before long. A 'appy
heart! Ay, 'tis fine talkin'! Singin'! I mind in Sunday School I could
sing the 'eartiest o' them. How does it go?
"'Oh for a 'eart to praise my God,
A 'eart from sin set free.
A 'eart that's sprinkled with the blood
So freely shed for me.'
"What do you say, Peg, about the love o' God? Oh lor! Oh, fetch the
doctor, quick, quick!"
A spasm of agony seemed to pass over her.
Peggy rushed from the room.
"Mrs. Jones!" she shouted at that good woman's door. "Go to aunt. She
be mortal bad! I'm off for the doctor."
It was not long before she was back again with the young practitioner
who lived not far away. But Mrs. Perkins was already beyond all human
aid, and Peggy for the first time in her life realised what an awfully
sudden and unexpected messenger Death may sometimes be.