HOW MRS. ALLISON MADE AMENDS.
MRS. BRADFORD passed the interval between her mother's death and
funeral in what Margaret called "a continual worritting." She was
ever harping on the money question, and wondering who would get the
best share, or if it would be "divided equal"; whether there was much
or little, and who would have the furniture, of which she knew Mrs.
Allison had the disposal. She professed to be surprised that Margaret
seemed so little moved by what excited herself so much.
"You take things very easy, Margaret," she said. "If you knew just what
was coming, you couldn't put yourself less about."
"I don't know, then," replied Margaret. "And more than that, I don't
trouble. Whatever mother had was her own, to do as she liked with, and
whoever gets it, you'll not hear me say she's done wrong. As to you,
Ann, it is always the money and not mother that is in your mind and on
your tongue. You could not trouble yourself less, if her that's lying
upstairs was a stranger, and naught akin to you, instead of your own
mother. Please never to say another word to me about the money, or I
shall be vexing you, and I don't want, 'specially at a time like this."
Mrs. Bradford was nothing if not prudent, and she took Margaret's hint,
but thought the more.
By Mr. Collinge's orders, decent mourning was ordered for each of the
sisters, so that, after all, as Ann remarked, Margaret's having ordered
a coloured bonnet did not matter so much, though "it would have come in
for second best if it had been black."
It was not deemed necessary for Adam Livesey to journey all the way
from Millborough to be at the funeral, and as to the children's
"black," it was to stay until their mother's return.
At length Mrs. Bradford's curiosity was set at rest—but alas! not her
mind—by the reading of the will.
It set forth that inasmuch as the testatrix had only a life interest in
a principal sum of twelve hundred pounds, that amount would be equally
divided between her four daughters, in accordance with their father's
will. That previous to, and during her widowhood, she had saved a sum
of two hundred and fifty pounds. Of this she left ten pounds to her
eldest daughter, Ann, "because she is better off than her sisters, and
has had more from me at various times. Beside which, she has told me
that she did not look for another penny from me, so she will receive,
by her own showing, more than she expected or desired."
To her daughters Eliza and Martha, fifty pounds each were left, and
certain articles of furniture and clothing were to be allotted to each,
as well as to Margaret, by way of keepsakes, Ann having already asked
for and received her full share. Then, after the payment of funeral
expenses and all just debts, the remainder of the money, and whatever
further sum might accrue from the sale of the furniture, was left
absolutely to Margaret, youngest daughter of the testatrix and wife of
Adam Livesey, of Millborough, Lancashire.
"There are no debts, I believe, except those for the funeral and the
doctor's bill, and they will be nearly met by the club moneys. So that
you, Mrs. Livesey, may reckon on coming into the hundred and forty
pounds, beside something from the furniture. There will be Government
duties to pay, of course, but near relationship lightens these," said
Mr. Collinge, as he folded up the will.
The scene which followed was not pleasant, though the two sisters Eliza
and Martha showed no disappointment, but tearfully owned it was good of
mother to have denied herself and worked to leave them all a bit extra,
when she might have spent every penny, and no blame to her. For their
parts, they were content for Margaret to have more than themselves, for
it was true that mother had done many a thing for those that were near
at hand, and nothing for her that had least to do with and most to do
for.
It gladdened Margaret's heart to hear these words, for she had started
from her chair, on being made acquainted with the terms of the will,
and looked from one to another, as if she could hardly believe them
true.
She took in their meaning when she remembered her mother's oft-repeated
expression, and the last on her lips, "I've made amends."
Margaret had to hear some fierce cruel words of reproach, all the more
cruel because untrue and undeserved, from her eldest sister, whose
disappointment and anger knew no bounds.
"So this is what you came for!" she cried. "It was to tell stories and
undermine me with poor mother, that you left your husband and children
for all this while, was it? I wondered, and so did other folks, that
you could stop away; but you thought it would pay you. And it has,
seemingly, for you've robbed us all of our rights, and me most of all.
But your tricks will come by you main. 'Ill-gotten, soon goes.'"
If Margaret had not been equally overcome by the thought of her
mother's kindness, and her way of making amends, and astonishment at
Mrs. Bradford's sudden attack, she would perhaps have said words in
reply that she would have been sorry for afterwards.
"Ann," she began, while the tears streamed down her checks, "I never
said anything to poor mother. I didn't know she had a penny laid by. As
for thinking she was going to leave me this money! How could I? If I'd
known of it, I should have thought it would go to all alike, or more to
you than me, when I hadn't seen mother for years."
Sobs stopped Mrs. Livesey's utterance, and though her sister did allude
to "crocodile tears," the sympathy was with Margaret, and Martha bade
her wipe her eyes and never mind, adding, "Better bear ill than do ill."
Mr. Collinge, too, interfered, and with authority, and told Mrs.
Bradford that her sister's coming could have had no influence upon
their mother, for Mrs. Allison's will had been made fully three months
before.
"Then what did you come here for last week, with Miss Collinge, if it
wasn't for her to witness something?" asked Mrs. Bradford, moved to
tears now, though not of sorrow for the loss of her mother.
The gentleman could hardly forbear a smile.
"I have no objection to tell you, Mrs. Bradford, though I am not
obliged to do so. I came in order that Mrs. Allison might place her
club books and some other necessary documents in my keeping. Also to
receive her instructions to furnish all her daughters with suitable
mourning, free of expense to themselves. If you object to this, you
can still pay for yours. Miss Collinge accompanied me, as she has
often done before, when I have called upon your mother—not a matter of
necessity, but out of good-will. As the directions were given and the
books handed over in her presence, she was so far a witness. In fact,
she took them out of a drawer in Mrs. Allison's room, at her request.
She also heard your mother say that she wished each of her daughters to
have what would make them equal, and the money she had saved unknown
to any of her children would insure this. She said that you, Mrs.
Bradford, suspected her of having put by a little, and wanted to get at
it. I could say more, but for your sake, I will be silent."
Mr. Collinge had been induced to speak thus frankly, in order to
defend Margaret, as well as to punish her elder sister for her greed
and unseemly display of temper on such an occasion. His words had the
effect intended, and Mrs. Bradford, instead of continuing the attack,
seemed glad to get away from the house, which was left in Margaret's
charge.
"The articles left to your sisters are all mentioned, and can be
removed without delay. Whatever the remainder produces will belong to
you, so you are the fittest person to take charge of them," said Mr.
Collinge.
"Eh, but I don't want to stay any longer than can be helped, sir,"
replied Mrs. Livesey. "Just think! I've been near on a month away from
my husband, and there are five more at home beside this—" indicating
the baby by a little jerk of the head in her direction. "I wouldn't
mind for a day or two, but I must be back at Millborough by the week
end."
"So you shall, Mrs. Livesey. This is Tuesday. I am sure you will be
able to return home on Friday," said Mr. Collinge, sympathising with
her anxiety.
The house and its contents were not difficult to deal with, so the
articles bequeathed to the elder sisters were promptly removed, those
which Mrs. Livesey chose to keep packed, and the remainder prepared for
sale by auction.
When Margaret started on her homeward journey, it was with a greatly
replenished wardrobe, many useful additions to her household goods,
and the certainty that, after all expenses were paid, she would have
at least a hundred and fifty pounds, in addition to the three hundred
which she had always known would come to her in due time.
Though Adam and his wife had exchanged several letters during her
absence, each was ignorant of much that had happened to the other.
How could Adam employ another hand to tell of the great inward change
which had taken place in himself? It is doubtful whether he could
have expressed in words the feelings uppermost in his mind, even had
Margaret been by his side to listen. Much less could he have conveyed
these thoughts in writing.
So the letters dealt only with the continued health of the children at
Millborough, and Margaret's told of the gradual fading of her mother,
until the end came.
Mrs. Livesey was eager for Adam to know about her unexpected windfall,
but unwilling that the tidings should reach him otherwise than from her
own lips. So she gave no hint of it in writing, though the extent of
her luggage puzzled the man not a little.
"Oh, Margaret! I am glad to see you. Give me baby till you get out,"
was Adam's greeting. "Long-looked-for, come at last!" And the man's
hands were extended to relieve his wife of the child, his much missed
pet and darling.
But a month is a long time in a baby's life, and Adam's youngest had
become unaccustomed to the sight of the bearded face in which she used
to delight to bury her fat fingers. She turned her head away from the
extended arms, buried it on her mother's shoulder, and clung round her
neck.
"It's dada, love," said Margaret. "Baby's own dada. He wants to lift
her down and carry her as she likes. See, my pet!" and she tried, but
in vain, to coax the child into looking at Adam.
"Eh dear! I must keep her myself till she gets used to you again. Who
would have thought it?"
"I might ha' done," said Adam, ruefully, for it gave the father's
loving heart a pang. "But we'll not frighten her. Let me help you out,
and then I'll get in and reach out your things. The train goes no
further, so there's no call to hurry yourself."
"I've a lot of things in the van beside these, Adam," said Mrs.
Livesey, indicating her smaller parcels, "and there's more yet to come
by goods train. You'll see there's a deal come back with me that didn't
go with me."
"I've got you and the little 'un safe back, and that's best of all,
however good the rest may be," said Adam. "And though you've had your
troubles, you look a deal better in the face—plumper like. And you've a
bit of nice fresh colour again, as you used to have. Not so much yet,
but something towards it, as if you were growing younger."
And Adam, as he noted these improvements, looked with a face full of
affection and pleasure at that of his wife.
Margaret smiled, and said, "Why, Adam, you might think I'd been at the
mill for grinding old folks into young 'uns again. Happen you'll grow
younger too, in a while, for I think I'm bringing what will ease your
mind. You must get a cab. We can't carry the luggage home as we brought
it here."
The cab was called, and, with no little pride on Margaret's part, and
surprise on Adam's, the many packages with Mrs. Livesey's name appended
were at length collected and piled thereon.
Then husband and wife got into the vehicle, and out came Margaret's
secret.
"Adam, my dear lad," said she, as glad tears came welling up into her
eyes, "Adam, mother told me, over and over, how sorry she was that she
left us in such a way, and that she'd taken so little notice of us
for years and years. She kept saying that she'd made amends, and so
she had. When her will was read, I found out what she meant, though
I couldn't understand before. She'd saved money, and she's left me a
great deal, the biggest share, besides most of her clothes, and her
watch, and some silver spoons, and a lot o' things more than I can tell
you all at once. I've brought what I could, and the others will be here
to-morrow. Just think, Adam! There'll be a hundred and fifty pound
extra, beside the three hundred."
Margaret repeated the last sentence slowly, and with much stress on
each word. She seemed to think this would be necessary, in order that
Adam might grasp news of such an amazing and unexpected character.
"I'm very glad, Margaret. It would comfort you so to know that your
mother was full of love to you at the last. It would be almost more
than money to hear her speak in that kind way. And I'm glad about what
she has left you, because your sisters married men that could do more
for them than I could ever do for you. This will make things so much
better for you and the little 'uns. Thank God!"
"For you too, Adam. It would be no pleasure to me, if you weren't to be
bettered by it."
Adam said he was sure it wouldn't. To begin with, it would give him an
easier mind to think that, come what might, there was this little sum
between his family and want. And again he murmured, "Thank God!"
Margaret did just notice these last words, accompanied as they were
with a look that she had never before seen on Adam's face; but her mind
was too full of her good fortune, and the distance to be traversed too
short to allow either of much thought or questioning. Then baby, who
had been gazing at her father with the inquiring steadiness peculiar to
the age of innocence, all at once awoke to the fact that he was not a
stranger, as she at first imagined.
Holding out her arms, she was received into those of Adam, who was
delighted to see his pet ready to spring toward him as the little
tongue once more shaped the word "Dada."
"She knows me now; little Bess knows dada," he said, as the plump arms
went round his neck and the rosy cheek nestled lovingly in the old
place, giving the father a sense of having recovered his tiny treasure.
A few more moments, and Margaret caught sight of the other five,
eagerly watching for mother's coming, and grouped about the door of
their cottage home.
[Illustration]
Their astonishment at seeing their parents arrive in a cab, like real
ladies and gentlemen ride in, almost rendered them speechless. But
amazement gave way to joy, and mother was welcomed and baby squabbled
over, each child being eager to take her, until, as Adam said, the
little thing was "fair moithered" with the noise they made, and
frightened at so many faces.
Little Bess settled the matter by clinging to her father with one arm
and dealing a vigorous slap at Maggie, when her eldest sister strove to
take her from his protecting grasp.
"Do be, children. You're fit to pull the child to pieces. Why, she'd
forgot her dada at first, and do you think she'd remember a set of
'ruffi'ns,' like you? Eh dear! I soon find out I'm among you again."
Though Mrs. Livesey called them 'ruffi'ns,' they all felt that she was
glad to be amongst them, for whilst Adam was handing out the packages,
a great deal of hugging and kissing had to be done. The mother was
not given to great displays of tenderness, but there was usually more
in her heart than in her actions. The sight of the little group safe,
well, and bearing about them all the signs of having been carefully
watched over, made her almost too glad for words, and there was
moisture in her eyes as she put down little Adam, "her baby but one."
Not till these greetings were over and the sound of the cab wheels had
died away, did Sarah Evans make her appearance, neat and smiling, and
with the words, "I'm glad to see you safe back, Mrs. Livesey."
The mother's eye had already travelled round the house, and long
experiences of its ins and outs enabled her to realize the beautiful
cleanliness of every part. There were no neglected shelves or dusty
corners; no windows dim with dirt, no unwashed crockery on table or
dresser.
It was high summer, so the one fire was in the little kitchen at the
back. There it blazed merrily, and the bright fender and the few tin
articles reflected its glow. The kettle sang a pleasant song, and a
little rasher of bacon, only meant for the newly arrived house-mother,
sent out a savoury smell to greet the nostrils of the tired and hungry
traveller.
Mrs. Livesey's first words to Sarah Evans were not an answer to the
young woman's greeting, but they came straight from the mother's heart.
"Eh! But you've done well by them all since I've been away. I'm sure I
don't know how to thank you."
The words were just what Sarah had worked to win, and her bright face
told that she regarded them as far better payment than the modest sum
which had hitherto rewarded her services.
The girl busied herself in taking off Margaret's things, giving her
warm water to wash with, and bestowing on her all the kindly attentions
which cannot be bought, but which proceed from an honest and good heart.
They were very grateful to Margaret, who said, "Dear, dear, I'm not
used to be waited on. It's mostly my work to run about after other
folks."
But Sarah continued her thoughtful ministry until the meal was over,
and the younger children in bed. Then, when she had done what she
could, she said, "I'll be going home now, for mother hasn't been so
well the last day or two. She'll be glad to see me, and you and Mr.
Livesey 'll have plenty to talk about. But I'll come over for an hour
or two in the morning, to fetch a few things that I can't take with me
to-night, and if I can just help you to straighten up, I will."
So, with true delicacy and thought for others, Sarah Evans left husband
and wife alone together as soon as possible.