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LITTLE NETTIE.
[Illustration: MR. MATHIESON STALKED OUT OF THE HOUSE AND STRODE
ALONG THE ROAD.]
LITTLE NETTIE;
OR,
HOME SUNSHINE.
BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD,"
ETC., ETC.
LONDON:
FREDERICK WARNE & CO.
AND NEW YORK.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--_Saturday Evening's Work_ 5
II.--_Sunday's Rest_ 23
III.--_Nettie's Garret_ 57
IV.--_The Brown Cloak in November_ 67
V.--_The New Blanket_ 77
VI.--_The House-Raising_ 88
VII.--_The Waffles_ 97
VIII.--_The Golden City_ 115
LITTLE NETTIE;
OR,
HOME SUNSHINE.
CHAPTER I.
_SATURDAY EVENING'S WORK._
"Tender and only beloved in the sight of my mother."--
_Prov._ iv. 3.
Down in a little hollow, with the sides grown full of wild thorn, alder
bushes, and stunted cedars, ran the stream of a clear spring. It ran
over a bed of pebbly stones, showing every one, as if there had been no
water there, so clear it was; and it ran with a sweet soft murmur or
gurgle over the stones, as if singing to itself and the bushes as it
ran.
On one side of the little stream a worn footpath took its course among
the bushes; and down this path, one summer's afternoon, came a woman
and a girl. They had pails to fill at the spring: the woman had a large
wooden one and the girl a light tin pail; and they drew the water with
a little tin dipper, for it was not deep enough to let a pail be used
for that. The pails were filled in silence, only the spring always was
singing; and the woman and girl turned and went up the path again.
After getting up the bank, which was only a few feet, the path still
went gently rising through a wild bit of ground, full of trees and low
bushes; and not far off, through the trees, there came a gleam of bright
light from the window of a house on which the setting sun was shining.
Half-way to the house the girl and the woman stopped to rest; for water
is heavy, and the tin pail, which was so light before it was filled, had
made the little girl's figure bend over to one side like a willow branch
all the way from the spring. They stopped to rest, and even the woman
had a very weary, jaded look.
"I feel as if I shall give up some of these days," she exclaimed.
"Oh, no, mother!" the little girl answered, cheerfully. She was panting,
with her hand on her side, and her face had a quiet, very sober look;
only at those words a little pleasant smile broke over it.
"I shall," said the woman. "One can't stand everything,--for ever."
The little girl had not got over panting yet, but standing there, she
struck up the sweet air and words,--
"'There is rest for the weary,
There is rest for the weary,
There is rest for the weary,
There is rest for you.'"
"Yes, in the grave!" said the woman bitterly. "There's no rest short of
that--for mind or body."
"Oh, yes, mother dear. 'For we which have believed do enter into rest.'
The Lord Jesus don't make us wait."
"I believe you eat the Bible and sleep on the Bible," said the woman,
with a faint smile, taking at the same time a corner of her apron to
wipe away a stray tear which had gathered in her eye. "I am glad it
rests you, Nettie."
"And you, mother."
"Sometimes," Mrs. Mathieson answered with a sigh. "But there's your
father going to bring home a boarder, Nettie."
"A boarder, mother!--What for?"
"Heaven knows!--if it isn't to break my back and my heart together. I
thought I had enough to manage before, but here's this man coming, and
I've got to get everything ready for him by to-morrow night."
"Who is it, mother?"
"It's one of your father's friends; so it's no good," said Mrs.
Mathieson.
"But where can he sleep?" Nettie asked, after a moment of thinking.
Her mother paused.
"There's no room but yours he can have. Barry won't be moved."
"Where shall I sleep, mother?"
"There's no place but up in the attic. I'll see what I can do to fit up
a corner for you--if I ever can get time," said Mrs. Mathieson, taking
up her pail. Nettie followed her example, and certainly did not smile
again till they reached the house. They went round to the front door,
because the back door belonged to another family. At the door, as they
set down their pails again before mounting the stairs, Nettie smiled at
her mother very placidly, and said,
"Don't you go to fit up the attic, mother; I'll see to it in time. I can
do it just as well."
Mrs. Mathieson made no answer, but groaned internally, and they went up
the flight of steps which led to their part of the house. The ground
floor was occupied by somebody else. A little entry-way received the
wooden pail of water, and with the tin one Nettie went into the room
used by the family. It was her father and mother's sleeping-room, their
bed standing in one corner. It was the kitchen apparently, for a small
cooking-stove was there, on which Nettie put the tea-kettle when she
had filled it. And it was the common living-room also; for the next
thing she did was to open a cupboard and take out cups and saucers,
and arrange them on a leaf table which stood toward one end of the room.
The furniture was wooden and plain; the woodwork of the windows was
unpainted; the cups and plates were of the commonest kind; and the floor
had no covering but two strips of rag carpeting; nevertheless the whole
was tidy and very clean, showing constant care. Mrs. Mathieson had sunk
into a chair as one who had no spirit to do anything, and watched her
little daughter setting the table with eyes which seemed not to see her.
They gazed inwardly at something she was thinking of.
"Mother, what is there for supper?"
"There is nothing. I must make some porridge." And Mrs. Mathieson got up
from her chair.
"Sit you still, mother, and I'll make it. I can."
"If both our backs are to be broken," said Mrs. Mathieson, "I'd rather
mine would break first." And she went on with her preparations.
"But you don't like porridge," said Nettie. "You didn't eat anything
last night."
"That's nothing, child. I can bear an empty stomach, if only my brain
wasn't quite so full."
Nettie drew near the stove and looked on, a little sorrowfully.
"I wish you had something you liked, mother! If only I was a little
older, wouldn't it be nice? I could earn something then, and I would
bring you home things that you liked out of my own money."
This was not said sorrowfully, but with a bright gleam as of some
fancied and pleasant possibility. The gleam was so catching, Mrs.
Mathieson turned from her porridge-pot, which she was stirring, to give
a very heartfelt kiss to Nettie's lips; then she stirred on, and the
shadow came over her face again.
"Dear," she said, "just go in Barry's room and straighten it up a little
before he comes in--will you? I haven't had a minute to do it, all day;
and there won't be a bit of peace if he comes in and it isn't in order."
Nettie turned and opened another door, which let her into a small
chamber used as somebody's bed-room. It was all brown like the other,
a strip of the same carpet in the middle of the floor, and a small
cheap chest of drawers, and a table. The bed had not been made up, and
the tossed condition of the bed-clothes spoke for the strength and
energy of the person that used them, whoever he was. A pair of coarse
shoes were in the middle of the whole; another pair, or rather a
pair of half-boots, out at the toes, were in the middle of the floor;
stockings,--one under the bed and one under the table. On the table was
a heap of confusion; and on the little bureau were to be seen pieces
of wood, half-cut and uncut, with shavings, and the knife and saw that
had made them. Old newspapers, and school-books, and a slate, and two
kites, with no end of tails, were lying over every part of the room that
happened to be convenient; also an ink-bottle and pens, with chalk and
resin and a medley of unimaginable things beside, that only boys can
collect together and find delight in. If Nettie sighed as all this
hurly-burly met her eye, it was only an internal sigh. She set about
patiently bringing things to order. First she made the bed, which it
took all her strength to do, for the coverlets were of a very heavy
and coarse manufacture of cotton and woollen mixed, blue and white; and
then gradually she found a way to bestow the various articles in Barry's
apartment, so that things looked neat and comfortable. But perhaps it
was a little bit of a sign of Nettie's feelings, that she began softly
to sing to herself,--
"'There is rest for the weary.'"
"Hallo!" burst in a rude boy of some fifteen years, opening the door
from the entry,--"who's puttin' my room to rights?"
A very gentle voice said, "I've done it, Barry."
"What have you done with that pine log?"
"Here it is,--in the corner behind the bureau."
"Don't you touch it, now, to take it for your fire,--mind, Nettie!
Where's my kite?"
"You won't have time to fly it now, Barry; supper will be ready in two
minutes."
"What have you got?"
"The same kind we had last night."
"_I_ don't care for supper." Barry was getting the tail of his kite
together.
"But please, Barry, come now; because it will give mother so much more
trouble if you don't. She has the things to clear away after you're
done, you know."
"Trouble! so much talk about trouble! _I_ don't mind trouble. I don't
want any supper, I tell you."
Nettie knew well enough he would want it by-and-bye, but there was no
use in saying anything more, and she said nothing. Barry got his kite
together and went off. Then came a heavier step on the stairs, which
she knew; and she hastily went into the other room to see that all was
ready. The tea was made, and Mrs. Mathieson put the smoking dish of
porridge on the table, just as the door opened and a man came in--a
tall, burly, strong man, with a face that would have been a good face
enough if its expression had been different and if its hue had not been
that of a purplish-red flush. He came to the table and silently sat down
as he took a survey of what was on it.
"Give me a cup of tea! Have you got no bread, Sophia?"
"Nothing but what you see. I hoped you would bring home some money, Mr.
Mathieson. I have neither milk nor bread; it's a mercy there's sugar. I
don't know what you expect a lodger to live on."
"Live on his board,--that'll give you enough. But you want something to
begin with. I'd go out and get one or two things--but I'm so confoundedly
tired, I can't."
Mrs. Mathieson, without a word, put on a shawl and went to the closet
for her bonnet.
"I'll go, mother! Let me go, please. I want to go," exclaimed Nettie,
eagerly. "I can get it. What shall I get, father?"
Slowly and weariedly the mother laid off her things; as quickly the
child put hers on.
"What shall I get, father?"
"Well, you can go down the street to Jackson's, and get what your mother
wants: some milk and bread; and then you'd better fetch seven pounds of
meal and a quart of treacle. And ask him to give you a nice piece of
pork out of his barrel."
"She can't bring all that!" exclaimed the mother; "you'd better go
yourself, Mr. Mathieson. That would be a great deal more than the child
can carry, or I either."
"Then I'll go twice, mother: it isn't far; I'd like to go. I'll get it.
Please give me the money, father."
He cursed and swore at her for answer. "Go along, and do as you are bid,
without all this chaffering! Go to Jackson's, and tell him you want the
things, and I'll give him the money to-morrow. He knows me."
Nettie knew he did, and stood her ground.
Her father was just enough in liquor to be a little thick-headed and
foolish.
"You know I can't go without the money, father," she said, gently; "and
to-morrow is Sunday."
He cursed Sunday and swore again, but finally put his hand in his pocket
and threw some money across the table to her. He was just in a state not
to be careful what he did, and he threw her crown-pieces where, if he
had been quite himself, he would have given shillings. Nettie took them
without any remark, and her basket, and went out.
It was just sundown. The village lay glittering in the light that would
be gone in a few minutes; and up on the hill the white church, standing
high, showed all bright in the sun-beams, from its sparkling vane at the
top of the spire down to the lowest step at the door. Nettie's home was
in a branch road, a few steps from the main street of the village, that
led up to the church at one end of it. All along that street the sunlight
lay, on the grass, and the roadway, and the side-walks, and the tops of
a few elm trees. The street was empty; it was most people's supper-time.
Nettie turned the corner and went down the village. She went slowly: her
little feet were already tired with the work they had done that day, and
back and arms and head all seemed tired too. But Nettie never thought it
hard that her mother did not go instead of letting her go; she knew her
mother could not bear to be seen in the village in the old shabby gown
and shawl she wore; for Mrs. Mathieson had seen better days. And besides
that, she would be busy enough as it was, and till a late hour, this
Saturday night. Nettie's gown was shabby too--yes, very shabby, compared
with that almost every other child in the village wore; yet somehow
Nettie was not ashamed. She did not think of it now, as her slow steps
took her down the village street; she was thinking what she should do
about the money. Her father had given her two or three times as much,
she knew, as he meant her to spend; he was a good workman, and had just
got in his week's wages. What should Nettie do? Might she keep and give
to her mother what was over? it was, and would be, so much wanted! and
from her father they could never get it again. He had his own ways of
disposing of what he earned, and very little indeed went to the wants of
his wife and daughter. What might Nettie do! She pondered, swinging her
basket in her hand, till she reached a corner where the village street
turned off again, and where the store of Mr. Jackson stood. There she
found Barry bargaining for some things he at least had money for.
"Oh, Barry, how good!" exclaimed Nettie; "you can help me carry my
things home."
"I'll know the reason first, though," answered Barry. "What are you
going to get?"
"Father wants a bag of corn-meal, and a piece of pork, and some treacle;
and you know I can't carry them all, Barry. I've got to get bread and
milk besides."
"Hurrah!" said Barry; "now we'll have fried cakes! I'll tell you what
I'll do, Nettie--I'll take home the treacle, if you'll make me some
to-night for supper."
"Oh, I can't, Barry! I've got so much else to do, and it's Saturday
night."
"Very good--get your things home yourself, then."
Barry turned away, and Nettie made her bargains. He still stood by,
however, and watched her. When the pork and the meal and the treacle
were bestowed in the basket, it was so heavy she could not manage to
carry it. How many journeys to and fro would it cost her?
"Barry," she said, "you take this home for me, and if mother says so,
I'll make you the cakes."
"Be quick, then," said her brother, shouldering the basket, "for I'm
getting hungry."
Nettie went a few steps farther on the main road of the village, which
was little besides one long street, and not very long either, and went
in at the door of a very little dwelling, neat and tidy like all the
rest. It admitted her to the tiniest morsel of a shop--at least there
was a long table there which seemed to do duty as a counter; and
before, not behind it, sat a spruce little woman sewing. She jumped up
as Nettie entered. By the becoming smartness of her calico dress and
white collar, the beautiful order of her hair, and a certain peculiarity
of feature, you might know before she spoke that the little baker was a
Frenchwoman. She spoke English quite well, but rather slowly.
"I want two loaves of bread, Mrs. August, and a pint of milk, if you
please."
"How will you carry them, my child? you cannot take them all at the
time."
"Oh yes, I can," said Nettie, cheerfully. "I can manage. They are not
heavy."
"No, I hope not," said the Frenchwoman; "it is not heavy, my bread! but
two loaves are not one, no more. Is your mother well?"
She then set busily about wrapping the loaves in paper and measuring out
the milk. Nettie answered, her mother was well.
"And you?" said the little woman, looking at her sideways. "Somebody is
tired this evening."
"Yes," said Nettie, brightly; "but I don't mind. One must be tired
sometimes. Thank you, ma'am."
The woman had put the loaves and the milk carefully in her arms and in
her hands, so that she could carry them, and looked after her as she
went up the street.
"One must be tired sometimes!" said she to herself, with a turn of her
capable little head. "I should like to hear her say 'One must be rested
sometimes;' but I do not hear that."
So perhaps Nettie thought, as she went homeward. It would have been very
natural. Now the sun was down, the bright gleam was off the village; the
soft shades of evening were gathering, and lights twinkled in windows.
Nettie walked very slowly, her arms full of the bread. Perhaps she
wished her Saturday's work was all done, like other people's. All I can
tell you is, that as she went along through the quiet deserted street,
all alone, she broke out softly singing to herself the words,--
"No need of the sun in that day
Which never is followed by night;"
and that when she got home she ran upstairs quite briskly, and came in
with a very placid face, and told her mother she had had a pleasant
walk--which was perfectly true.
"God bless you, child!" said her mother; "you are the very rose of my
heart!"
There was only time for this little dialogue, for which Mr. Mathieson's
slumbers had given a chance. But then Barry entered, and noisily claimed
Nettie's promise. And without a cloud crossing her sweet brow, she made
the cakes, and baked them on the stove, and served Barry until he had
enough; nor ever said how weary she was of being on her feet. There were
more cakes left, and Mrs. Mathieson saw to it that Nettie sat down and
ate them; and then sent her off to bed, without suffering her to do
anything more; though Nettie pleaded to be allowed to clear away the
dishes. Mrs. Mathieson did that, and then sat down to darns and patches
on various articles of clothing, till the old clock of the church on the
hill tolled out solemnly the hour of twelve all over the village.