_NETTIE'S GARRET._
"I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me."--_Psalm_ xxiii. 4.
Nettie's attic grew to be a very pleasant place to her. She never heard
the least sound of rats; and it was so nicely out of the way. Barry
never came up there, and there she could not even hear the voices of
her father and Mr. Lumber. She had a tired time of it down stairs.
The first afternoon was a good specimen of the way things went on.
Nettie's mornings were always spent at school; Mrs. Mathieson would
have that, as she said, whether she could get on without Nettie or no.
From the time Nettie got home till she went to bed she was as busy as
she could be. There was so much bread to make and so much beef and pork
to boil, and so much washing of pots and kettles; and at meal-times
there was often cakes to fry, besides all the other preparations. Mr.
Mathieson seemed to have made up his mind that his lodger's rent should
all go to the table and be eaten up immediately; but the difficulty was
to make as much as he expected of it in that line; for now he brought
none of his own earnings home, and Mrs. Mathieson had more than a sad
guess where they went. By degrees he came to be very little at home in
the evenings, and he carried off Barry with him. Nettie saw her mother
burdened with a great outward and inward care at once, and stood in
the breach all she could. She worked to the extent of her strength,
and beyond it, in the endless getting and clearing away of meals; and
watching every chance, when the men were out of the way, she would coax
her mother to sit down and read a chapter in her Testament.
"It will rest you so, mother," Nettie would say; "and I will make the
bread just as soon as I get the dishes done. Do let me! I like to do
it."
Sometimes Mrs. Mathieson could not be persuaded; sometimes she would
yield, in a despondent kind of way, and sit down with the Testament, and
look at it as if neither there nor anywhere else in the universe could
she find rest or comfort any more.
"It don't signify, child," said she, one afternoon when Nettie had been
urging her to sit down and read. "I haven't the heart to do anything.
We're all driving to rack and ruin just as fast as we can go."
"Oh no, mother," said Nettie, "I don't think we are."
"I am sure of it. I see it coming every day. Every day it is a little
worse; and Barry is going along with your father; and they are
destroying me among them, body and soul too."
"No, mother," said Nettie, "I don't think that. I have prayed the Lord
Jesus, and you know He has promised to hear prayer; and I know we are
not going to ruin."
"_You_ are not, child, I believe; but you are the only one of us that
isn't. I wish I was dead, to be out of my misery!"
"Sit down, mother, and read a little bit; and don't talk so. Do,
mother! It will be an hour or more yet to supper, and I'll get it ready.
You sit down and read, and I'll make the shortcakes. Do, mother! and
you'll feel better."
It was half despair and half persuasion that made her do it; but Mrs.
Mathieson did sit down by the open window and take her Testament; and
Nettie flew quietly about, making her shortcakes and making up the fire
and setting the table, and through it all casting many a loving glance
over to the open book in her mother's hand, and the weary, stony face
that was bent over it. Nettie had not said how her own back was aching,
and she forgot it almost in her business and her thoughts; though by the
time her work was done her head was aching wearily too. But cakes and
table and fire and everything else were in readiness; and Nettie stole
up behind her mother and leaned over her shoulder--leaned a little
heavily.
"Don't that chapter comfort you, mother?" she whispered.
"No. It don't seem to me as I've got any feeling left," said Mrs.
Mathieson.
It was the fourth chapter of John at which they were both looking.
"Don't it comfort you to read of Jesus being wearied?" Nettie went on,
her head lying on her mother's shoulder.
"Why should it, child?"
"I like to read it," said Nettie. "Then I know He knows how I feel
sometimes."
"God knows everything, Nettie."
With that Mrs. Mathieson cast down her book and burst into such a
passion of weeping that Nettie was frightened. It was like the breaking
up of an icy winter. She flung her apron over her head and sobbed aloud;
till, hearing the steps of the men upon the staircase, she rushed off to
Barry's room, and presently got quiet, for she came out to supper as if
nothing had happened.
From that time there was a gentler mood upon her mother; Nettie saw,
though she looked weary and careworn as ever, there was now not often
the hard, dogged look which had been wont to be there for months past.
Nettie had no difficulty to get her to read the Testament; and of all
things, what she liked was to get a quiet hour of an evening alone with
Nettie, and hear her sing hymns. But both Nettie and she had a great
deal, as Mrs. Mathieson said, "to put up with."
As weeks went on, the father of the family was more and more out at
nights, and less and less agreeable when he was at home. He and his
friend Lumber helped each other in mischief. The lodger's rent and board
had been at first given for the household daily expenses; but then Mr.
Mathieson began to pay over a smaller sum, saying that it was all that
was due; and Mrs. Mathieson began to suspect that the rest had been
paid away already for brandy. Then Mr. Mathieson told her to trade at
Jackson's on account, and he would settle the bill. Mrs. Mathieson held
off from this as long as it was possible. She and Nettie did their very
best to make the little that was given them go a good way: they wasted
not a crumb nor a penny. By degrees it came to be very customary for
Mrs. Mathieson and Nettie to make their meal of porridge and bread,
after all the more savoury food had been devoured by the others; and
many a weary patch and darn filled the night hours because they had not
money to buy a cheap dress or two. Nettie bore it very patiently. Mrs.
Mathieson was sometimes impatient.
"This won't last me through the week, to get the things you want," she
said one Saturday to her husband, when he gave her what he said was
Lumber's payment to him.
"You'll have to make it last," said he gruffly.
"Will you tell me how I'm going to do that? Here isn't more than half
what you gave me at first."
"Send to Jackson's for what you want!" he roared at her; "didn't I tell
you so? and don't come bothering me with your noise."
"When will you pay Jackson?"
"I'll pay you first!" he said, with an oath, and very violently. It was
a ruder word than he had ever said to her before, and Mrs. Mathieson
was staggered for a moment by it; but there was another word she was
determined to say.
"May do what you like to me," she said, doggedly; "but I should think
you would see for yourself that Nettie has too much to get on with. She
is getting just as thin and pale as she can be."
"That's just your fool's nonsense!" said Mr. Mathieson; but he spoke it
more quietly. Nettie just then entered the room.
"Here, Nettie, what ails you? Come here. Let's look at you. Ain't you as
strong as ever you was? Here's your mother says you're getting puny."
Nettie's smile and answer were so placid and untroubled, and the little
colour that rose in her cheeks at her father's question made her look so
fresh and well, that he was quieted. He drew her within his arms, for
his gentle, dutiful little daughter had a place in his respect and
affection both, though he did not often show it very broadly; but now he
kissed her.
"There!" said he; "don't you go to growing thin and weak without telling
me, for I don't like such doings. You tell me when you want anything."
But with that Mr. Mathieson got up and went off out of the house; and
Nettie had small chance to tell him if she wanted anything. However,
this little word and kiss were a great comfort and pleasure to her. It
was the last she had from him in a good while.
Nettie, however, was not working for praise or kisses, and very little
of either she got. Generally her father was rough, imperious, impatient,
speaking fast enough if anything went wrong, but very sparing in
expressions of pleasure. Sometimes a blessing did come upon her from the
very depth of Mrs. Mathieson's heart, and went straight to Nettie's; but
it was for another blessing she laboured, and prayed, and waited.
As the summer passed away, it began to grow cold, too, up in her garret.
Nettie had never thought of that. As long as the summer sun warmed the
roof well in the day, and only the soft summer wind played in and out
of her window at night, it was all very well, and Nettie thought her
sleeping-chamber was the best in the whole house, for it was nearest the
sky. But August departed with its sunny days, and September grew cool in
the evening; and October brought still sunny days, it is true, but the
nights had a clear sharp frost in them; and Nettie was obliged to cover
herself up warm in bed and look at the moonlight and the stars as she
could see them through the little square opening left by the shutter.
The stars looked very lovely to Nettie, when they peeped at her so in
her bed out of their high heaven; and she was very content.
Then came November; and the winds began to come into the garret, not
only through the open window, but through every crack between two
boards. The whole garret was filled with the winds, Nettie thought. It
was hard work managing then. Shutting the shutter would bar out the
stars, but not the wind, she found; and to keep from being quite chilled
through at her times of prayer, morning and evening, Nettie used to take
the blanket and coverlets from the bed, and wrap herself in them. It was
all she could do. Still, she forgot the inconveniences; and her little
garret chamber seemed to Nettie very near heaven, as well as near the
sky.
But all this way of life did not make her grow strong or rosy; and
though Nettie never told her father that she wanted anything, her
mother's heart measured the times when it ought to be told.