_THE WAFFLES._
"My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways
my ways," saith the Lord.--_Isaiah_ lv. 8.
The early part of the day had been brilliant and beautiful; then,
March-like, it had changed about, gathered up a whole skyful of clouds,
and turned at last to snowing. The large feathery flakes were falling
now fast; melting as fast as they fell; making everything wet and
chill, in the air and under the foot. Nettie had no overshoes: she was
accustomed to get her feet wet very often, so that was nothing new. She
hugged herself in her brown cloak, on which the beautiful snow-flakes
rested white a moment and then melted away, gradually wetting the
covering of her arms and shoulders in a way that would reach through
by-and-bye. Nettie thought little of it. What was she thinking of? She
was comforting herself with the thought of that strong and blessed
Friend who has promised to be always with His servants, and remembering
His promise, "They shall not be ashamed that wait for me." What did
the snow and the wet matter to Nettie? Yet she looked too much like a
snow-flake herself when she reached Mr. Jackson's store and went in.
The white frost had lodged all round her old black silk hood, and even
edged the shoulders of her brown cloak; and the white little face within
looked just as pure.
Mr. Jackson looked at her with more than usual attention; and when
Nettie asked him if he would let her have a shilling's-worth of fine
white sugar and cinnamon, and trust her till the next week for the
money, he made not the slightest difficulty, but measured or weighed it
out for her directly, and even said he would trust her for more than
that. So Nettie thanked him, and went on to the less easy part of her
errand. Her heart began to beat a little bit now.
The feathery snowflakes fell thicker, and made everything wetter than
ever; it was very raw and chill, and few people were abroad. Nettie went
on, past the little bake-woman's house, and past all the thickly built
part of the village. Then came houses more scattered--large handsome
houses, with beautiful gardens and grounds, and handsome palings along
the road-side. Past one or two of these, and then there was a space
of wild ground; and here Mr. Jackson was putting up a new house for
himself, and meant to have a fine place. The wild bushes grew in a thick
hedge along by the fence, but over the tops of them Nettie could see the
new timbers of the frame that the carpenters had been raising that day.
She went on till she came to an opening in the hedge and fence as well,
and then the new building was close before her. The men were at work
yet, finishing their day's business; the sound of hammering rang sharp
on all sides of the frame; some were up on the ladders, some were below.
Nettie walked slowly up and then round the place, searching for her
father. At last she found him. He and Barry, who was learning his
father's trade, were on the ground at one side of the frame, busy as
bees. Talking was going on roundly too, as well as hammering, and Nettie
drew near and stood a few minutes without any one noticing her. She was
not in a hurry to interrupt the work nor to tell her errand: she
waited.
Barry saw her first, but ungraciously would not speak to her nor for
her. If she was there for anything, he said to himself, it was for some
spoil-sport; and one pail of water a day was enough for him. Mr.
Mathieson was looking the other way.
"I say, Mathieson," called one of the men from the inside of the frame,
"I s'pose 'tain't worth carrying any of this stuff--Jackson'll have
enough without it?"
The words were explained, to Nettie's horror, by a jug in the man's
hands, which he lifted to his lips.
"Jackson will do something handsome in that way to-night," said Nettie's
father; "or he'll not do as he's done by, such a wet evening. But I've
stood to my word, and I expect he'll stand to his'n."
"He gave his word there was to be oysters, warn't it?" called another
man, from the top of the ladder.
"Punch and oysters," said Mathieson, hammering away, "or I've raised the
last frame I ever _will_ raise for him. I expect he'll stand it."
"Oysters ain't much 'count," said another speaker. "I'd rather have a
slice of good sweet pork any day."
"Father," said Nettie. She had come close up to him, but she trembled.
What possible chance could she have?
"Holloa!" said Mr. Mathieson, turning suddenly. "Nettie!--what's the
matter, girl?"
He spoke roughly, and Nettie saw that his face was red. She trembled all
over, but spoke as bravely as she could.
"Father, I am come to invite you home to supper to-night. Mother and I
have a particular reason to want to see you. Will you come?"
"Come where?" said Mr. Mathieson, but half understanding her.
"Come home to tea, father. I came to ask you. Mother has made something
you like."
"I'm busy, child. Go home. I'm going to supper at Jackson's. Go home."
He turned to his hammering again. But Nettie stood still in the snow and
waited.
"Father," she said, after a minute, coming yet closer and speaking more
low.
"What! ain't you gone?" exclaimed Mr. Mathieson.
"Father," said Nettie, softly, "mother has made waffles for you; and you
used to like them so much, she says; and they are light and beautiful,
and just ready to bake. Won't you come and have them with us? Mother
says they'll be very nice."
"Why didn't she make 'em another time," grumbled Barry, "when we weren't
going to punch and oysters? That's a better game."
If Mathieson had not been drinking, he might have been touched by the
sight of Nettie; so very white and delicate her little face looked,
trembling and eager, within that border of her black hood, on which
the snow crystals lay, a very doubtful and unwholesome embroidery. She
looked as if she was going to melt and disappear like one of them; and
perhaps Mr. Mathieson did feel the effect of her presence, but he felt
it only to be vexed and irritated; and Barry's suggestion fell into
ready ground.
"I tell you, go home!" he said, roughly. "What are you doing here? I
tell you I'm _not_ coming home--I'm engaged to supper to-night, and I'm
not going to miss it for any fool's nonsense. Go home!"
Nettie's lip trembled, but that was all the outward show of the
agitation within. She would not have delayed to obey if her father had
been quite himself; but in his present condition she thought perhaps
the next word might undo the last; she could not go without another
trial. She waited an instant, and again said softly and pleadingly,
"Father, I've been and got cinnamon and sugar for you,--all ready."
"Cinnamon and sugar--" he cursed with a great oath; and turning, gave
Nettie a violent push from him, which was half a blow. "Go home!" he
repeated--"go home and mind your own business, and don't take it upon
you to mind mine."
Nettie reeled, staggered, and coming blindly against one or two timbers
that lay on the ground, she fell heavily over them. Nobody saw her; but
that her father should have laid a rough hand on her hurt her sorely;
it hurt her bitterly. He had never done so before; and the cause why he
came to do it now rather made it more sorrowful than less so to Nettie's
mind.
She could not help a few salt tears from falling; and for a moment
Nettie's faith trembled. Feeling weak, and broken, and miserable, the
thought came coldly across her mind, _would_ the Lord not hear her,
after all? It was but a moment of faith-trembling, but it made her
ill. There was more to do that: the push and fall over the timbers had
jarred her more than she knew at the moment. Nettie walked slowly back
on her road till she neared the shop of Madame Auguste, then she felt
herself growing very ill, and just reached the Frenchwoman's door to
faint away on her steps.
She did not remain there two seconds. Madame Auguste had seen her go by
an hour before, and now sat at her window looking out to amuse herself,
but with a special intent to see and waylay that pale child on her
repassing the house. She saw the little black hood reappear, and started
to open the door, just in time to see Nettie fall down at her threshold.
As instantly, two willing arms were put under her, and lifted up the
child and bore her into the house. Then Madame took off her hood, touched
her lips with brandy, and her brow with Cologne water, and chafed her
hands. She had laid Nettie on the floor of the inner room, and put a
pillow under her head; the strength which had brought her so far having
failed there, and proved unequal to lift her again and put her on the
bed. Nettie presently came to, opened her eyes, and looked at her nurse.
"Why, my Nettie," said the little woman, "what is this, my child? what
is the matter with you?"
"I don't know. But I must go home!" said Nettie, trying to raise
herself. "Mother will want me--she'll want me."
"You will lie still, like a good child," said her friend, gently
putting her back on her pillow; "and I will find some person to carry
you home--or some person what will bring your mother here. I will go
see if I can find some one now. You lie still, Nettie."
Nettie lay still, feeling weak after that exertion of trying to raise
herself. She was quite restored now, and her first thoughts were of
grief that she had for a moment failed to trust fully the Lord's
promises. She fully trusted them now. Let her father do what he would,
let things look as dark as they might, Nettie felt sure that "the
rewarder of them that diligently seek Him" had a blessing in store for
her. Bible words, sweet and long loved and rested on, came to her mind,
and Nettie rested on them with perfect rest. "For He hath not despised
nor abhorred the affliction of the afflicted; neither hath He hid His
face from him; but when he cried unto Him, _He heard_." "Our heart shall
rejoice in Him, _because we have trusted in His holy name_." Prayer for
forgiveness, and a thanksgiving of great peace, filled Nettie's heart
all the while the Frenchwoman was gone.
Meanwhile Madame Auguste had been looking into the street, and seeing
nobody out in the wet snow, she rushed back to Nettie. Nettie was like
herself now, only very pale.
"I must have cut my lip somehow," she said; "there's blood on my
handkerchief. How did I come in here?"
"Blood!" said the Frenchwoman; "where did you cut yourself, Nettie? Let
me look!"
Which she did, with a face so anxious and eager that Nettie smiled at
her. Her own brow was as quiet and placid as ever it was.
"How did I get in here, Mrs. August?"
The Frenchwoman, however, did not answer her. Instead of which she went
to her cupboard and got a cup and spoon, and then from a little saucepan
on the stove dipped out some _riz-au-gras_ again.
"What did you have for dinner, Nettie? you did not tell me."
"Not much--I wasn't hungry," said Nettie. "Oh, I must get up and go home
to mother."
"You shall eat something first," said her friend; and she raised
Nettie's head upon another pillow, and began to feed her with the
spoon. "It is good for you. You must take it. Where is your father?
Don't talk, but tell me. I will do everything right."
"He is at work on Mr. Jackson's new house."
"Is he there to-day?"
"Yes."
Madame Auguste gave her all the "broth" in the cup, then bade her
keep still, and went to the shop window. It was time for the men to be
quitting work, she knew; she watched for the carpenters to come,--if
they were not gone by already!--how should she know? Even as she thought
this, a sound of rude steps and men's voices came from down the road;
and the Frenchwoman went to her door and opened it. The men came along,
a scattered group of four or five.
"Is Mr. Mat'ieson there?" she said. Madame Auguste hardly knew him by
sight. "Men, I say! is Mr. Mat'ieson there?"
"George, that's you; you're wanted," said one of the group, looking
back; and a fine-looking tall man paused at Madame's threshold.
"Are you Mr. Mat'ieson?" said the Frenchwoman.
"Yes, ma'am. That's my name."
"Will you come in? I have something to speak to you. Your little
daughter Nettie is very ill."
"Ill!" exclaimed the man. "Nettie!--Where is she?"
"She is here. Hush! you must not say nothing to her, but she is very
ill. She is come fainting at my door, and I have got her in here; but
she wants to go home, and I think you had better tell her she will not
go home, but she will stay here with me to-night."
"Where is she?" said Mr. Mathieson; and he stepped in with so little
ceremony that the mistress of the house gave way before him. He looked
round the shop.
"She is not here--you shall see her--but you must not tell her she is
ill," said the Frenchwoman, anxiously.
"Where is she?" repeated Mr. Mathieson, with a tone and look which made
Madame Auguste afraid he would burst the doors if she did not open them.
She opened the inner door without further preparation, and Mr. Mathieson
walked in. By the fading light he saw Nettie lying on the floor at his
feet. He was thoroughly himself now; sobered in more ways than one. He
stood still when he had got there, and spoke not a word.
"Father," said Nettie, softly.
He stooped down over her. "What do you want, Nettie?"
"Can't I go home?"
"She must better not go home to-night," began Madame Auguste, earnestly,
"it is so wet and cold! She will stay here with me to-night, Mr.
Mat'ieson. You will tell her that it is best."
But Nettie said, "_Please_ let me go home! mother will be so troubled."
She spoke little, for she felt weak; but her father saw her very eager
in the request. He stooped and put his strong arms under her, and lifted
her up.
"Have you got anything to put over her?" he said, looking round the
room. "I'll fetch it back."
Seeing that the matter was quite taken out of her hands, the kind little
Frenchwoman was very quick in her arrangements. She put on Nettie's head
a warm hood of her own; then round her and over her she wrapped a thick
woollen counterpane, that to be sure would have let no snow through if
the distance to be travelled had been twice as far. As she folded and
arranged the thick stuff round Nettie's head, so as to shield even her
face from the outer air, she said, half whispering,
"I would not tell nothing to mother about your lip; it is not much. I
wish I could keep you. Now she is ready, Mr. Mat'ieson."
And Mr. Mathieson stalked out of the house and strode along the road
with firm, swift steps, till, past Jackson's, and past the turning, he
came to his own door, and carried Nettie upstairs. He never said a word
the whole way. Nettie was too muffled up and too feeble to speak; so the
first word was when he had come in and sat down in a chair, which he
did with Nettie still in his arms. Mrs. Mathieson, standing white and
silent, waited to see what was the matter; she had no power to ask a
question. Her husband unfolded the counterpane that was wrapped round
Nettie's head; and there she was, looking very like her usual self,
only exceedingly pale. As soon as she caught sight of her mother's
face, Nettie would have risen and stood up, but her father's arms held
her fast. "What do you want, Nettie?" he asked. It was the first word.
"Nothing, father," said Nettie, "only lay me on the bed, please; and
then you and mother have supper."
Mr. Mathieson took her to the bed and laid her gently down, removing the
wet counterpane which was round her.
"What is the matter?" faltered Mrs. Mathieson.
"Nothing much, mother," said Nettie, quietly; "only I was a little ill.
Won't you bake the waffles and have supper?"
"What will _you_ have?" said her father.
"Nothing--I've had something. I feel nicely now," said Nettie. "Mother,
won't you have supper, and let me see you?"
Mrs. Mathieson's strength had well-nigh deserted her; but Nettie's
desire was urgent, and seeing that her husband had seated himself by the
bed-side, and seemed to have no idea of being anywhere but at home that
evening, she at length gathered up her faculties to do what was the best
thing to be done, and went about preparing the supper. Nettie's eyes
watched her, and Mr. Mathieson, when he thought himself safe, watched
_her_. He did not look like the same man, so changed and sobered was
the expression of his face. Mrs. Mathieson was devoured by fear, even
in observing this; but Nettie was exceedingly happy. She did not feel
anything but weakness; and she lay on her pillow watching the waffles
baked and sugared, and then watching them eaten, wondering and rejoicing
within herself at the way in which her father had been brought to eat
his supper there at home after all. She was the only one that enjoyed
anything, though her father and mother ate to please her. Mrs. Mathieson
had asked an account of Nettie's illness, and got a very unsatisfactory
one. She had been faint, her husband said; he had found her at Mrs.
Auguste's, and brought her home; that was about all.
After supper he came and sat by Nettie again, and said she was to sleep
there, and he would go up and take Nettie's place in the attic. Nettie
in vain said she was well enough to go upstairs; her father cut the
question short, and bade Mrs. Mathieson go up and get anything Nettie
wanted. When she had left the room he stooped his head down to Nettie
and said low,
"What was that about your lip?"
Nettie started: she thought he would fancy it had it been done, if done
at all, when he gave her the push at the frame-house. But she did not,
dare not, answer. She said it was only that she had found a little blood
on her handkerchief, and supposed she might have cut her lip when she
fell on Mrs. Auguste's threshold, when she had fainted.
"Show me your handkerchief," said her father. Nettie obeyed. He looked
at it, and looked close at her lips, to find where they might have been
wounded; and Nettie was sorry to see how much he felt, for he even
looked pale himself as he turned away from her. But he was as gentle and
kind as he could be! Nettie had never seen him so; and when he went off
up to bed, and Nettie was drawn into her mother's arms to go to sleep,
she was very, very happy. But she did not tell her hopes or her joys to
her mother; she only told her thanks to the Lord; and that she did till
she fell asleep.
The next morning Nettie was well enough to get up and dress herself.
That was all she was suffered to do by father or mother. Mr. Mathieson
sent Barry for water and wood, and himself looked after the fire while
Mrs. Mathieson was busy; all the rest he did was to take Nettie in his
arms and sit holding her till breakfast was ready. He did not talk, and
he kept Barry quiet: he was like a different man. Nettie, feeling indeed
very weak, could only sit with her head on her father's shoulder, and
wonder, and think, and repeat quiet prayers in her heart. She was very
pale yet, and it distressed Mr. Mathieson to see that she could not eat.
So he laid her on the bed when he was going to his work, and told her
she was to stay there and be still, and he would bring her something
good when he came home.
He was as good as his word, and at night brought home some oysters, to
tempt Nettie's appetite; but it was much more to her that he stayed
quietly at home, and never made a move towards going out. Eating was not
in Nettie's line just now; the kind little Frenchwoman had been to see
her in the course of the day, and brought some delicious rolls and a jug
of _riz-au-gras_, which was what seemed to suit Nettie's appetite best
of all.