“Well, mother, I’ve got you a Southport ticket,” said Bessy Lee, as she
burst into a room where a pale, sick woman lay dressed on the outside
of a bed. “Aren’t you glad?” asked she, as her mother moved uneasily,
but did not speak.
“Yes, dear, I’m very thankful to you; but your sudden coming in has
made my heart flutter so, I’m ready to choke.”
Poor Bessy’s eyes filled with tears: but, it must be owned, they were
tears half of anger. She had taken such pains, ever since the doctor
said that Southport was the only thing for her mother, to get her an
order from some subscriber to the charity; and she had rushed to her,
in the full glow of success, and now her mother seemed more put out by
the noise she had made on coming in, than glad to receive the news she
had brought.
Mrs. Lee took her hand and tried to speak, but, as she said, she was
almost choked with the palpitation at her heart.
“You think it very silly in me, dear, to be so easily startled; but it
is not altogether silliness; it is I am so weak that every little noise
gives me quite a fright. I shall be better, love, please God, when I
come back from Southport. I am so glad you’ve got the order, for you’ve
taken a deal of pains about it.” Mrs. Lee sighed.
“Don’t you want to go?” asked Bessy, rather sadly. “You always seem so
sorrowful and anxious when we talk about it.”
“It’s partly my being ailing that makes me anxious, I know,” said Mrs.
Lee. “But it seems as if so many things might happen while I was away.”
Bessy felt a little impatient. Young people in strong health can hardly
understand the fears that beset invalids. Bessy was a kind-hearted
girl, but rather headstrong, and just now a little disappointed. She
forgot that her mother had had to struggle hard with many cares ever
since she had been left a widow, and that her illness now had made her
nervous.
“What nonsense, mother! What can happen? I can take care of the house
and the little ones, and Tom and Jem can take care of themselves. What
is to happen?”
“Jenny may fall into the fire,” murmured Mrs. Lee, who found little
comfort in being talked to in this way. “Or your father’s watch may be
stolen while you are in, talking with the neighbours, or——”
“Now come, mother, you know I’ve had the charge of Jenny ever since
father died, and you began to go out washing—and I’ll lock father’s
watch up in the box in our room.”
“Then Tom and Jem won’t know at what time to go to the factory.
Besides, Bessy,” said she, raising herself up, “they’re are but young
lads, and there’s a deal of temptation to take them away from their
homes, if their homes are not comfortable and pleasant to them. It’s
that, more than anything, I’ve been fretting about all the time I’ve
been ill,—that I’ve lost the power of making this house the cleanest
and brightest place they know. But it’s no use fretting,” said she,
falling back weakly upon the bed and sighing. “I must leave it in God’s
hands. He raiseth up and He bringeth low.”
Bessy stood silent for a minute or two. Then she said, “Well, mother, I
will try to make home comfortable for the lads, if you’ll but keep your
mind easy, and go off to Southport quiet and cheerful.”
“I’ll try,” said Mrs. Lee, taking hold of Bessy’s hand, and looking up
thankfully in her face.
The next Wednesday she set off, leaving home with a heavy heart, which,
however, she struggled against, and tried to make more faithful. But
she wished her three weeks at Southport were over.
Tom and Jem were both older than Bessy, and she was fifteen. Then came
Bill and Mary and little Jenny. They were all good children, and all
had faults. Tom and Jem helped to support the family by their earnings
at the factory, and gave up their wages very cheerfully for this
purpose, to their mother, who, however, insisted on a little being put
by every week in the savings’ bank. It was one of her griefs now that,
when the doctor ordered her some expensive delicacy in the way of diet
during her illness (a thing which she persisted in thinking she could
have done without), her boys had gone and taken their money out in
order to procure it for her. The article in question did not cost one
quarter of the amount of their savings, but they had put off returning
the remainder into the bank, saying the doctor’s bill had yet to be
paid, and that it seemed so silly to be always taking money in and
out. But meanwhile Mrs. Lee feared lest it should be spent, and begged
them to restore it to the savings’ bank. This had not been done when
she left for Southport. Bill and Mary went to school. Little Jenny was
the darling of all, and toddled about at home, having been her sister
Bessy’s especial charge when all went on well, and the mother used to
go out to wash.
Mrs. Lee, however, had always made a point of giving all her children
who were at home a comfortable breakfast at seven, before she set out
to her day’s work; and she prepared the boys’ dinner ready for Bessy
to warm for them. At night, too, she was anxious to be at home as soon
after her boys as she could; and many of her employers respected her
wish, and, finding her hard-working and conscientious, took care to set
her at liberty early in the evening.
Bessy felt very proud and womanly when she returned home from seeing
her mother off by the railway. She looked round the house with a new
feeling of proprietorship, and then went to claim little Jenny from
the neighbour’s where she had been left while Bessy had gone to the
station. They asked her to stay and have a bit of chat; but she replied
that she could not, for that it was near dinner-time, and she refused
the invitation that was then given her to go in some evening. She was
full of good plans and resolutions.
That afternoon she took Jenny and went to her teacher’s to borrow a
book, which she meant to ask one of her brothers to read to her in
the evenings while she worked. She knew that it was a book which Jem
would like, for though she had never read it, one of her school-fellows
had told her it was all about the sea, and desert islands, and
cocoanut-trees, just the things that Jem liked to hear about. How happy
they would all be this evening.
She hurried Jenny off to bed before her brothers came home; Jenny did
not like to go so early, and had to be bribed and coaxed to give up the
pleasure of sitting on brother Tom’s knee; and when she was in bed,
she could not go to sleep, and kept up a little whimper of distress.
Bessy kept calling out to her, now in gentle, now in sharp tones, as
she made the hearth clean and bright against her brothers’ return, as
she settled Bill and Mary to their next day’s lessons, and got her work
ready for a happy evening.
Presently the elder boys came in.
“Where’s Jenny?” asked Tom, the first thing.
“I’ve put her to bed,” said Bessy. “I’ve borrowed a book for you to
read to me while I darn the stockings; and it was time for Jenny to go.”
“Mother never puts her to bed so soon,” said Tom, dissatisfied.
“But she’d be so in the way of any quietness over our reading,” said
Bessy.
“I don’t want to read,” said Tom; “I want Jenny to sit on my knee, as
she always does, while I eat my supper.”
“Tom, Tom, dear Tom!” called out little Jenny, who had heard his voice,
and, perhaps, a little of the conversation.
Tom made but two steps upstairs, and re-appeared with Jenny in his
arms, in her night-clothes. The little girl looked at Bessy half
triumphant and half afraid. Bessy did not speak, but she was evidently
very much displeased. Tom began to eat his porridge with Jenny on his
knee. Bessy sat in sullen silence; she was vexed with Tom, vexed with
Jenny, and vexed with Jem, to gratify whose taste for reading travels
she had especially borrowed this book, which he seemed to care so
little about. She brooded over her fancied wrongs, ready to fall upon
the first person who might give the slightest occasion for anger.
It happened to be poor little Jenny, who, by some awkward movement,
knocked over the jug of milk, and made a great splash on Bessy’s clean
white floor.
“Never mind!” said Tom, as Jenny began to cry. “I like my porridge as
well without milk as with it.”
“Oh, never mind!” said Bessy, her colour rising, and her breath growing
shorter. “Never mind dirtying anything, Jenny; it’s only giving trouble
to Bessy! But I’ll make you mind,” continued she, as she caught a
glance of intelligence peep from Jem’s eyes to Tom; and she slapped
Jenny’s head. The moment she had done it she was sorry for it; she
could have beaten herself now with the greatest pleasure for having
given way to passion; for she loved little Jenny dearly, and she saw
that she really had hurt her. But Jem, with his loud, deep, “For shame,
Bessy!” and Tom, with his excess of sympathy with his little sister’s
wrongs, checked back any expression which Bessy might have uttered of
sorrow and regret. She sat there ten times more unhappy than she had
been before the accident, hardening her heart to the reproaches of her
conscience, yet feeling most keenly that she had been acting wrongly.
No one seemed to notice her; this was the evening she had planned and
arranged for so busily; and the others, who never thought about it at
all, were all quiet and happy, at least in outward appearance, while
she was so wretched. By-and-by, she felt the touch of a little soft
hand stealing into her own. She looked to see who it was; it was Mary,
who till now had been busy learning her lessons, but uncomfortably
conscious of the discordant spirit prevailing in the room; and who had
at last ventured up to Bessy, as the one who looked the most unhappy,
to express, in her own little gentle way, her sympathy in sorrow. Mary
was not a quick child; she was plain and awkward in her ways, and did
not seem to have many words in which to tell her feelings, but she was
very tender and loving, and submitted meekly and humbly to the little
slights and rebuffs she often met with for her stupidity.
“Dear Bessy! good night!” said she, kissing her sister; and, at the
soft kiss, Bessy’s eyes filled with tears, and her heart began to melt.
“Jenny,” continued Mary, going to the little spoilt, wilful girl, “will
you come to bed with me, and I’ll tell you stories about school, and
sing you my songs as I undress? Come, little one!” said she, holding
out her arms. Jenny was tempted by this speech, and went off to bed in
a more reasonable frame of mind than any one had dared to hope.
And now all seemed clear and open for the reading, but each was too
proud to propose it. Jem, indeed, seemed to have forgotten the book
altogether, he was so busy whittling away at a piece of wood. At last
Tom, by a strong effort, said, “Bessy, mayn’t we have the book now?”
“No!” said Jem, “don’t begin reading, for I must go out and try and
make Ned Bates give me a piece of ash-wood—deal is just good for
nothing.”
“Oh!” said Bessy, “I don’t want any one to read this book who does not
like it. But I know mother would be better pleased if you were stopping
at home quiet, rather than rambling to Ned Bates’s at this time of
night.”
“I know what mother would like as well as you, and I’m not going to be
preached to by a girl,” said Jem, taking up his cap and going out. Tom
yawned and went up to bed. Bessy sat brooding over the evening.
“So much as I thought and I planned! I’m sure I tried to do what was
right, and make the boys happy at home. And yet nothing has happened
as I wanted it to do. Every one has been so cross and contrary. Tom
would take Jenny up when she ought to have been in bed. Jem did not
care a straw for this book that I borrowed on purpose for him, but sat
laughing. I saw, though he did not think I did, when all was going
provoking and vexatious. Mary—no! Mary was a help and a comfort, as she
always is, I think, though she is so stupid over her book. Mary always
contrives to get people right, and to have her own way somehow; and yet
I’m sure she does not take half the trouble I do to please people.”
Jem came back soon, disappointed because Ned Bates was out, and could
not give him any ash-wood. Bessy said it served him right for going at
that time of night, and the brother and sister spoke angrily to each
other all the way upstairs, and parted without even saying good-night.
Jenny was asleep when Bessy entered the bedroom which she shared with
her sisters and her mother; but she saw Mary’s wakeful eyes looking at
her as she came in.
“Oh, Mary,” said she, “I wish mother was back. The lads would mind her,
and now I see they’ll just go and get into mischief to spite and plague
me.”
“I don’t think it’s for that,” said Mary, softly. “Jem did want that
ash-wood, I know, for he told me in the morning he didn’t think that
deal would do. He wants to make a wedge to keep the window from
rattling so on windy nights; you know how that fidgets mother.”
The next day, little Mary, on her way to school, went round by Ned
Bates’s to beg a piece of wood for her brother Jem; she brought it
home to him at dinner-time, and asked him to be so good as to have
everything ready for a quiet whittling at night, while Tom or Bessy
read aloud. She told Jenny she would make haste with her lessons, so
as to be ready to come to bed early, and talk to her about school
(a grand, wonderful place, in Jenny’s eyes), and thus Mary quietly
and gently prepared for a happy evening, by attending to the kind of
happiness for which every one wished.
While Mary had thus been busy preparing for a happy evening, Bessy had
been spending part of the afternoon at a Mrs. Foster’s, a neighbour
of her mother’s, and a very tidy, industrious old widow. Mrs. Foster
earned part of her livelihood by working for the shops where knitted
work of all kinds is to be sold; and Bessy’s attention was caught,
almost as soon as she went in, by a very gay piece of wool-knitting,
in a new stitch, that was to be used as a warm covering for the feet.
After admiring its pretty looks, Bessy thought how useful it might be
to her mother; and when Mrs. Foster heard this, she offered to teach
Bessy how to do it. But where were the wools to come from? Those which
Mrs. Foster used were provided her by the shop; and she was a very poor
woman—too poor to make presents, though rich enough (as we all are) to
give help of many other kinds, and willing too to do what she could
(which some of us are not).
The two sat perplexed. “How much did you say it would cost?” said Bessy
at last; as if the article was likely to have become cheaper, since she
asked the question before.
“Well! it’s sure to be more than two shillings if it’s German wool. You
might get it for eighteenpence if you could be content with English.”
“But I’ve not got eighteenpence,” said Bessy, gloomily.
“I could lend it you,” said Mrs. Foster, “if I was sure of having it
back before Monday. But it’s part of my rent-money. Could you make
sure, do you think?”
“Oh, yes!” said Bessy, eagerly. “At least I’d try. But perhaps I had
better not take it, for after all I don’t know where I could get it.
What Tom and Jem earn is little enough for the house, now that mother’s
washing is cut off.”
“They are good, dutiful lads, to give it to their mother,” said Mrs.
Foster, sighing: for she thought of her own boys, that had left her in
her old age to toil on, with faded eyesight and weakened strength.
“Oh! but mother makes them each keep a shilling out of it for
themselves,” said Bessy, in a complaining tone, for she wanted money,
and was inclined to envy any one who possessed it.
“That’s right enough,” said Mrs. Foster. “They that earn it should have
some of the power over it.”
“But about this wool; this eighteenpence! I wish I was a boy and could
earn money. I wish mother would have let me go to work in the factory.”
“Come now, Bessy, I can have none of that nonsense. Thy mother knows
what’s best for thee; and I’m not going to hear thee complain of what
she has thought right. But may be, I can help you to a way of gaining
eighteenpence. Mrs. Scott at the worsted shop told me that she should
want some one to clean on Saturday; now you’re a good strong girl, and
can do a woman’s work if you’ve a mind. Shall I say you will go? and
then I don’t mind if I lend you my eighteenpence. You’ll pay me before
I want my rent on Monday.”
“Oh! thank you, dear Mrs. Foster,” said Bessy. “I can scour as well as
any woman, mother often says so; and I’ll do my best on Saturday; they
shan’t blame you for having spoken up for me.”
“No, Bessy, they won’t, I’m sure, if you do your best. You’re a good
sharp girl for your years.”
Bessy lingered for some time, hoping that Mrs. Foster would remember
her offer of lending her the money; but finding that she had quite
forgotten it, she ventured to remind the kind old woman. That it was
nothing but forgetfulness, was evident from the haste with which Mrs.
Foster bustled up to her tea-pot and took from it the money required.
“You’re as welcome to it as can be, Bessy, as long as I’m sure of
its being repaid by Monday. But you’re in a mighty hurry about this
coverlet,” continued she, as she saw Bessy put on her bonnet and
prepare to go out. “Stay, you must take patterns, and go to the right
shop in St. Mary’s Gate. Why, your mother won’t be back this three
weeks, child.”
“No. But I can’t abide waiting, and I want to set to it before it is
dark; and you’ll teach me the stitch, won’t you, when I come back with
the wools? I won’t be half an hour away.”
But Mary and Bill had to “abide waiting” that afternoon; for though
the neighbour at whose house the key was left could let them into the
house, there was no supper ready for them on their return from school;
even Jenny was away spending the afternoon with a playfellow; the fire
was nearly out, the milk had been left at a neighbour’s; altogether
home was very comfortless to the poor tired children, and Bill grumbled
terribly; Mary’s head ached, and the very tones of her brother’s voice,
as he complained, gave her pain; and for a minute she felt inclined to
sit down and cry. But then she thought of many little sayings which
she had heard from her teacher—such as “Never complain of what you
can cure,” “Bear and forbear,” and several other short sentences of a
similar description. So she began to make up the fire, and asked Bill
to fetch some chips; and when he gave her the gruff answer, that he did
not see any use in making a fire when there was nothing to cook by it,
she went herself and brought the wood without a word of complaint.
Presently Bill said, “Here! you lend me those bellows; you’re not
blowing it in the right way; girls never do!” He found out that Mary
was wise in making a bright fire ready; for before the blowing was
ended, the neighbour with whom the milk had been left brought it in,
and little handy Mary prepared the porridge as well as the mother
herself could have done. They had just ended when Bessy came in almost
breathless; for she had suddenly remembered, in the middle of her
knitting-lesson, that Bill and Mary must be at home from school.
“Oh!” she said, “that’s right. I have so hurried myself! I was afraid
the fire would be out. Where’s Jenny? You were to have called for her,
you know, as you came from school. Dear! how stupid you are, Mary. I am
sure I told you over and over again. Now don’t cry, silly child. The
best thing you can do is to run off back again for her.”
“But my lessons, Bessy. They are so bad to learn. It’s tables day
to-morrow,” pleaded Mary.
“Nonsense; tables are as easy as can be. I can say up to sixteen times
sixteen in no time.”
“But you know, Bessy, I’m very stupid, and my head aches so to-night!”
“Well! the air will do it good. Really, Mary, I would go myself, only
I’m so busy; and you know Bill is too careless, mother says, to fetch
Jenny through the streets; and besides they would quarrel, and you can
always manage Jenny.”
Mary sighed, and went away to bring her sister home. Bessy sat down to
her knitting. Presently Bill came up to her with some question about
his lesson. She told him the answer without looking at the book; it was
all wrong, and made nonsense; but Bill did not care to understand what
he learnt, and went on saying, “Twelve inches make one shilling,” as
contentedly as if it were right.
Mary brought Jenny home quite safely. Indeed, Mary always did succeed
in everything, except learning her lessons well; and sometimes, if the
teacher could have known how many tasks fell upon the willing, gentle
girl at home, she would not have thought that poor Mary was slow or a
dunce; and such thoughts would come into the teacher’s mind sometimes,
although she fully appreciated Mary’s sweetness and humility of
disposition.
To-night she tried hard at her tables, and all to no use. Her head
ached so, she could not remember them, do what she would. She longed to
go to her mother, whose cool hands around her forehead always seemed
to do her so much good, and whose soft, loving words were such a help
to her when she had to bear pain. She had arranged so many plans for
to-night, and now all were deranged by Bessy’s new fancy for knitting.
But Mary did not see this in the plain, clear light in which I have
put it before you. She only was sorry that she could not make haste
with her lessons, as she had promised Jenny, who was now upbraiding her
with the non-fulfilment of her words. Jenny was still up when Tom and
Jem came in. They spoke sharply to Bessy for not having their porridge
ready; and while she was defending herself, Mary, even at the risk of
imperfect lessons, began to prepare the supper for her brothers. She
did it all so quietly, that, almost before they were aware, it was
ready for them; and Bessy, suddenly ashamed of herself, and touched by
Mary’s quiet helpfulness, bent down and kissed her, as once more she
settled to the never-ending difficulty of her lesson.
Mary threw her arms round Bessy’s neck, and began to cry, for this
little mark of affection went to her heart; she had been so longing for
a word or a sign of love in her suffering.
“Come, Molly,” said Jem, “don’t cry like a baby;” but he spoke very
kindly. “What’s the matter? the old headache come back? Never mind. Go
to bed, and it will be better in the morning.”
“But I can’t go to bed. I don’t know my lesson!” Mary looked happier,
though the tears were in her eyes.
“I know mine,” said Bill, triumphantly.
“Come here,” said Jem. “There! I’ve time enough to whittle away at this
before mother comes back. Now let’s see this difficult lesson.”
Jem’s help soon enabled Mary to conquer her lesson; but, meanwhile,
Jenny and Bill had taken to quarrelling in spite of Bessy’s scolding,
administered in small sharp doses, as she looked up from her
all-absorbing knitting.
“Well,” said Tom, “with this riot on one side, and this dull lesson on
the other, and Bessy as cross as can be in the midst, I can understand
what makes a man go out to spend his evenings from home.”
Bessy looked up, suddenly wakened up to a sense of the danger which her
mother had dreaded.
Bessy thought it was very fortunate that it fell on a Saturday, of all
days in the week, that Mrs. Scott wanted her; for Mary would be at
home, who could attend to the household wants of everybody; and so she
satisfied her conscience at leaving the post of duty that her mother
had assigned to her, and that she had promised to fulfil. She was so
eager about her own plans that she did not consider this; she did not
consider at all, or else I think she would have seen many things to
which she seemed to be blind now. When were Mary’s lessons for Monday
to be learnt? Bessy knew as well as we do, that lesson-learning was
hard work to Mary. If Mary worked as hard as she could after morning
school she could hardly get the house cleaned up bright and comfortable
before her brothers came home from the factory, which “loosed” early
on the Saturday afternoon; and if pails of water, chairs heaped up one
on the other, and tables put topsy-turvy on the dresser, were the most
prominent objects in the house-place, there would be no temptation for
the lads to stay at home; besides which, Mary, tired and weary (however
gentle she might be), would not be able to give the life to the evening
that Bessy, a clever, spirited girl, near their own age, could easily
do, if she chose to be interested and sympathising in what they had to
tell. But Bessy did not think of all this. What she did think about
was the pleasant surprise she should give her mother by the warm and
pretty covering for her feet, which she hoped to present her with on
her return home. And if she had done the duties she was pledged to on
her mother’s departure first, if they had been compatible with her plan
of being a whole day absent from home, in order to earn the money for
the wools, the project of the surprise would have been innocent and
praiseworthy.
Bessy prepared everything for dinner before she left home that Saturday
morning. She made a potato-pie all ready for putting in the oven; she
was very particular in telling Mary what was to be cleaned, and how it
was all to be cleaned; and then she kissed the children, and ran off
to Mrs. Scott’s. Mary was rather afraid of the responsibility thrust
upon her; but still she was pleased that Bessy could trust her to do
so much. She took Jenny to the ever-useful neighbour, as she and Bill
went to school; but she was rather frightened when Mrs. Jones began to
grumble about these frequent visits of the child.
“I was ready enough to take care of the wench when thy mother was ill;
there was reason for that. And the child is a nice child enough, when
she is not cross; but still there are some folks, it seems, who, if you
give them an inch, will take an ell. Where’s Bessy, that she can’t mind
her own sister?”
“Gone out charing,” said Mary, clasping the little hand in hers
tighter, for she was afraid of Mrs. Jones’s anger.
“I could go out charing every day in the week if I’d the face to
trouble other folks with my children,” said Mrs. Jones, in a surly tone.
“Shall I take her back, ma’am?” said Mary, timidly, though she knew
this would involve her staying away from school, and being blamed by
the dear teacher. But Mrs. Jones growled worse than she bit, this time
at least.
“No,” said she, “you may leave her with me. I suppose she’s had her
breakfast?”
“Yes; and I’ll fetch her away as soon as ever I can after twelve.”
If Mary had been one to consider the hardships of her little lot, she
might have felt this morning’s occurrence as one;—that she, who dreaded
giving trouble to anybody, and was painfully averse from asking any
little favour for herself, should be the very one on whom it fell to
presume upon another person’s kindness. But Mary never did think of any
hardships; they seemed the natural events of life, and as if it was
fitting and proper that she, who managed things badly, and was such a
dunce, should be blamed. Still she was rather flurried by Mrs. Jones’s
scolding; and almost wished that she had taken Jenny home again. Her
lessons were not well said, owing to the distraction of her mind.
When she went for Jenny she found that Mrs. Jones, repenting of her
sharp words, had given the little girl bread and treacle, and made her
very comfortable; so much so that Jenny was not all at once ready to
leave her little playmates, and when once she had set out on the road,
she was in no humour to make haste. Mary thought of the potato-pie and
her brothers, and could almost have cried, as Jenny, heedless of her
sister’s entreaties, would linger at the picture-shops.
“I shall be obliged to go and leave you, Jenny! I must get dinner
ready.”
“I don’t care,” said Jenny. “I don’t want any dinner, and I can come
home quite well by myself.”
Mary half longed to give her a fright, it was so provoking. But she
thought of her mother, who was so anxious always about Jenny, and she
did not do it. She kept patiently trying to attract her onwards, and
at last they were at home. Mary stirred up the fire, which was to all
appearance quite black; it blazed up, but the oven was cold. She put
the pie in, and blew the fire; but the paste was quite white and soft
when her brothers came home, eager and hungry.
“Oh! Mary, what a manager you are!” said Tom. “Any one else would have
remembered and put the pie in in time.”
Mary’s eyes filled full of tears; but she did not try to justify
herself. She went on blowing, till Jem took the bellows, and kindly
told her to take off her bonnet, and lay the cloth. Jem was always
kind. He gave Tom the best baked side of the pie, and quietly took the
side himself where the paste was little better than dough, and the
potatoes quite hard; and when he caught Mary’s little anxious face
watching him, as he had to leave part of his dinner untasted, he said,
“Mary, I should like this pie warmed up for supper; there is nothing so
good as potato-pie made hot the second time.”
Tom went off saying, “Mary, I would not have you for a wife on any
account. Why, my dinner would never be ready, and your sad face would
take away my appetite if it were.”
But Jem kissed her and said, “Never mind, Mary! you and I will live
together, old maid and old bachelor.”
So she could set to with spirit to her cleaning, thinking there never
was such a good brother as Jem; and as she dwelt upon his perfections,
she thought who it was who had given her such a good, kind brother,
and felt her heart full of gratitude to Him. She scoured and cleaned
in right-down earnest. Jenny helped her for some time, delighted to be
allowed to touch and lift things. But then she grew tired; and Bill was
out of doors; so Mary had to do all by herself, and grew very nervous
and frightened, lest all should not be finished and tidy against Tom
came home. And the more frightened she grew, the worse she got on. Her
hands trembled, and things slipped out of them; and she shook so, she
could not lift heavy pieces of furniture quickly and sharply; and in
the middle the clock struck the hour for her brothers’ return, when all
ought to have been tidy and ready for tea. She gave it up in despair,
and began to cry.
“Oh, Bessy, Bessy! why did you go away? I have tried hard, and I cannot
do it,” said she aloud, as if Bessy could hear.
“Dear Mary, don’t cry,” said Jenny, suddenly coming away from her play.
“I’ll help you. I am very strong. I can do anything. I can lift that
pan off the fire.”
The pan was full of boiling water, ready for Mary. Jenny took hold of
the handle, and dragged it along the bar over the fire. Mary sprung
forwards in terror to stop the little girl. She never knew how it was,
but the next moment her arm and side were full of burning pain, which
turned her sick and dizzy, and Jenny was crying passionately beside her.
“Oh, Mary! Mary! Mary! my hand is so scalded. What shall I do? I cannot
bear it. It’s all about my feet on the ground.” She kept shaking her
hand to cool it by the action of the air. Mary thought that she herself
was dying, so acute and terrible was the pain; she could hardly keep
from screaming out aloud; but she felt that if she once began she could
not stop herself, so she sat still, moaning, and the tears running down
her face like rain. “Go, Jenny,” said she, “and tell some one to come.”
“I can’t, I can’t, my hand hurts so,” said Jenny. But she flew wildly
out of the house the next minute, crying out, “Mary is dead. Come,
come, come!” For Mary could bear it no longer; but had fainted away,
and looked, indeed, like one that was dead. Neighbours flocked in; and
one ran for a doctor. In five minutes Tom and Jem came home. What a
home it seems! People they hardly knew standing in the house-place,
which looked as if it had never been cleaned—all was so wet, and in
such disorder, and dirty with the trampling of many feet; Jenny still
crying passionately, but half comforted at being at present the only
authority as to how the affair happened; and faint moans from the room
upstairs, where some women were cutting the clothes off poor Mary,
preparatory for the doctor’s inspection. Jem said directly, “Some one
go straight to Mrs. Scott’s, and fetch our Bessy. Her place is here,
with Mary.”
And then he civilly, but quietly, dismissed all the unnecessary and
useless people, feeling sure that in case of any kind of illness, quiet
was the best thing. Then he went upstairs.
Mary’s face was scarlet now with violent pain; but she smiled a little
through her tears at seeing Jem. As for him, he cried outright.
“I don’t think it was anybody’s fault, Jem,” said she, softly. “It was
very heavy to lift.”
“Are you in great pain, dear?” asked Jem, in a whisper.
“I think I’m killed, Jem. I do think I am. And I did so want to see
mother again.”
“Nonsense!” said the woman who had been helping Mary. For, as she said
afterwards, whether Mary died or lived, crying was a bad thing for her;
and she saw the girl was ready to cry when she thought of her mother,
though she had borne up bravely all the time the clothes were cut off.
Bessy’s face, which had been red with hard running, faded to a dead
white when she saw Mary; she looked so shocked and ill that Jem had
not the heart to blame her, although the minute before she came in, he
had been feeling very angry with her. Bessy stood quite still at the
foot of Mary’s bed, never speaking a word, while the doctor examined
her side and felt her pulse; only great round tears gathered in her
eyes, and rolled down her cheeks, as she saw Mary quiver with pain. Jem
followed the doctor downstairs. Then Bessy went and knelt beside Mary,
and wiped away the tears that were trickling down the little face.
“Is it very bad, Mary?” asked Bessy.
“Oh yes! yes! if I speak, I shall scream.”
Then Bessy covered her head in the bed-clothes and cried outright.
“I was not cross, was I? I did not mean to be—but I hardly know what I
am saying,” moaned out little Mary. “Please forgive me, Bessy, if I was
cross.”
“God forgive me!” said Bessy, very low. They were the first words she
had spoken since she came home. But there could be no more talking
between the sisters, for now the woman returned who had at first been
assisting Mary. Presently Jem came to the door, and beckoned. Bessy
rose up, and went with, him below. Jem looked very grave, yet not so
sad as he had done before the doctor came. “He says she must go into
the infirmary. He will see about getting her in.”
“Oh, Jem! I did so want to nurse her myself!” said Bessy, imploringly.
“It was all my own fault,” (she choked with crying); “and I thought I
might do that for her, to make up.”
“My dear Bessy,”—before he had seen Bessy, he had thought he could
never call her “dear” again, but now he began—“My dear Bessy, we both
want Mary to get better, don’t we? I am sure we do. And we want to take
the best way of making her so, whatever that is; well, then, I think we
must not be considering what we should like best just for ourselves,
but what people, who know as well as doctors do, say is the right way.
I can’t remember all that he said; but I’m clear that he told me, all
wounds on the skin required more and better air to heal in than Mary
could have here: and there the doctor will see her twice a day, if need
be.”
Bessy shook her head, but could not speak at first. At last she said,
“Jem, I did so want to do something for her. No one could nurse her as
I should.”
Jem was silent. At last he took Bessy’s hand, for he wanted to say
something to her that he was afraid might vex her, and yet that he
thought he ought to say.
“Bessy!” said he, “when mother went away, you planned to do all things
right at home, and to make us all happy. I know you did. Now may I tell
you how I think you went wrong? Don’t be angry, Bessy.”
“I think I shall never have spirit enough in me to be angry again,”
said Bessy, humbly and sadly.
“So much the better, dear. But don’t over-fret about Mary. The doctor
has good hopes of her, if he can get her into the infirmary. Now, I’m
going on to tell you how I think you got wrong after mother left. You
see, Bessy, you wanted to make us all happy your way—as you liked; just
as you are wanting now to nurse Mary in your way, and as you like. Now,
as far as I can make out, those folks who make home the happiest, are
people who try and find out how others think they could be happy, and
then, if it’s not wrong, help them on with their wishes as far as they
can. You know, you wanted us all to listen to your book; and very kind
it was in you to think of it; only, you see, one wanted to whittle, and
another wanted to do this or that, and then you were vexed with us all.
I don’t say but what I should have been if I had been in your place,
and planned such a deal for others; only lookers-on always see a deal;
and I saw that if you’d done what poor little Mary did next day, we
should all have been far happier. She thought how she could forward us
in our plans, instead of trying to force a plan of her own on us. She
got me my right sort of wood for whittling, and arranged all nicely
to get the little ones off to bed, so as to get the house quiet, if
you wanted some reading, as she thought you did. And that’s the way, I
notice, some folks have of making a happy home. Others may mean just as
well, but they don’t hit the thing.”
“I dare say it’s true,” said Bessy. “But sometimes you all hang about
as if you did not know what to do. And I thought reading travels would
just please you all.”
Jem was touched by Bessy’s humble way of speaking, so different from
her usual cheerful, self-confident manner. He answered, “I know you
did, dear. And many a time we should have been glad enough of it, when
we had nothing to do, as you say.”
“I had promised mother to try and make you all happy, and this is the
end of it!” said Bessy, beginning to cry afresh.
“But, Bessy! I think you were not thinking of your promise, when you
fixed to go out and char.”
“I thought of earning money.”
“Earning money would not make us happy. We have enough, with care and
management. If you were to have made us happy, you should have been at
home, with a bright face, ready to welcome us; don’t you think so, dear
Bessy?”
“I did not want the money for home. I wanted to make mother a present
of such a pretty thing!”
“Poor mother! I am afraid we must send for her home now. And she has
only been three days at Southport!”
“Oh!” said Bessy, startled by this notion of Jem’s; “don’t, don’t send
for mother. The doctor did say so much about her going to Southport
being the only thing for her, and I did so try to get her an order!
It will kill her, Jem! indeed it will; you don’t know how weak and
frightened she is,—oh, Jem, Jem!”
Jem felt the truth of what his sister was saying. At last, he resolved
to leave the matter for the doctor to decide, as he had attended his
mother, and now knew exactly how much danger there was about Mary. He
proposed to Bessy that they should go and relieve the kind neighbour
who had charge of Mary.
“But you won’t send for mother,” pleaded Bessy; “if it’s the best thing
for Mary, I’ll wash up her things to-night, all ready for her to go
into the infirmary. I won’t think of myself, Jem.”
“Well! I must speak to the doctor,” said Jem. “I must not try and fix
any way just because we wish it, but because it is right.”
All night long, Bessy washed and ironed, and yet was always ready to
attend to Mary when Jem called her. She took Jenny’s scalded hand in
charge as well, and bathed it with the lotion the doctor sent; and all
was done so meekly and patiently that even Tom was struck with it,
and admired the change. The doctor came very early. He had prepared
everything for Mary’s admission into the infirmary. And Jem consulted
him about sending for his mother home. Bessy sat trembling, awaiting
his answer.
“I am very unwilling to sanction any concealment. And yet, as you say,
your mother is in a very delicate state. It might do her serious harm
if she had any shock. Well! suppose for this once, I take it on myself.
If Mary goes on as I hope, why—well! well! we’ll see. Mind that your
mother is told all when she comes home. And if our poor Mary grows
worse—but I’m not afraid of that, with infirmary care and nursing—but
if she does, I’ll write to your mother myself, and arrange with a kind
friend I have at Southport all about sending her home. And now,” said
he, turning suddenly to Bessy, “tell me what you were doing from home
when this happened. Did not your mother leave you in charge of all at
home?”
“Yes, sir!” said Bessy, trembling. “But, sir, I thought I could earn
money to make mother a present!”
“Thought! fiddle-de-dee. I’ll tell you what; never you neglect the
work clearly laid out for you by either God or man, to go making work
for yourself, according to your own fancies. God knows what you are
most fit for. Do that. And then wait; if you don’t see your next duty
clearly. You will not long be idle in this world, if you are ready for
a summons. Now let me see that you send Mary all clean and tidy to the
infirmary.”
Jem was holding Bessy’s hand. “She has washed everything and made it
fit for a queen. Our Bessy worked all night long, and was content to
let me be with Mary (where she wished sore to be), because I could lift
her better, being the stronger.”
“That’s right. Even when you want to be of service to others, don’t
think how to please yourself.”
I have not much more to tell you about Bessy. This sad accident of
Mary’s did her a great deal of good, although it cost her so much
sorrow at first. It taught her several lessons, which it is good for
every woman to learn, whether she is called upon, as daughter, sister,
wife, or mother, to contribute to the happiness of a home. And Mary
herself was hardly more thoughtful and careful to make others happy
in their own way, provided that way was innocent, than was Bessy
hereafter. It was a struggle between her and Mary which could be
the least selfish, and do the duties nearest to them with the most
faithfulness and zeal. The mother stayed at Southport her full time,
and came home well and strong. Then Bessy put her arms round her
mother’s neck, and told her all—and far more severely against herself
than either the doctor or Jem did, when they related the same story
afterwards.