a decent burying. So that used up what we had put by for a rainy day.
Maybe I was foolish, but you see they were Mary's people, and we had
feeling about it. But sure enough, no sooner was the money gone than
the rainy day came, and stormy enough it has been ever since."
He went on, telling how sickness had come, one thing following another;
how Dr. Schwitz had promised that his charges should be small, but
how he never would give in his bill, the policeman and his wife
thinking all the while that it was kindness which kept him from
doing so; how it had taken every cent of his salary to pay the other
expenses of illness, and keep the family barely warmed and fed; of
the disappointment of their hopes for Willie for, at least, some time
to come; and finally of the terrible bill which Dr. Schwitz had sent
through revenge, the police-sergeant thought, and upon the prompt
payment of which he was now insisting.
"He's hard on me, sir, after all his fair promises," said Richards, as
he handed Mr. Bradford the bill; "and you see he has me, for I made no
agreement with him, and I don't know as I can rightly say that the law
would not allow it to him; so, for that reason, I don't dare to dispute
it. But I thought Mr. Ray might be able to make some arrangement with
him, and I _can't_ pay it all at once, nor this long time yet, that's
settled. If he would wait, I might clear it off in a year or two
though how then we are to get bread to put into the children's mouths
I don't see. And there is the rent to pay, you know. We have tucked
the children and Mrs. Granby all into one room, and let out the other
two up-stairs; so that's a little help. And Mary was talking of selling
that mahogany table and bookcase that are as dear to her as if they
were gold, for they were her mother's; but they won't fetch nothing
worth speaking of. The English colonel that came after your little
daughter, when she was up at the station that day, was so good as to
hand me a ten dollar bill, and we laid that by for a beginning; but
think what a drop in the bucket that is, and it's precious little that
we've added to it. I don't see my way out of this; that's just a fact,
sir, and my only hope is that the Lord knows all."
"You say Dr. Schwitz tried to bribe you by saying he would send in no
bill, if you allowed his nephew to escape?" said Mr. Bradford.
"Yes, sir, and I suppose I might use that for a handle against him; but
I don't like to, for I can't say but that the man was real kind to me
and mine before that. If he presses me too hard, I may have to; but I
can't bear to do it."
"Will you put the matter in my hands, and let me see this Dr. Schwitz?"
asked Mr. Bradford.
Richards was only too thankful, and after asking a little more about
blind Willie, the gentleman took his leave.
There is no need to tell what he said to Dr. Schwitz, but a few days
after he saw the police-sergeant again, and gave him a new bill, which
was just half as much as the former one, with the promise that the
doctor would wait and allow Richards to pay it by degrees, on condition
that it was done within the year. This, by great pinching and saving,
the policeman thought he would be able to do. The good gentleman did
not tell that it was only by paying part of the sum himself that he had
been able to make this arrangement.
"I don't know what claim I have upon you for such kindness, sir," said
Richards, "but if you knew what a load you have taken from me, I am
sure you would feel repaid."
"I am repaid, more than repaid," said Mr. Bradford, with a smile; "for
I feel that I am only paying a debt."
The policeman looked surprised.
"You were very kind to my little girl when she was in trouble," said
the gentleman.
"Oh, that, sir? Who could help it? And that was a very tiny seed to
bring forth such a harvest as this."
"It was 'bread cast upon the waters,'" said Mr. Bradford, "and to those
who give in the Lord's name, he gives again 'good measure, pressed
down, shaken together, and running over.'"
But the policeman had not even yet gathered in the whole of his
harvest.
[Illustration: Title decoration, chap. 6]
VI.
_UNCLE RUTHVEN._
Christmas brought no Uncle Ruthven, but Christmas week brought Miss
Elizabeth Rush, the sweet "Aunt Bessie" whom all the children loved
so dearly. And it was no wonder they were fond of her, for she was
almost as gentle and patient with them as mamma herself; and, like her
brother, the colonel, had a most wonderful gift of story-telling, which
she was always ready to put in use for them. Maggie and Bessie were
more than ever sure that there were never such delightful people as
their own, or two such happy children as themselves.
"I think we're the completest family that ever lived," said Maggie,
looking around the room with great satisfaction, one evening when
Colonel and Mrs. Rush were present.
"Yes," said Bessie; "I wonder somebody don't write a book about us."
"And call it 'The Happy Family,'" said Fred, mischievously, "after
those celebrated bears and dogs and cats and mice who live together in
the most peaceable manner so long as they have no teeth and claws, but
who immediately fall to and eat one another up as soon as these are
allowed to grow."
"If there is a bear among us, it must be yourself, sir," said the
colonel, playfully pinching Fred's ear.
"I don't know," said Fred, rubbing the ear; "judging from your claws, I
should say you were playing that character, colonel; while I shall have
to take that of the unlucky puppy who has fallen into your clutches."
"I am glad you understand yourself so well, any way," returned Colonel
Rush, drily.
Fred and the colonel were very fond of joking and sparring in this
fashion, but Bessie always looked very sober while it was going on;
for she could not bear anything that sounded like disputing, even in
play; and perhaps she was about right.
But all this had put a new idea into that busy little brain of
Maggie's. "Bessie," she said, the next morning, "I have a secret to
tell you, and you must not tell any one else."
"Not mamma?" asked Bessie.
"No, we'll tell mamma we have a secret, and we'll let her know by and
by; but I want her to be very much surprised as well as the rest of the
people. Bessie, I'm going to write a book, and you may help me, if you
like."
"Oh!" said Bessie. "And what will it be about, Maggie?"
"About ourselves. You put it in my head to do it, Bessie. But then I
sha'n't put in our real names, 'cause I don't want people to know it is
us. I made up a name last night. I shall call my people the Happys."
"And shall you call the book 'The Happy Family'?" asked Bessie.
"No; I think we will call it 'The Complete Family,'" said Maggie. "That
sounds nicer and more booky; don't you think so?"
"Yes," said Bessie, looking at her sister with great admiration. "And
when are you going to begin it?"
"To-day," said Maggie. "I'll ask mamma for some paper, and I'll write
some every day till it's done; and then I'll ask papa to take it to the
bookmaker; and when the book is made, we'll sell it, and give the money
to the poor. I'll tell you what, Bessie, if Policeman Richards' blind
boy is not cured by then, we'll give it to him to pay his doctor."
"You dear Maggie!" said Bessie. "Will you yite a piece that I make up
about yourself?"
"I don't know," said Maggie; "I'll see what you say. I wouldn't like
people to know it was me."
The book was begun that very day, but it had gone little farther than
the title and chapter first, before they found they should be obliged
to take mamma into the secret at once. There were so many long words
which they wished to use, but which they did not know how to spell,
that they saw they would have to be running to her all the time. To
their great delight, mamma gave Maggie a new copy-book to write in, and
they began again. As this was a stormy day, they could not go out, so
they were busy a long while over their book. When, at last, Maggie's
fingers were tired, and it was put away, it contained this satisfactory
beginning:--
"THE COMPLETE FAMILY.
"A TALE OF HISTORY.
"CHAPTER I.
"Once upon a time, there lived a family named Happy; only that was not
their real name, and you wish you had known them, and they are alive
yet, because none of them have died. This was the most interesting
and happiest family that ever lived. And God was so very good to them
that they ought to have been the best family; but they were not except
only the father and mother; and sometimes they were naughty, but 'most
always afterwards they repented, so God forgave them.
"This family were very much acquainted with some very great friends of
theirs, and the colonel was very brave, and his leg was cut off; but
now he is going to get a new leg, only it is a make believe."
This was all that was done the first day; and that evening a very
wonderful and delightful thing occurred, which Maggie thought would
make her book more interesting than ever.
There had been quite a family party at dinner, for it was Aunt Bessie's
birthday, and the colonel and Mrs. Rush were always considered as
belonging to the family now. Besides these, there were grandmamma
and Aunt Annie, Grandpapa Duncan, Uncle John, and Aunt Helen, all
assembled to do honor to Aunt Bessie.
Dinner was over, and all, from grandpapa to baby, were gathered in
the parlor, when there came a quick, hard pull at the door-bell. Two
moments later, the parlor door was thrown open, and there stood a tall,
broad figure in a great fur overcoat, which, as well as his long, curly
beard, was thickly powdered with snow. At the first glance, he looked,
except in size, not unlike the figure which a few weeks since had
crowned their Christmas-tree; and in the moment of astonished silence
which followed, Franky, throwing back his head and clapping his hands,
shouted, "Santy Caus, Santy Caus!"
But it was no Santa Claus, and in spite of the muffling furs and the
heavy beard, in spite of all the changes which ten long years of
absence had made, the mother's heart, and the mother's eye knew her
son, and rising from her seat with a low cry of joy, Mrs. Stanton
stretched her hands towards the stranger, exclaiming, "My boy!
Ruthven, my boy!" and the next moment she was sobbing in his arms. Then
his sisters were clinging about him, and afterwards followed such a
kissing and hand-shaking!
It was an evening of great joy and excitement, and although it was long
past the usual time when Maggie and Bessie went to bed, they could not
go to sleep. At another time nurse would have ordered them to shut
their eyes and not speak another word; but to-night she seemed to think
it quite right and natural that they should be so very wide awake, and
not only gave them an extra amount of petting and kissing, but told
them stories of Uncle Ruthven's pranks when he was a boy, and of his
wonderful sayings and doings, till mamma, coming up and finding this
going on, was half inclined to find fault with the old woman herself.
Nurse had quite forgotten that, in those days, she told Uncle Ruthven,
as she now told Fred, that he was "the plague of her life," and that he
"worried her heart out." Perhaps she did not really mean it with the
one more than with the other.
[Illustration: Bessie's Friends. p. 124.]
"And to think of him," she said, wiping the tears of joy from her
eyes,--"to think of him asking for his old mammy 'most before he had
done with his greetings to the gentlefolks! And him putting his arm
about me and giving me a kiss as hearty as he used when he was a boy;
and him been all over the world seein' all sorts of sights and doin's.
The Lord bless him! He's got just the same noble, loving heart, if he
has got all that hair about his face."
Uncle Ruthven's tremendous beard was a subject of great astonishment
to all the children. Fred saucily asked him if he had come home to
set up an upholsterer's shop, knowing he could himself furnish plenty
of stuffing for mattresses and sofas. To which his uncle replied that
when he did have his beard cut, it should be to furnish a rope to bind
Fred's hands and feet with.
Maggie was very eager to write down the account of Uncle Ruthven's
home-coming in her history of "The Complete Family," and as mamma's
time was more taken up than usual just now, she could not run to her
so often for help in her spelling. So the next two days a few mistakes
went down, and the story ran after this fashion:--
"The Happys had a very happy thing happen to them witch delited them
very much. They had a travelling uncle who came home to them at last;
but he staid away ten years and did not come home even to see his
mother, and I think he ort to don't you? But now he is come and has
brought so many trunks and boxes with such lots and lots of things and
kurositys in them that he is 'most like a Norz' Ark only better, and
his gret coat and cap are made of the bears' skins he shot and he tells
us about the tigers and lions and I don't like it and Fred and Harry
do and Bessie don't too. And he is so nice and he brought presents for
every boddy and nurse a shawl that she's going to keep in her will
till she dies for Harry's wife, and he has not any and says he won't
because Uncle Ruthven has no wife. That is all to-day my fingers are
krampd."
Strange to say, Maggie was at home with the new uncle much sooner than
Bessie. Little Bessie was not quite sure that she altogether approved
of Uncle Ruthven, or that it was quite proper for this stranger to come
walking into the house and up-stairs at all hours of the day, kissing
mamma, teasing nurse, and playing and joking with the children, just
as if he had been at home there all his life. Neither would she romp
with him as the other children did, looking gravely on from some quiet
corner at their merry frolics, as if she half-disapproved of it all. So
Uncle Ruthven nicknamed her the "Princess," and always called her "your
highness" and "your grace," at which Bessie did not know whether to be
pleased or displeased. She even looked half-doubtfully at the wonderful
stories he told, though she never lost a chance of hearing one. Uncle
Ruthven was very fond of children, though he was not much accustomed
to them, and he greatly enjoyed having them with him, telling Mrs.
Bradford that he did not know which he liked best,--Bessie with her
dainty, quiet, ladylike little ways, or Maggie with her half-shy,
half-roguish manner, and love of fun and mischief. Maggie and all the
boys were half wild about him, and as for baby, if she could have
spoken, she would have said that never was there such an uncle for
jumping and tossing. The moment she heard his voice, her hands and feet
began to dance, and took no rest till he had her in his arms; while
mamma sometimes feared the soft little head and the ceiling might come
to too close an acquaintance.
"Princess," said Mr. Stanton, one evening, when he had been home about
a fortnight, catching up Bessie, as she ran past him, and seating her
upon the table, "what is that name your highness calls me?"
"I don't call you anything but Uncle Yuthven," answered Bessie, gravely.
"That is it," said her uncle. "What becomes of all your r's? Say
Ruthven."
"Er--er--er--Yuthven," said Bessie, trying very hard at the r.
Mr. Stanton shook his head and laughed.
"I can talk plainer than I used to," said Bessie. "I used to call Aunt
Bessie's name very crooked, but I don't now."
"What did you use to call it?"
"I used to say _Libasus_; but now I can say it plain, _Lisabus_."
"A vast improvement, certainly," said Mr. Stanton, "but you can't
manage the R's yet, hey? Well, they will come one of these days, I
suppose."
"They'd better," said Fred, who was hanging over his uncle's shoulder,
"or it will be a nice thing when she is a young lady for her to go
turning all her R's into Y's. People will call her crooked-tongued Miss
Bradford."
"You don't make a very pleasant prospect for me to be in," said
Bessie, looking from brother to uncle with grave displeasure, "and if
a little boy like you, Fred, says that to me when I am a big lady, I
shall say, 'My dear, you are very impertinent.'"
"And quite right, too," said Uncle Ruthven. "If all the little boys do
not treat you with proper respect, Princess, just bring them to me, and
I will teach them good manners."
Bessie made no answer, for she felt rather angry, and, fearing she
might say something naughty, she wisely held her tongue; and slipping
from her uncle's hold, she slid to his knee, and from that to the
floor, running away to Aunt Bessie for refuge.
After the children had gone to bed, Uncle Ruthven went up to Mrs.
Bradford's room, that he might have a quiet talk with this his favorite
sister. Mrs. Bradford was rocking her baby to sleep, which business was
rather a serious one, for not the least talking or moving about could
go on in the room but this very young lady must have a share in it.
The long lashes were just drooping upon the round, dimpled cheek when
Uncle Ruthven's step was heard.
"Ah-oo-oo," said the little wide-awake, starting up with a crow of
welcome to the playfellow she liked so well.
Mamma laid the little head down again, and held up a warning finger
to Uncle Ruthven, who stole softly to a corner, where he was out of
Miss Baby's sight and hearing, to wait till she should be fairly off
to dreamland. This brought him near the door of Maggie's and Bessie's
room, where, without intending it, he heard them talking. Not hearing
his voice, they thought he had gone away again, and presently Maggie
said in a low tone, that she might not rouse baby, "Bessie, have you
objections to Uncle Ruthven?"
"Yes," answered Bessie, slowly,--"yes, Maggie, I think I have. I try
not to, but I'm 'fraid I do have a little objections to him."
"But why?" asked Maggie. "_I_ think he is lovely."
"I don't know," said Bessie. "But, Maggie, don't you think he makes
pretty intimate?"
"Why, yes," said Maggie; "but then he's our uncle, you know. I guess he
has a right if he has a mind to."
"But he makes more intimate than Uncle John, and we've known him ever
so long, and Uncle Yuthven only a little while. Why, Maggie, he kisses
mamma!"
"Well, he is her own brother," said Maggie, "and Uncle John is only her
step-brother,--no, that's not it--her brother-of-law--that's it."
"What does that mean, Maggie?"
"It means when somebody goes and marries your sister. If somebody
married me, he'd be your brother-of-law."
"He sha'n't!" said Bessie, quite excited. "He's a horrid old thing, and
he sha'n't do it!"
"Who sha'n't do what?" asked Maggie, rather puzzled.
"That person, that brother-of-law; he sha'n't marry you; you are my own
Maggie."
"Well, he needn't if you don't want him to," said Maggie, quite as well
contented to settle it one way as the other. "And you needn't feel so
bad, and sit up in bed about it, Bessie, 'cause you'll take cold, and
mamma forbid it."
"So she did," said Bessie, lying down again with a sigh. "Maggie, I'm
'fraid I'm naughty to-night. I forgot what mamma told me, and I was
naughty to Uncle Yuthven."
"What did you say?"
"I didn't _say_ anything, but I felt very passionate, and I thought
naughty things,--how I'd like to give him a good slap when he teased
me, and, Maggie, for a moment I 'most thought I wished he did not come
home. I am going to tell him I'm sorry, the next time he comes."
"I wouldn't," said Maggie, who was never as ready as Bessie to
acknowledge that she had been wrong; "not if I didn't do or say
anything."
"I would," said Bessie. "It is naughty to feel so; and you know there's
no 'scuse for me to be passionate like there was for Aunt Patty, 'cause
my people are so very wise, and teach me better. And it grieves Jesus
when we feel naughty, and he saw my naughty heart to-night."
"Then ask him to forgive you," said Maggie.
"So I did; but I think he'll know I want to be better if I ask Uncle
Yuthven too."
"Well," said Maggie, "maybe he will. But, Bessie, why do you speak
about yourself as if you are like Aunt Patty. You're not a bit like
her."
"But I might be, if I wasn't teached better," said Bessie, "and if
Jesus didn't help me. Poor Aunt Patty! Papa said she was to be pitied."
"I sha'n't pity her, I know," said Maggie.
"But, Maggie, mamma said we ought to try and feel kind to her, and to
be patient and good to her when she came here, 'cause she's getting
very old, and there's nobody to love her, or take care of her. I am
'fraid of her, but I am sorry for her."
"If she has nobody to take care of her, let her go to the Orphan
Asylum," said Maggie. "I just hope papa will send her there, 'cause we
don't want to be bothered with her."
"And don't you feel a bit sorry for her, Maggie?"
"No, not a bit; and I'm not going to, either. She is quite a disgrace
to herself, and so she'd better stay at her house up in the mountains."
Maggie, in her turn, was growing quite excited, as she always did
when she talked or thought of Aunt Patty. It was some time since the
children had done either, for Christmas, Aunt Bessie, and Uncle Ruthven
had given them so much else to think about, that they had almost
forgotten there was such a person.
And now mamma, who had laid baby in her cradle, coming in to stop
the talking, was sorry to hear her little girls speaking on the old,
disagreeable subject. She told them they must be still, and go to
sleep. The first command was obeyed at once, but Maggie did not find
the second quite so easy; and she lay awake for some time imagining
all kinds of possible and impossible quarrels with Aunt Patty, and
inventing a chapter about her for "The Complete Family."
While little Maggie was thinking thus of Aunt Patty, the old lady, in
her far-away home, was wondering how she might best contrive to gain
the hearts of her young nieces and nephews, for she was not the same
woman she had been four years ago. During the last few months a new
knowledge and a new life had come to her, making her wish to live in
peace and love with every one. But she did not know how to set about
this; for the poor lady had grown old in the indulgence of a bad
temper, a proud spirit, and a habit of desiring to rule all about her;
and now it was not easy to change all this. She had humbled herself at
the feet of her Lord and Saviour, but it was hard work to do it before
her fellow-men. She could not quite resolve to say to those whom she
had grieved and offended by her violence and self-will, "I have done
wrong, but now I see my sin, and wish, with God's help, to lead a new
life."
Still, she longed for the love and friendship she had once cast from
her, and her lonely heart craved for some care and affection. She well
knew that Mr. and Mrs. Bradford would be only too ready to forgive and
forget all that was disagreeable in the past, and she also felt that
they would do nothing to prejudice the minds of their children against
her. She thought she would go to them, and try to be gentle and loving,
and so perhaps she should win back their hearts, and gain those of
their little ones. But old habit and the old pride were still strong
within her, and so, when she wrote to Mr. Bradford to say she was
coming to make them a visit, she gave no sign that she was sorry for
the past, and would like to make amends.
But shortly before the time she had fixed for the visit, something
happened which caused her to change her purpose, and she chose to say
nothing of her reasons for this, only sending word that she could not
come before spring, perhaps not then. Now, again she had altered her
plans, and this time she chose to take them all by surprise, and to go
to Mr. Bradford's without warning.
"Margaret," said Mr. Stanton softly, as his sister came from the
bedside of her little girls, and they went to the other side of the
room, "what a sensitive conscience your darling little Bessie has! It
seems I vexed her to-night, though I had no thought of doing so. I saw
she was displeased, but the feeling seemed to pass in a moment. Now
I find that she is so penitent for indulging in even a wrong feeling
that she cannot rest satisfied without asking pardon, not only of her
heavenly Father, but also of me." And he told Mrs. Bradford of all he
had heard the children say, with some amusement, as he repeated the
conversation about himself.