VIII.
_FRANKY._
But although such a great and delightful alteration had taken place in
Mrs. Lawrence, and although Mrs. Bradford and Miss Rush did all they
could to make the children feel kindly towards her, it was some days
before things went at all smoothly between the old lady and the little
ones, and Annie Stanton, seeing the consequence of her thoughtlessness,
had more than once reason to regret it, and to take to herself a lesson
to refrain from evil speaking.
Maggie and Bessie, it is true, were too old and too well behaved to
speak their fear and their dislike openly, by word or action, but it
was plainly to be seen in their looks and manners. Poor Aunt Patty! She
heard the sweet, childish voices prattling about the house, ringing
out so freely and joyfully in peals of merry laughter, or singing to
simple music the pretty hymns and songs their dear mother and Mrs. Rush
had taught them; but the moment she appeared, sweet song, innocent
talk, and gay laugh were hushed; the little ones were either silent,
or whispered to one another in subdued, timid tones. Little feet would
come pattering, or skipping along the hall, a small, curly head peep
within the door, and then vanish at sight of her, while a whisper of
"She's there; let's run," told the cause of its sudden disappearance.
She saw them clinging around their other friends and relations with
loving confidence, climbing upon their knees, clasping their necks,
pressing sweet kisses on their cheeks and lips, asking freely for
all the interest, sympathy, and affection they needed. Father and
mother, grandparents, aunts, and uncles, Colonel and Mrs. Rush, the
very servants, who had been long in the house, all came in for a share
of childish love and trust. But for her they had nothing but shy,
downcast looks, timid, half-whispered answers; they shrank from the
touch of her hand, ran from her presence. Yes, poor Aunt Patty! the
punishment was a severe one, and, apart from the pain it gave her, it
was hard for a proud spirit such as hers to bear. But she said nothing,
did not even complain to Mrs. Bradford of the reception she had met
with from Maggie and Bessie, and it was only by Uncle Ruthven's account
and the confession of the little girls that their mamma knew what had
occurred.
On the morning after Mrs. Lawrence's arrival, Maggie, as usual, brought
the "Complete Family" to her mother to have the spelling corrected, and
Mrs. Bradford found written, "'Beware, woman!' is not a bit of use. It
don't frighten people a bit; not even gilty conshuns, and Uncle John
just teased me I know. It is real mean."
Mamma asked the meaning of this, and, in a very aggrieved manner,
Maggie told her of Uncle John's explanation of the picture, and how
she thought she would try the experiment on Aunt Patty when she had
insisted on taking the baby.
"But it was all of no purpose, mamma," said Maggie, in a very injured
tone; "she did not care at all, but just stood there, looking madder
and madder."
Mamma could scarcely wonder that Aunt Patty had looked "madder and
madder," and she told Maggie that she thought her aunt wished to be
kind and good since she had not uttered one word of complaint at the
rude reception she had met with. But the little girl did not see it
with her mother's eyes, and could not be persuaded to think less hardly
of Aunt Patty.
But that rogue, Franky, was not afraid to show his feelings. He was a
bold little monkey, full of life and spirits, and always in mischief;
and now he seemed to have set himself purposely to defy and brave Mrs.
Lawrence, acting as if he wished to see how far he could go without
meeting punishment at her hands. This sad behavior of Franky's was
particularly unfortunate, because the old lady had taken a special love
for the little boy, fancying he looked like the dear father who so many
years ago had been drowned beneath the blue waters of the Swiss lake.
A day or two after Aunt Patty came, she, with Mrs. Bradford and Miss
Rush, was in the parlor with three or four morning visitors. Franky
had just learned to open the nursery door for himself, and this piece
of knowledge he made the most of, watching his chance and slipping
out the moment nurse's eye was turned from him. Finding one of these
opportunities for which he was so eager, he ran out and went softly
down-stairs, fearing to hear nurse calling him back. But nurse did not
miss him at first, and he reached the parlor in triumph. Here the door
stood partly open, and putting in his head, he looked around the room.
No one noticed the roguish little face, with its mischievous, dancing
eyes, for all the ladies were listening to Aunt Patty, as she told
them some very interesting anecdote.
Suddenly there came from the door, in clear, childish tones, "Ladies,
ladies, does Patty stold oo? Oo better wun away, she stolds very
dreadful."
After which Master Franky ran away himself as fast as his feet could
carry him, laughing and chuckling as he mounted the stairs, as if he
had done something very fine.
Mrs. Lawrence went straight on with her story, not pausing for an
instant, though that she heard quite as plainly as any one else was to
be seen by the flush of color on her cheek, and the uplifting of the
already upright head.
As for poor Mrs. Bradford, it was very mortifying for her; but what was
to be done? Nothing, just nothing, as far as Aunt Patty was concerned.
It was not a thing for which pardon could well be asked or an apology
made, and Mrs. Bradford thought the best way was to pass it over in
silence. She talked very seriously to Franky, but it seemed impossible
to make the little boy understand that he had done wrong; and, although
nothing quite as bad as this occurred again for several days, he
still seemed determined to make war upon Aunt Patty whenever he could
find a chance of doing so. And yet, strange to say, this unruly young
gentleman was the first one of the children to make friends with his
old auntie; and it came about in this way:--
Aunt Bessie had brought as her Christmas gift to Franky a tiny pair
of embroidered slippers, which were, as her namesake said, "perferly
cunning," and in which the little boy took great pride. Nurse, also,
thought a great deal of these slippers, and was very choice of them,
allowing Franky to wear them only while she was dressing or undressing
him. But one day when she brought him in from his walk, she found
his feet very cold, and taking off his walking-shoes, she put on
the slippers, and planted him in front of the fire, telling him to
"toast his toes." No sooner did the little toes begin to feel at all
comfortable than Franky looked around for some way of putting them
to what he considered their proper use; namely, trotting about. That
tempting nursery-door stood ajar, nurse's eyes were turned another way,
and in half a minute he was off again. Mammy missed him very soon, and
sent Jane to look for him. She met him coming up-stairs, and brought
him back to the nursery with a look in his eye which nurse knew meant
that he had been in mischief. And was it possible? He was in his
stocking feet! The precious slippers were missing. In vain did the old
woman question him; he would give her no answer, only looking at her
with roguishness dancing in every dimple on his chubby face; and in
vain did Jane search the halls and staircase. So at last nurse took him
to his mother, and very unwilling he was to go, knowing right well that
he had been naughty, and that now he would be obliged to confess it.
"Where are your slippers, Franky?" asked Mrs. Bradford, when nurse had
told her story.
Franky hung his head and put his finger into his mouth, then lifted his
face coaxingly to his mother for a kiss.
"Mamma cannot kiss you till you are a good boy," said Mrs. Bradford,
and repeated her question, "Where are your slippers?"
"In Patty's pottet," said Franky, seeing that his mother would have an
answer, and thinking he had best have it out.
"And how came they in Aunt Patty's pocket?"
"She put dem dere hersef," answered the child.
"Did she take them off your feet, Franky?"
"No, mamma," answered Franky, liking these questions still less than he
had done the others.
"How did they come off then?"
"Me trow dem at Patty," said Franky.
At last, after much more questioning and some whimpering from the
child, he was brought to confess that he had gone to the library,
where he found Aunt Patty. Defying her as usual, and trying how far
he could go, without punishment, he had called her "bad old sing,"
and many other naughty names; but finding this did not bring the
expected scolding, he had pulled off first one and then the other of
his slippers and thrown them at the old lady. These Mrs. Lawrence had
picked up and put in her pocket, still without speaking. Little Franky
could not tell how sorrow and anger were both struggling in her heart
beneath that grave silence.
When Mrs. Bradford had found out all Franky could or would tell, she
told him he was a very naughty little boy, and since he had behaved
so badly to Aunt Patty, he must go at once and ask her pardon. This
Franky had no mind to do. He liked very well to brave Aunt Patty from
a safe distance; but he did not care to trust himself within reach
of the punishment he knew he so justly deserved. Besides, he was in
a naughty, obstinate mood, and would not obey his mother as readily
as usual. But mamma was determined, as it was right she should be,
and after rather a hard battle with her little son, she carried him
down-stairs, still sobbing, but subdued and penitent, to beg Aunt
Patty's forgiveness.
"Me sorry, me do so any more," said Franky, meaning he would do so no
more.
To his surprise, and also somewhat to his mother's, the old lady caught
him in her arms, and covered his face with kisses, while a tear or two
shone in her eye.
"Don't ky; me dood now," lisped Franky, forgetting all his fear, and
putting up his hand to wipe away her tears; and from this minute Aunt
Patty and Franky were the best of friends. Indeed, so indulgent did
she become to him, that papa and mamma were quite afraid he would
be spoiled; for the little gentleman, finding out his power, lorded
it over her pretty well. Mrs. Bradford, coming in unexpectedly one
day, actually found the old lady on her hands and knees, in a corner,
playing the part of a horse eating hay from a manger; while Franky,
clothes-brush in hand, was, much to his own satisfaction, pretending to
rub her down, making the hissing noise used by coachmen when they curry
a horse, and positively refusing to allow his patient playfellow to
rise.
But Maggie and Bessie could not be persuaded to be at all friendly
or sociable with Aunt Patty. True, after their first dread of her
wore off, and they found she was by no means so terrible as they had
imagined, they no longer scampered off at the least sound of her voice
or glimpse of her skirts, as they had done at first; and Bessie even
found courage to speak to her now and then, always looking however,
as if she thought she was running a great risk, and could not tell
what would be the consequence of such boldness. For after all they had
heard, our little girls found it impossible to believe that such a
great change had taken place in Aunt Patty, and were always watching
for some outbreak of temper.
Unhappily there was one thing which stood much in Aunt Patty's way, not
only with the children, but perhaps with some grown people also, and
that was her old way of meddling and finding fault with things which
did not concern her. This she did, almost without knowing it; for so
it is, where we have long indulged in a habit, it becomes, as it were,
a part of ourselves, and the older we grow, the harder it is to rid
ourselves of it. And there are few things which sooner rouse the evil
passions and dislike of others than this trick of fault-finding where
we have no right or need to do so, or of meddling with that which does
not concern us. So Mrs. Lawrence, without intending it, was constantly
fretting and aggravating those around her while Maggie and Bessie, who
thought that all their mamma did or said was quite perfect, were amazed
and indignant when they heard her rules and wishes questioned and
found fault with, and sometimes even set aside by Aunt Patty, if she
thought another way better.
[Illustration: decoration, end of chap. 8]
[Illustration: Title decoration, chap. 9]
IX.
"_BEAR YE ONE ANOTHER'S BURDENS._"
One Sunday when Mrs. Lawrence had been with them about two weeks,
Maggie and Bessie, on going as usual to their class at Mrs. Rush's,
found that they two were to make up her whole class that morning;
for Gracie Howard was sick, and Lily Norris gone on a visit to her
grandfather who lived in the country. Mrs. Rush was not very sorry to
have her favorite scholars by themselves, for she wished to give them a
little lesson which it was not necessary that the others should hear.
And Maggie gave her the opportunity for which she wished by asking
Colonel Rush for the story of Benito.
"For," said the little girl, "if we were away and Lily and Gracie here,
and you told them a new story, we should be very disappointed not to
hear it; so Bessie and I made agreement to ask for an old one, and we
like Benito better than any."
"Very well; it shall be as you say," replied the colonel, who, provided
his pets were satisfied, was so himself, and after the children had
gone, he said to his wife, "Certainly there are few things in which our
sweet little Maggie does not act up to the Golden Rule, of which she
is so fond. She does not repeat it in a parrot-like way, as many do,
but she understands what it means, and practises it too, with her whole
heart."
So when the lessons were over, the colonel told the story of Benito,
which never seemed to lose its freshness with these little listeners.
When he came to the part where Benito helped the old dame with her
burden, Mrs. Rush said, "Children, what do you think that burden was?"
"We don't know," said Bessie. "What?"
"Neither do I _know_," answered Mrs. Rush. "I was only thinking what
it _might_ be. Perhaps it was pain and sickness; perhaps the loss of
friends; perhaps some old, troublesome sin, sorely repented of, long
struggled with, but which still returned again and again, to weary and
almost discourage her as she toiled along in the road which led to
the Father's house. Perhaps it was all of them; but what ever it was,
Benito did not pause to ask; he only thought of his Lord's command,
'Bear ye one another's burdens;' and so put his hand to the load, and
eased the old dame's pain and weariness. Was it not so?" she asked of
her husband.
"I think so," he answered.
"But a little child could not help grown persons to bear their sins, or
to cure them," said Bessie; "they must go to Jesus for that."
"Yes, we must go to Jesus; but the very love and help and pity we have
from him teach us to show all we can to our fellow-creatures, whether
they are young or old. One of the good men whom Jesus left on earth
to do his work and preach his word tells us that Christ was 'touched
with the feeling of our infirmities, because he was in all points
tempted like as we are.' This means that, good and pure and holy as he
was, yet he allowed himself to suffer all the trials and struggles and
temptations which can come to poor, weak man, so that he might know
just what we feel as we pass through them, and just what help we need.
Yet, sorely tempted as he was, he never fell into sin, but returned to
his Father's heaven pure and stainless as he left it. Since then Christ
feels for all the pains and struggles through which we go for his
sake, since he can make allowance for all our weakness and failures;
and as he is so ready to give us help in our temptations, so much the
more ought we who are not only tempted, but too apt, in spite of our
best efforts, to fall into sin, to show to others all the kindness and
sympathy we may at any time need for ourselves. So may we try to copy
our Saviour, 'bearing one another's burdens,' even as he has borne
ours, by giving love and pity and sympathy where we can give nothing
else. Benito was a very young child, scarcely able to walk on the
narrow road without the help of some older and wiser hand, and his weak
shoulders could not carry any part of the old dame's load; but he put
his baby hands beneath it, and gave her loving smiles and gentle words,
and these brought her help and comfort, so that she went on her way,
strengthened for the rest of the journey. And, as we know, Benito met
his reward as he came to the gates of his Father's house. So much may
the youngest do for the oldest; and I think _we_ know of an old dame
whose 'burden' our little pilgrims, Maggie and Bessie, might help to
bear, if they would."
"I just believe you mean Aunt Patty!" exclaimed Bessie, in such a tone
as showed she was not very well pleased with the idea.
"And," said Maggie, with just the least little pout, "I don't believe
she is a dame pilgrim, and I don't believe she is in the narrow path,
not a bit!"
"There I think you are mistaken, Maggie, for, so far as we can judge,
there is reason to think Aunt Patty is walking in the safe and narrow
road which leads to the Father's house; and, since she has not been
brought to it by paths quite so easy and pleasant as some of us have
known, there is all the more reason that we happier travellers should
give her a helping hand. It may be very little that we can give; a
word, a look, a smile, a kind offer to go for some little trifle that
is needed, will often cheer and gladden a heart that is heavy with its
secret burden. And if we now and then get a knock, or even a rather
hard scratch from those corners of our neighbor's load, which are made
up of little faults and odd tempers, we must try not to mind it, but
think only of how tired those poor, weary shoulders must be of the
weight they carry."
"But, Mrs. Rush," said Maggie, "Aunt Patty's corners scratch very
hard, and hurt very much."
"But the corners are not half as sharp as they were once; are they,
dear?" asked Mrs. Rush, smiling.
"Well," said Maggie, slowly, as if she were considering, "maybe her
temper corner is not so sharp as it used to be, but her meddling corner
is very bad,--yes, very bad indeed; and it scratches like everything.
Why, you don't know how she meddles, and what things she says, even
when she is not a bit mad. She is all the time telling mamma how she
had better manage; just as if mamma did not know a great deal better
than she does about her own children and her own house, and about
everything! And she dismanages Franky herself very much; and she said
dear Aunt Bessie deserved to have such a bad sore throat 'cause she
would go out riding with Uncle Ruthven, when she told her it was too
cold; and she said the colonel"--
"There, there, that will do," said Mrs. Rush, gently. "Do not let us
think of what Aunt Patty does to vex us, but see if we do not sometimes
grieve her a little."
"Oh! she don't think you do anything," said Maggie; "she says you are a
very lovely young woman."
"Well," said the colonel, laughing, "neither you nor I shall quarrel
with her for that; shall we? There is one good mark for Aunt Patty; let
us see how many more we can find."
"She was very good to Patrick when he hurt his hand so the other day,"
said Bessie. "She washed it, and put a yag on it, and made it feel a
great deal better."
"And she likes Uncle Ruthven very much," said Maggie.
"That is right," said Mrs. Rush, "think of all the good you can. When
we think kindly of a person, we soon begin to act kindly towards them,
and I am quite sure that a little love and kindness from you would do
much to lighten Aunt Patty's burden. And if the sharp corners fret and
worry you a little, remember that perhaps it is only the weight of the
rest of the burden which presses these into sight, and then you will
not feel them half as much. Will you try if you can be like Benito, and
so receive the blessing of Him who says the cup of cold water given in
his name shall meet its reward?"
"We'll try," said Maggie, "but I don't think we'll succeed."
"And if at first you don't succeed, what then?"
"Then try, try, try again," said Maggie, cheerfully, for she was
already trying to think what she might do to make Aunt Patty's burden
more easy; "but--"
"But what, dear?"
"I hope she won't shed tears of joy upon my bosom," said Maggie,
growing grave again at the thought of such a possibility; "I wouldn't
quite like _that_."
"And what does Bessie say?" asked the colonel.
"I was thinking how precious it is," said the little girl, turning upon
the colonel's face those serious brown eyes which had been gazing so
thoughtfully into the fire.
"How precious what is, my darling?"
"To think Jesus knows how our temptations feel, 'cause he felt them
himself, and so knows just how to help us and be sorry for us."
Colonel Rush had his answer to both questions.
That same Sunday evening, the children were all with their father and
mother in the library. Mrs. Lawrence sat in an arm-chair by the parlor
fire, alone, or nearly so, for Miss Rush and Mr. Stanton in the window
at the farther side of the room were not much company to any one but
themselves.
Certainly the poor old lady felt lonely enough, as, with her clasped
hands lying upon her lap, her chin sunk upon her breast, and her eyes
fixed upon the fire, she thought of the long, long ago, when she, too,
was young, bright, and happy; when those around lived only for her
happiness.
Ah! how different it all was now! They were all gone,--the youth, the
love, the happiness; gone, also, were the wasted years which she might
have spent in the service of the Master whom she had sought so late;
gone all the opportunities which he had given her of gaining the love
and friendship of her fellow-creatures. And now how little she could
do, old and feeble and helpless as she was. And what hard work it was
to struggle with the evil tempers and passions to which she had so long
given way; how difficult, when some trifle vexed her, to keep back the
sharp and angry word, to put down the wish to bend everything to her
own will, to learn of Him who was meek and lowly in heart!
And there was no one to know, no one to sympathize, no one to give her
a helping hand in this weary, up-hill work, to guess how heavily the
burden of past and present sin bore upon the poor, aching shoulders.
In her longing for the human love and sympathy she had once cast from
her, and which she could not now bring herself to ask, the poor old
lady almost forgot that there was one Eye to see the struggles made for
Jesus' sake, one Hand outstretched to save and to help, one Voice to
whisper, "Be of good courage."
True, Mr. and Mrs. Bradford were always kind and thoughtful, and all
treated her with due respect and consideration; but that was not all
she wanted. If the children would but love and trust her. There would
be such comfort in that; but in spite of all her efforts, they were
still shy and shrinking,--all, save that little tyrant, Franky. Even
fearless Fred was quiet and almost dumb in her presence.
So Aunt Patty sat, and sadly thought, unconscious of the wistful pair
of eyes which watched her from the other room, until by and by a gentle
footstep came stealing round her chair, a soft little hand timidly
slipped itself into her own, and she turned to see Bessie's sweet face
looking at her, half in pity, half in wonder.
"Well, dear," she asked, after a moment's surprised silence, "What is
it?"
Truly, Bessie scarcely knew herself what it was. She had been watching
Aunt Patty as she sat looking so sad and lonely, and thinking of Mrs.
Rush's lesson of the morning, till her tender little heart could bear
it no longer, and she had come to the old lady's side, not thinking of
anything particular she would do or say, but just with the wish to put
a loving hand to the burden.
"Do you want anything, Bessie?" asked Mrs. Lawrence again.
"No, ma'am, but"--Bessie did not quite like to speak of Aunt Patty's
troubles, so she said, "_I_ have a little burden, too, Aunt Patty."
Aunt Patty half smiled to herself as she looked into the earnest,
wistful eyes. She, this innocent little one, the darling and pet of
all around her, what burden could she have to bear? She did not know
the meaning of the word. Then came a vexed, suspicious thought.
"Who told you that I had any burden to bear, child?" she asked, sharply.