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Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
CHAPTER
"I DON'T see why you should be so disagreeable about it, mother. It was my own ten shillings that I paid for the watch."
"Watch, indeed!" exclaimed her mother, as though the very word was an offence to her. "What do you know about buying a watch?—a bit of a girl in her first place. You need all the money you can earn to keep you in decent clothes, to say nothing of what you owe me for all the things I have had to buy to make you tidy, and give you a fair start in service." And Mrs. Brown almost burst into tears as her eyes fell again on the glittering silver watch her daughter was so proud to display.
Fanny was a little over sixteen, a tall, well-grown girl for her age, stout and rosy, and looking the picture of health, as she stood there telling her mother her trial month was over, that her mistress was very well satisfied with the way she had done her work, and that she was to have six pounds a year at first, a whole day's holiday once a month, and every Sunday evening to go to church.
"I am very glad to have that bit of news, Fanny," said her mother, in a more cheerful tone. "But still, I wish you had left the watch alone. I don't believe in such finery for a girl like you."
"Finery!" repeated Fanny. "Father has got a watch."
"Yes, but your father's is for use, not to dangle round his neck like that glittering thing. You've got a clock in the kitchen at your place, haven't you?" said her mother.
"To be sure we have," said Fanny, with a toss of her head. "But I'm not always in the kitchen," she added.
"Well, my girl, I dare say we shall get over it but I do feel disappointed, for I wanted you to let me have all you could spare of your wages this month for Eliza."
"For Eliza!" repeated Fanny, changing colour a little. "Is she ill again, mother?" she asked.
"No; she is better—very well for her. But Mrs. Parsons from the Vicarage came to see me yesterday, and asked if Eliza could go with the nurse and children to the seaside for a month. Our Vicar thought she might help to look after the children on the sands, and that the change would do her good too."
"Oh, mother, how kind of the Vicar and Mrs. Parsons! And what a chance for Eliza! Of course you'll let her go!"
"How can I now?" And Mrs. Brown put her apron to her eyes, for she could not keep her tears back any longer. "I spent every penny I could scrape together to send you out tidy, never thinking I should want to do the same thing for Eliza yet awhile, or that you would go and throw away your first wages on rubbish like that watch."
Fanny looked confused and defiant. Certainly, if she had known the money was likely to be wanted for such a purpose as helping her delicate sister to go to the seaside, she would not have bought the watch; but she did not like it that her mother seemed to think she had a right to claim her first wages, and she muttered something about this just as Eliza came in from school.
"Has mother told you, Fanny?" she exclaimed, after hugging and kissing her sister.
Fanny had pictured this meeting with Eliza again and again during the month she had been away, and she had thought it would be part of the day's pleasure and triumph to show her sister the grand watch she had bought. But now—well, how could she?
"Did you tell your teacher?" asked Mrs. Brown. The younger girl looked up quickly, for she noticed the change in her mother's tone.
"What is it? What is the matter, mother? Have they been to say that the Nurse thinks I am too little to look after the children?" she asked, with changing colour.
Her mother shook her head, and the tears filled her eyes, as she said—
"No, no, dear; it isn't that. But I don't know how to get you the tidy things the Vicar said you would want."
Eliza turned and looked at her sister. "Haven't you got your wages?" she whispered, for her mother had told her there would be no difficulty about the new cotton frocks she would have to buy for her, because Fanny would be able to let her have the money, and they could repay her later. But now, as she looked at her sister's angry, downcast face, she did not know what to think. "The lady didn't pay you, did she, Fan?" she said, with a tremor in her voice, fixing her eyes on her sister's face as she spoke.
"Don't look at me like that! I can't help it! I'm sorry. But I haven't got any money to buy you new frocks, and I don't see—"
She could not say any more, for she heard her father coming in at that moment, and she dashed out of the back door and went through a gap in the hedge, and walked to some fields close by, where she sat down and cried to herself for several minutes. She managed to persuade herself that her mother was very unkind and unreasonable to think she could have all her money to spend upon Eliza, and that she had no right to say what she did about the watch. "I wonder what she would think if she knew I had to pay two pounds for it. She thinks ten shillings a lot of money, and so I shall keep it to myself that I have to pay any more." And Fanny thought she had better go home again and make the best she could of things, or some of the children would be sent to look for her.
Just after she had started to run back, she heard her name called by a familiar voice, and the next minute she was joined by a girl about her own age, but dressed in a dirty-fine frock, and looking altogether so slatternly and untidy that even Fanny was struck with the contrast in their appearance.
"Are you out for your holiday, Fan?" she said, as she slipped her arm in Fanny's.
Fanny knew that neither mother nor father would be pleased to see her with Jessie Collins, and she tried to get away from her as they drew near their own house. But Jessie held her arm tightly.
"I haven't told you half the news yet, Fan!" she exclaimed. "I tell you it is as true as I am here that there'll be work soon for all us girls, and we need not go to service, and I for one am very glad of it."
"Oh, if you get a nice comfortable place, I don't see why—"
Jessie laughed mockingly. "I do though," she said. "And I told mother this morning she needn't bother herself to look for another place for me, for I shall go to work in the blacking factory as soon as ever it opens."
Fanny made a wry face. "I hate the smell of blacking," she said.
"So do I," answered Jessie; "but it isn't so bad when it gives you liberty to go where you like in the evening, and dress how you like, too."
Fanny glanced at her companion and smiled. But just then a voice was heard calling her in a loud tone, and she crept through the hedge again, and came face to face with her brother.
"You've been out with that Jessie Collins, instead of waiting indoors to see me and father," he said accusingly.
"I didn't go out on purpose to see Jessie," replied his sister, in an aggrieved tone. And she ran in to see her father.
"Well, my girl, what made you run off just as I was coming in?" he said.
"Oh, she caught sight of that Jess Collins," announced Jack, who had followed her into the kitchen.
Her father looked from one to the other as Fanny's face flushed angrily.
"Look here, Fanny," he said, "it don't matter just for this once, of course, but it would not be wise to make a friend of Jessie Collins. She is about in the streets too much of a night to please me, and I told her father the other day that no girl of mine should ever be about as Jessie is, and so, to please me, I hope you won't go to meet her again."
"I didn't go to meet her, father," said Fanny, darting an angry look at her brother.
"There, no teasing, Jack," said his father. "Fanny is a visitor to-day, and I hope her first holiday will be a happy one," he said, patting her head. "See what a nice pudding mother has made for dinner, just because her girl was coming home for her first holiday."
If Brown had wondered why Fanny had ran off as she did, he thought it best to say nothing about it just now, and he made room for her to sit beside him, and pushed his own plate aside to make room for her dinner, which had been kept hot in front of the fire by Eliza.
"Never mind about the wages," she whispered, as she placed it on the table before her sister.
"You must make haste, or we shall eat all the pudding," said her father, jokingly.
Fanny had put the watch out of sight, and she was glad of it, for now there would be no more disagreeable questions asked unless her mother should say something about it, which at present seemed very unlikely. And so the dinner passed off pleasantly, and no reference was made to either watch or wages during the rest of the meal.
"I shall see you again at tea-time, my girl; and if we aren't wanted to work late to-night, I will see you home, like I used to see mother when she was a girl in service," and Brown nodded to his wife as he took his cap from its nail at the back of the door and went off with Jack to work.
When the dinner-things were cleared away, Fanny agreed to go with her two younger sisters to the National School to see her former governess and tell her how she was getting on, for she had recommended Fanny for this place, and, of course, would be glad to hear she was giving satisfaction. The two younger girls were very proud to walk with their elder sister to school once more. Selina was eight and Minnie twelve, so that Fanny felt quite grown up beside these two, and took a hand of each as they went up the street together, and quite forgot the trouble of the morning for a little while. But before the school was reached, Selina said—
"Isn't it a pity poor 'Liza can't have new clothes to go to the seaside?"
"What do you know about it, Miss Inquisitive?" said Fanny, sharply.
"I heard mother and 'Liza talking about it when we came home from school. Don't you wish mother had money enough to buy some new frocks?"
"Why, of course I do, little stupid!" said Fanny, crossly, as though she thought Selina had spoken like this on purpose to vex and annoy her; and then that her mother must have told the children all about the watch.
"I dare say mother will manage somehow," said Minnie, after a pause.
But Selina shook her head. "Mother can't make new frocks out of nothing," she said.
But just then the school was reached, and other girls gathered round the sisters, and Fanny was soon telling her former schoolfellows what a nice comfortable place she had got, and how kind and considerate her mistress was to everybody. And then the school-bell suddenly stopped, and there was a general scamper among the girls to reach their classes in time to answer when their names were called, and Fanny was left standing near the door of the schoolroom until the governess had finished calling the names and was at liberty to speak to her.
Then she called Fanny to her table and shook hands with her, and said how glad she was to hear such a good account of her from her mistress.
Fanny opened her eyes in some surprise. "I did not know you knew Mrs. Lloyd," she said.
"She is a friend of a friend of mine," explained the governess, "and I met her at this friend's house a few days ago. When she spoke of you, she said what a nice, neat, tidy girl you were. You have your mother to thank for a good deal, Fanny," added the governess.
"Yes, ma'am," answered Fanny, and then she asked after several schoolfellows and teachers whom she did not see in their places.
She stayed until playtime, and then went out and had a chat with some other old friends until the children returned to school, and then she went home.
"Fanny, dear, I am so sorry, and so is father, I know; but Jack has just been to say they have got to work late to-night, and so father won't be able to walk home with you as he hoped he should." And Mrs. Brown kissed Fanny by way of consolation for this disappointment, and also in token that all the disagreeables of the morning were over and done with.
"Oh, mother, how tiresome everything is!" exclaimed Fanny. "I made sure father would walk home with me."
"Never mind, Fan, mother will go instead," said Eliza, who always thought a walk with her mother the best part of any holiday.
But Fanny sniffed at the proposal. She was afraid that if her mother went with her she might ask more questions about the watch; and if she thought she ought not to have given ten shillings for it, what would she say if she found out that the price she had agreed to pay was two pounds in monthly instalments of three shillings a month. The woman who had come to the kitchen entrance at her mistress's house had assured her that it was the cheapest watch that had ever been sold for that money; but she was afraid that her mother might not be of the same opinion, and so, for peace' sake, she resolved to say nothing about this to anybody, nor mention the watch again to any one at home.
She found there was a pile of her own old underclothes on the table when she went into the kitchen, and Eliza was contentedly patching and darning these under her mother's direction.
"There is a good bit of wear in some of the things," said Mrs. Brown, in answer to Fanny's look of surprise. "You grew so fast the last year, Fanny, that you got too big for them, and they were torn rather than worn out, and so I think they will do for Eliza for a little while."
"But you can't make frocks out of these things," said Fanny.
"No; but if we get these ready, mother says the frocks may come in good time; and so, as I am not going to school, I can mend these ready," said Eliza, with quite a happy look on her pale, delicate face.
Like her sister Minnie, she had the fullest confidence that her mother would manage "somehow," and that the neatly mended, outgrown clothes would go with her to the seaside after all. So she sat and sewed and darned, while Fanny told all about her visit to the school. She agreed to carry her father's tea to the factory that her sister might keep on with her work. Then they had their own tea, which Mrs. Brown contrived should be a happy, merry meal; for she did not want Fanny to feel that they were not all very glad to have her at home for her holiday, and she was very sorry that anything had occurred to spoil the day they had all looked forward to with so much anticipation.
Of course it was Fanny's own folly that had caused all the unpleasantness. Mrs. Brown did not hide this fact from herself, nor could she feel otherwise than disappointed that her Fanny, whom she was so proud of, had been both foolish and selfish in spending all her first wages before she reached home, to know whether any of the money was required for the others.
But there should be no more said about it, Mrs. Brown was determined; and so, when they set out on their walk this evening, she said, in a cheery tone—
"Now, you musn't worry yourself about Eliza, what is done can't be helped, and I think I shall manage to get her what she wants if father has to work later two or three times. I have got enough, I think, to make her two white aprons like yours, for Aunt Mary sent me a nice long length for you, when she heard that you had got a place. She sent me ten shillings, too, towards getting your new things, so that I cannot ask her to help me with Eliza's as well."
"And, then, I was always her favourite," put in Fanny, "so, of course, she would like to help me."
"Oh yes, of course," said her mother, with a smile.
"If aunt sent you ten shillings and all that stuff for aprons I can't owe you much, can I, mother?" said Fanny; for she was thinking just then of the large sum of money she still owed for that watch. And if she was in debt to her mother too, whenever would she be able to buy herself a new best dress?
Her mother was a little startled at the question.
"In debt?" she repeated. "I never thought of it in that way. We have always been ready to help each other, and I thought when you were able to earn money for yourself, you would like to help the rest of us."
"Oh yes," assented Fanny, "I should, of course, when I could afford it. But you said this morning I owed you money for my things; but if aunt sent that money and stuff for me, it can't be much, not worth talking about."
"No, not worth talking about," repeated Mrs. Brown, in a mechanical tone. But as she said the words a chill seemed to creep over her, as though a great gulf had all at once arisen between her and her dear child Fanny, separating them and putting a stranger in the place of the girl she had been so proud to call "my Fanny" only a few hours before.
There was silence between the two for a minute after this, and Fanny vaguely felt that she had hurt her mother, but still with the thought of all the money she owed for the watch, she wanted to be quite clear as to what her mother could claim from her, and so she said—
"Of course, I hope you will be able to send Eliza away all right, and she is welcome to the muslin aunt sent for me, and to all the clothes I left at home, but I don't think I shall be able to give you any money as well."
"No, Fanny, I shall never ask for it or expect it again."
Mrs. Brown said these last words with a tremor in her voice, and as soon as Fanny had reached the end of her walk, she kissed her and bade her good night, and turned to walk up the garden path without another word.
Halfway back Mrs. Brown met her husband, who had come straight from his work to walk home with her.
"Why, what is it, mother? Haven't you anything to tell me about our girl?"
For answer Mrs. Brown said, "I'm tired, Tom. This walk has been almost too much for me, I think. I can't talk about anything to-night."
"Come along, then; take my arm. Never mind the dirty jacket. I will help you home, and you shall go straight to bed, or else you will be having one of your bad headaches, and we can't afford that just now, can we?"
Mrs. Brown went to bed as soon as she reached home, and she had to spend the whole of the next day there; but no word passed her lips about Fanny and her watch, and, wisely or unwisely, she said no word to her husband that the girl had bought one.
"IF you please, ma'am, mother says if 'Liza Brown isn't going to be nursemaid at the Vicarage, couldn't you send our Polly? She's bigger than 'Liza," added the girl, looking up at her former teacher as if to challenge any contradiction of this assertion.
Miss Martin, the teacher of the National School, was silent with amazement as she listened to the proposal. But she had long wanted to have a word with her former scholar, Jessie Collins, and this was too good an opportunity to be lost, and so, instead of expressing the surprise she felt, she simply looked the girl over in her shabby fine frock, and said—
"Surely your mother must know that I do not choose the Vicarage servants, Jessie? And I have not heard that Eliza Brown was going for more than a month, to help with the children while they are away at the seaside."
Jessie nodded. "Yes, that's it," she said. "But 'Liza can't go; her mother can't afford to buy her the new frocks. But mother will get Polly a nice lot of new things!" and Jessie glanced complacently at her own fine frock as she spoke.
"I have not heard anything about this, Jessie!" said her teacher; "but I am sure of this, that the question of new frocks would be of far less importance to the Vicar and Mrs. Parsons, than the character of the girl they chose to be with the children," said Miss Martin, looking earnestly at Jessie as she spoke.
"Well, nobody can't say a word against our Polly!" said Jessie, in a defiant tone.
"Polly is a quiet, steady girl; and I wish you were like her," said her teacher. "Are you in service now, Jessie?" she suddenly asked.
"No, ma'am, I ain't; and I don't think I shall go again."
"Why not? The place I recommended you for was a nice comfortable one, I know."
"Well, I wasn't treated fairly, and I didn't stop," said Jessie, in a sullen tone.
"Not treated fairly?" repeated her governess.
"Well, no," asserted Jessie; "mother bought me a new frock when I had been there a month. I chose it myself, mother said I might; and the missis said it was not at all suitable for a servant, so I just give notice and left."
"But you have had another place since?" said the teacher, in a questioning tone.
"Yes, but it was just about the same; she said I thought more about finery than I did about my work; so I'm going to the new blacking factory as soon as it opens."
"Oh, Jessie, I am very sorry to hear this, because you are placing yourself in the way of temptations you may not be able to resist, and may be sorry for it all the rest of your life."
"I don't like service," muttered the girl.
"My girl, everybody, in every station of life, has to endure things they do not like, it is the way God teaches and trains us all, and it would be much better for you to be in a respectable, comfortable home, learning to be useful, than playing about the street as you have been lately."
"Who said I ran the streets?" demanded the girl.
"I have seen it for myself, and I feel very sorry that a bright, clever girl like you, who could be such a useful woman in the world by-and-by, should just throw away all her chances which she will never have again."
"What chances?" asked Jessie, in a more gentle tone.
"The chances to learn all sorts of useful things; how to cook in the most economical way. How to make a house clean and neat. A mistress is always ready to teach her young maid these things, and while she is learning them she is earning a character for herself too, that is of more value than anything else, if she only does her work faithfully and truly, as God's servant, as well as a household servant."
Jessie was evidently touched by the kindly tone in which these words were spoken.
"Thank you, ma'am. I didn't know you cared about me now," she said.
"But I do care for you, and want to see you grow up a happy useful woman, of whom I can be proud to say that she was one of my scholars when she was a girl."
Tears had filled Jessie's eyes while her governess had been speaking.
"If it wasn't so hard," she murmured, "I'd like to please you like that," she said.
"Nothing that is worth having is gained without hard work. Before I could be a teacher, I had to learn many hard lessons, not from books only; although I had to sit learning from books when I would gladly have gone out for a walk, or to see my friends; so that I know what hard work is better than you do."
"But you didn't have to go to service," muttered Jessie.
"No, God had fitted me to be a teacher, and opened the way for me to learn to do my work properly. He has placed you where you can learn to be useful by helping others to make their home nice and neat and comfortable. Your strong, young arms can move a brush and broom much better than some who are older and weaker, while they can teach you many things you need to learn, if you are to be a capable, useful woman by-and-by. Try to think of going to service in this way. We all have to help each other in some way, and God wants many of the young girls to use their strength to help those who are weaker and less able to do housework. In doing this, you are helping mother and father too, as well as yourself. Now, think over what I have said, and I hope you will soon get another place. But if you should not do that just now, remember that your old governess is always your friend, and ready to help you whenever she can. Now, tell mother I hope she won't want to take Polly away from school yet. She is a year younger than Eliza Brown, although she is a bigger girl."
"All right, teacher," said Jessie, with a nod, "Polly shall stop at school just as long as you want her to," she added, as though she had the ruling of all such matters in her home.
Miss Martin looked after her, and sighed as she went out of the school, for she feared that the influence at home was not likely to help the girl to a right decision in the ordering of her life. And then her thoughts turned to her other scholar, and she decided to send for Mrs. Brown, and find out what truth there was in Jessie's report.
She knew the Browns had had a good deal of trouble. The father had been ill, and out of work for some time, and she knew that Eliza was delicate, and often under the doctor's care; but surely a managing woman like Mrs. Brown, with the help she would get now from Fanny's wages, would be able to get the girl decent clothes, so that she might have the benefit of the Vicar's kind offer; and she called Selina from her class, and told her to run home and ask her mother to come to the school at four o'clock, as she wanted to speak to her as soon as the girls were dismissed.
"I wonder what it can be!" said Eliza, anxiously, when she heard the message. "I hope it isn't to say I am not wanted, now we have got such a lot of things ready."
"You haven't got any new frocks," put in the chatterbox Selina.
"Never mind, they are coming, mother says," answered Eliza.
"Oh yes, they are coming!" said Mrs. Brown.
"The stuff will be here, I dare say, by the time I have finished all I have got to do. Now, run back and tell your governess I will come at four o'clock; and don't you chatter among the girls about things you hear at home," added Mrs. Brown, as Selina went out.
Mrs. Brown reached the school just as the girls came trooping into the playground, and she went on as soon as the crowd had passed, and Miss Martin placed a chair for her near her own, for she thought she looked very ill, and she said so.
"No, ma'am, I am not ill, but I think I got a bit overtired the day Fanny came home for her holiday;" and she sighed as though the memory of that day had a pain in it that could not be forgotten.
"It is about Eliza that I want to see you. I heard this afternoon that you would not be able to let her go to the seaside after all," said Miss Martin; and she looked as though she thought Mrs. Brown ought to do anything rather than let her child lose such a chance as the Vicar had offered.
Mrs. Brown coloured. "I wonder who could have said such a thing!" she exclaimed. "We are working away—Eliza and I—to get her things ready, and I hope we shall get the new frocks as well by the time they are wanted," she added.
"Has there been any difficulty in this matter?" said the governess. "I thought Fanny would be able to help you a little, for she told me what nice new clothes you were making for her to take with her to her first place; and, of course, she has her first month's wages now, and very little use for the money."
The governess echoed exactly what her own thoughts had been, until she saw Fanny and that watch. But however much Mrs. Brown might have been pained by her daughter's behaviour, she did not wish the governess to know anything about it, and so she made some confused allusion to her husband's long illness, which left Miss Martin in doubt as to whether Fanny had helped her mother or not; but at the same time the general character of the family was so good, that she said—
"Now, Mrs. Brown, you must not let Eliza miss this chance of going to the sea, and so I will ask you to accept the loan of five shillings for a few weeks. You can repay it a shilling a week, as you can spare the money; but I want you to get all Eliza will need to make her tidy and comfortable. There is a warm woollen dress of my own that does not fit me since I had it washed, but would, I think, make a nice one for the seaside, if the weather should happen to be too cold for cotton frocks. If you will come home with me, you might take it back with you."
"Oh, thank you, ma'am! Indeed, I shall be very glad to accept your kind offer," said Mrs. Brown; and as she spoke, the tears filled her eyes, and she looked up so gratefully at Miss Martin that the lady felt quite glad she had remembered the old dress that had been a source of vexation to her lately.
To Mrs. Brown it was a splendid gift. Just what Eliza needed, for her own winter frock she had outgrown, and it was very shabby and threadbare, while this was soft and warm, and just the colour suitable for a seaside frock, and she carried home her parcel, feeling so thankfully delighted, that she might have been walking on air rather than common earth.
"More work, Eliza," she said, holding up her parcel as soon as she went in.
"What is that?" asked little Selina, curiously. Mrs. Brown had not noticed that the child was in the room.
"Now, Selina, was it you that told some of the girls at school that I could not get new frocks for Eliza? I was very vexed to hear about this to-day; and if ever you talk about home affairs at school again, I have asked your teacher to punish you. Now you can go out to play," she added. And the little girl, with drooping head, opened the back door and went into the garden.
"Miss Martin has been very kind indeed, but she does not wish it to be known, and so the girls must not go to school and chatter about it." And then she opened the parcel, and showed Eliza the soft, warm dress that would make her such a beautiful frock for the seaside.
"Oh, mother, it is too good for every day!" said the girl.
"Well now, I had a talk about that with Miss Martin, and she told me to tell you to let Nurse decide when you ought to wear a warm frock. You are not very strong, and the frock is to be worn when the days are chilly; so remember to ask Nurse to tell you when you had better wear it. And the next thing for us to do is to make it."
"Oh, mother, what a good thing it was we began to mend up Fanny's old things!" said Eliza, as she turned over her governess's discarded dress with a view to decide how much alteration would be required to make it fit her. And when tea was over the dress was tried on, and then the unpicking began, and everybody was busy doing something to make ready for Eliza's visit to the seaside.
Her father was putting new thick soles on her boots, and Jack new hinges to a small wooden box that would just hold her clothes, when the postman's sharp rat-tat at the door startled them, and he brought a parcel from Aunt Mary—"material to make Eliza a new best dress," she said, in the letter that came with it. "You will be sure to get her suitable cotton frocks," she wrote; "but the girl will want a new best dress, I am sure, and as I sent Fanny one last year, it is Eliza's turn now."
"Well, I am afraid I shall not be able to make it for you before you go away," said her mother, with a sigh of relief, as she thought how all their fears had been dispelled and Eliza provided for. The cotton frocks would be bought the next day; but mother and daughter both decided that the best dress could not be made until the others were finished and everything else got ready. "I may not be able to make it before you go," said her mother; "but you could wear one of your new cotton frocks for the first Sunday, and I will let you have the best one for the Sunday after, for you will want to go to church."
"Yes; I dare say I shall have to take that dear little Master Eustace," said Eliza. "He looks such a darling, sitting in the Vicarage pew, that I shall like to have him sitting next to me at church."
"All right, my girl; there is nothing like being in love with your work, whatever it is," said her father. "But you need not expect the little chap is always going to behave like an angel; there will be squalls sometimes, I dare say, and you will have to be patient and gentle when you would like to scold and be angry. But you must just think of mother, and what a deal she has to put up with from one and the other of us here, and what a different home it would be if she got angry and lost her temper every time we vex her."
Eliza nodded. "I will try to think of it, daddy, and think of how you are all helping me to go away, and—"
"I don't know so much about that," interrupted her brother. "We shall miss you more than we do Fan, I know, because you are always ready to help anybody when you can; and so I'm not so glad you are going away, I can tell you. Only I want you to have everything nice and comfortable when you do go," added Jack.
They laughed at Jack; but there was no doubt he expressed the general feeling of the family in what he said, for Fanny had always considered herself first in anything she was asked to do for anybody else. If it suited her mood just at the time, she would do what was asked of her; but it she had to sacrifice any ease or pleasure, then she would refuse, though it might be plainly her duty to do what was required.
Mrs. Brown had noticed this trait in Fanny's character before she left home, but hoped that the discipline of being in service would help her to overcome it; and it was this hope, so cruelly disappointed, that had made Fanny's behaviour so deeply painful to her mother the day she came home for her holiday, and she feared that nothing less than a very severe lesson would be sufficient to teach Fanny what a mistake she was making in choosing to gratify herself rather than seeking to be helpful to others.
She made no remark about this when Jack was speaking, but she could not help thinking of it, and could not contradict the children when, one after the other, they each in their own way said that Fanny always took care of herself first.
"Wait a bit, wait a bit, Jack," said his father, at last. "I like fair play, and Fan isn't here to defend herself, and she hasn't been tried yet, and so we can't say what she may do." Brown was very fond of his elder daughter, and could not bear to hear her blamed. "What do you say, mother?" he suddenly asked, turning to his wife.
"I am too busy to talk to-night," she said. "I want to get on with Eliza's frock, for we cannot tell when she may be wanted to pack up and be off," and so Mrs. Brown evaded saying one word about Fanny either of blame or defence; but Jack held to his own opinion, and said it was a good thing for the Vicarage children that it was Eliza instead of Fanny who would look after them under Nurse's direction during their stay at the seaside.
"They'll have a jolly time with Eliza, if the Nurse will only give her a chance," said Jack. And as no one attempted to contradict this assertion, the discussion dropped, and was apparently forgotten by all but the girl's mother and father.
"GOOD morning, miss. I've come from Judds' the watchmakers." And the speaker, a shabbily dressed young man, drew a book and pencil from his pocket as he spoke.
"Do you want some more money for my watch?" asked Fanny, with a gasp, and drawing the door close behind her. "The missis is in the kitchen," she whispered.
"All right. We don't want to see the missis about this business, do we? Three shillings, if you please." And when Fanny took it out of her pocket, he wrote the amount on a card and handed it to her as he took the money. "This is your first payment. I shall call every month, unless you send the money to our place before I come."
"It isn't the first payment," said Fanny, quickly. "I've paid ten shillings to the lady."
"It's the first you've paid me. I haven't anything to do with money I don't receive. Good morning." And Fanny hastily put her card in her pocket as a woman selling cottons appeared.
"Oh yes, I want a reel of cotton," said Fanny loud enough for her mistress to hear.
"Who is at the door, Fanny?" asked the lady at the same moment.
"I'm buying some cotton and things of a woman," answered Fanny, thinking how lucky it was the woman happened to come at this moment. When she returned to the kitchen, her mistress said—
"It would be better for you to buy your buttons and cottons at the shop, Fanny. The things women sell about the street are never very good—hardly worth using, in fact."
Fanny made no reply, but having put the saucepan on for the pudding, went upstairs to sweep one of the bedrooms, and the moment she got there she took the card out of her pocket to examine it. At the bottom a slip of pink paper was attached, and on it was printed, "No money is to be paid to the person who delivers the watch." Fanny read this over two or three times.
"What can it mean?" she exclaimed, half aloud. "I paid her ten shillings more than a month ago!" Then she looked more closely at the card to see if this ten shillings had been put down to her account. But there was no writing except that done by the young man. He had put down the three shillings she had paid him, but it was clearly stated on the card that she was to pay two pounds for the watch, and in the second column of the card stating the balance still owing, "thirty-seven shillings" had been set down.
Fanny did not master these facts all at once. Instead of sweeping the room, she stood near the dressing-table conning her card, and was still standing there when the door opened and her mistress came in. She put the card hastily into her pocket just as the lady said—
"Fanny, what are you doing? You came here twenty minutes ago to sweep the room, and you have not begun it yet."
Fanny picked up her broom and bustled about now, and the lady left her sweeping vigorously. She had not left the room many minutes when the broom went down, and Fanny once more had the card out to examine, wondering and puzzling why the ten shillings she had paid had not been acknowledged. Little as she knew of business, she remembered that, whenever she paid the rent at home, the landlord always set down in the book the sum that was paid, and why should not her ten shillings be set down on the card in the same way?
It was a puzzle she could not solve, and she took up the broom again. But her mind was so full of anxiety concerning the ten shillings that she failed to see where flue and dust had collected in the corners, and under the furniture, so shortly after the broom and brushes were carried downstairs Fanny was told to take them back again and sweep the room properly.
This made her angry. "I have swept it once," she muttered. But she knew her mistress would be obeyed, and so she sullenly went back to do her work over again, her mind still full of the card and the ten shillings.
This time she was determined to have everything out of its place, and swung her broom and brushes about with such vigour that a few minutes afterwards a crash resounded through the house. A water-jug she had been told to be particularly careful of was broken in a dozen pieces. The lady came running upstairs, her worst fears confirmed when she saw the pieces of broken crockery lying scattered on the floor.
"Fanny, I asked you, when you came, to be very careful of that jug, as I set great store by it because of the friend who made me a present of the toilet-set many years ago. The jug was the only thing left of the original gift, and now that is broken!"
The lady spoke almost mournfully as she looked at her shattered treasure. Then she glanced at Fanny's angry, defiant face. But there was no sign of sorrow there, as she muttered—
"I didn't do it on purpose."
"Well, you must save some of the pieces, and go and match it after dinner. You must pay half the cost, too, for if you had taken more care it would not have happened."
Fanny burst into tears, not for the loss of the jug so much as that she would have to part with some of her money to pay for it, and she resolved to be more careful with the crockery in future. Already she had broken several cups and plates, but her mistress had simply warned her against being careless. Now she wished her mistress had made her pay for the plates, they would have cost far less than the jug, and she would have handled it more carefully. Some such thought as this had been in the lady's mind, when she said Fanny must pay half the cost of this breakage, and she decided that she must be a little more strict with her young servant in future. Hitherto she had been very lenient towards her in many things, but Fanny's behaviour this morning had convinced her that she must look after her more closely, or the work of the house would be slighted and neglected.
It was an unhappy day both for mistress and maid. The mistress, of course, knew nothing of the cause that made Fanny so cross and negligent with her work. And Fanny resolved that no one should know anything about her watch, and how she was paying for it. Her mother had told her she knew nothing about buying a watch, and other people would laugh, and call her a fool, if they heard she had been cheated of ten shillings; for that was what Fanny began to fear might be the meaning of the amount not being set down on the card.
It made her very angry to think anybody could cheat her, but she resolved not to let any one else know it. She was determined no one should be able to say, 'What a fool Fanny Brown was over that watch!' The money she had to pay for the water-jug reduced still further the sum she had left of her month's wages, and she also made the painful discovery that her boots were wearing out.
Now, Fanny had not thought of wanting new boots. What she did want was a new best dress; for when her mother provided her with new clothes this had not been included, because Mrs. Brown could not afford it, for one thing, and also she thought the old one would last a month or two longer, and then Fanny would have saved enough money from her wages to buy it for herself.
Fanny thought of the new frock, and groaned as she saw the condition of her boots, and then she reflected that she was going home the next day for her second monthly holiday, and also to see Eliza, who was to start with the Vicarage party for the seaside the following day.
Fanny did not look very happy when she got home the next morning, and was scarcely in the mood to rejoice with her sister when she told her that she had got two new cotton frocks, a nice woollen one, and also the material for a new best dress, which her aunt had sent.
"I'm sure you don't want that, then!" snapped Fanny. "If you have got a dress good enough for Governess to wear you can keep that for best, and let me have the new one."
"But aunt sent you a new frock last year, and she said it was my turn now," protested Eliza, who felt very disappointed that her sister showed so little interest in her affairs.
She had not packed her box, because she felt sure Fanny would like to see everything that was going in it. And now Fanny scarcely noticed anything, but just turned up her nose when she saw how carefully her own old clothes had been patched and mended and made to fit her younger sister.
The old wooden box that had been repainted and repaired by Jack was a perfect treasure-trove to Eliza and her mother, and both were disappointed when Fanny showed so little interest in their work.
When her father came home, Fanny greeted him eagerly with the words—
"I see you can mend boots better than ever, daddy. Eliza's do look nice!"
"Ay, it was about all I could do for the lass," said Mr. Brown.
"Could you mend a pair for me?" said Fanny, coaxingly.
"Lor' bless the girl! I thought you said I cobbled them when you went to your fine new place," he added, with a laugh, as he kissed Fanny a second time.
"But you haven't cobbled Eliza's," said Fanny; and she seated herself beside her father at the dinner-table, and persuaded him to undertake the repairing of her boots before the meal came to an end. Having thus succeeded with her father Fanny turned her attention to her mother and Eliza. "I don't see that you will want a best frock at the seaside," she said to her sister, as they wandered out into the garden and then to the fields beyond.
"Aunt said the stuff was to make me one," said Eliza, wondering whether she ought to let her sister have it.
She never remembered having a new dress. Hers had always served her sister first, for when Fanny had outgrown them, they had been done up and called new for her. She therefore wondered now whether she would have to give up her aunt's present that Fanny might have the first turn with the new frock. Fanny tried hard to persuade Eliza that this was the best way of disposing of their aunt's gift, assuring her that she would take great care of the new dress, and only wear it for best, and at last wrung a promise from Eliza that, if their mother was agreeable, this plan should be adopted.
While they were in the fields, Jessie Collins joined them. She was still waiting for the blacking factory to open, although she was far less keen about going there than she had been when she saw Fanny the last time she was at home.
"How are you getting on, Fan?" she asked. "Do you like your place and your mistress as much as ever?"
"No, I don't. She's a nasty cross old thing now, and if she don't get better soon, I shall leave and go somewhere else."
"Oh, Fanny!" exclaimed her sister.
"There, you need not be a telltale, and let mother know what I said," exclaimed Fanny. "You're all right. You are going to the seaside just to play on the sands, so my troubles need not worry you."
"Troubles!" repeated Jessie, with a loud laugh. "It's come to trouble, has it? Well, I was thinking of going to service again myself; but if you find trouble in it, I am afraid I should too, and so I had better stick to my blacking factory, although they are a long time before they begin business."
"I shall see how you like the blacking, and if you get on, I may try it," said Fanny.
Jessie looked serious. "Your mother won't like that," she said, "nor will Governess either. I had a talk with her the other day, and she almost persuaded me to go to service again," concluded Jessie.
Fanny was anxious not to displease her mother just now, so she would not stay long talking to Jessie, for fear she should be seen, and so went indoors to try and have a talk about the new dress.
"Mother, me and Eliza have agreed to have the new frock between us," she said, going to have another look at the box which her mother was packing.
"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Brown, rather sharply.
"Well, mother, we always have had our new frocks between us," said Fanny.
"You mean you have always had the new clothes, and Eliza has had to wear them when you had done with them. This will be altered in the future, I hope."
"I don't see why we should not go on in the old way," muttered Fanny.
"What do you mean? What do you want?" asked her mother.
"We both want it," replied Fanny.
"You said it would be better to have the new frock made to fit you," interrupted Eliza, who greatly hoped her mother would not consent to the plan, although she had been coaxed into promising not to oppose it.
"It was all Fanny's idea, of course," said Mrs. Brown, looking keenly at Eliza.
"Yes, mother. She says she wants a best dress more than I do."
"Very well, if she wants a new frock she is earning money for herself now, and can buy one," replied her mother.
"No, I can't!" snapped Fanny; and she went out and banged the door after her. Eliza would have followed her sister, to try and soothe her ruffled feelings, but her mother called her back.
"I am afraid we have all been spoiling Fanny and making her selfish," said Mrs. Brown, gravely. "She has had the new frocks because she was a big girl, and when she had outgrown them they could be done up for you, and so she has come to expect that she is always to have the best of everything, whoever may have to go without. She must learn to consider other people as well as herself, and so it will be positively unkind to encourage her in her selfishness when there is no longer any need to do it. Besides, Aunt Mary said you were to have the new frock this time, for she knows we have been obliged to let Fanny have the first turn always."
"I should like a new frock, mother, of course," said Eliza; "but if it will make Fanny unhappy, I don't mind if it is made to fit her just for this once."
But her mother shook her head. "I love you both," she said, "and it would not be really kind to let Fanny have her own way in this matter. I saw, the last holiday she had, that we had all been making a mistake about this, and that we should have to turn over a new leaf, and help Fanny to do the same; and a beginning must be made now, however cross she may be about it."
"I am afraid she will think me very unkind, as I am going to the seaside too," said Eliza, with a little tremor in her voice.
"Well, dear, I am sorry it has happened so; but, you know, true love thinks of the good of the person loved, and not whether it will please them. Now, to let Fanny have this new frock will do her harm, and not good. She will be angry, perhaps, that she cannot have her own way, as usual, and this will be like a dose of bitter medicine to her; but the medicine will do her good, I hope, and she will be all the happier for it by-and-by."
Fanny stayed out with some friends until nearly tea-time, and when she came in she was looking as though she had been deeply injured.
She looked from her mother to her sister to see whether either of them were prepared to coax and comfort her, but both were busy getting tea ready—Eliza's last tea at home before she went away—for she was going to sleep at the Vicarage that night, to be ready to start on her journey the next day.
"We are to have jam for tea, and mother has made a cake for us as well," said Eliza, as Fanny took her place at the table.
"You might put father's chair in its place for him," said Mrs. Brown, looking at Fanny.
This was not the sort of reception the girl expected, and the gloom deepened on her face; but, after a pause, she said, sullenly—
"What have you settled about that frock?"
"There was nothing to settle!" answered her mother.
"Yes, there was; for Eliza said we had better have it as we always had, and I thought I would buy the body lining before I went home."
"Do you mean you would like to buy it for Eliza?" asked her mother.
"No, of course not, if the frock isn't to be made to fit me!" said Fanny, ready to cry with vexation.
"I told you before that your aunt had settled that point. The frock was sent for Eliza this time, and not for you, and Eliza shall have it!" Mrs. Brown spoke very decidedly, and her husband coming in at the moment looked from one to the other, wondering what had happened, and then Fanny burst into a storm of sobs and tears.
"It is a shame! it is a shame!"
"What is the matter? what is it all about, my girl?" said her father, taking his seat beside her and laying his hand on her head.
"It's all Aunt Mary's fault!" exclaimed Fanny, through her tears.
"What has Aunt Mary done?" asked her father.
"Well, Fanny seems to think that she is to have every new frock, and she does not like it because this last one was sent for Eliza and not for her," answered Mrs. Brown.
It was some time before peace was restored; but as soon as tea was over Eliza had to go to the Vicarage, and later on, when Fanny was getting ready to go back, her mother said—
"Now, Fanny, as you walk home, tell your father all about that watch you bought. I have not said a word to him because I want you to do it!"
Fanny frowned.
MRS. BROWN watched rather anxiously for her husband's return, hoping that Fanny would tell him all about the foolish purchase she had made, and show her father the watch, if she had it with her. "Ten shillings is a lot of money for a girl to waste," she said, half aloud, as she went to the door to look down the street, for the house seemed very lonely without Eliza. She had not missed Fanny so much, but a dreary emptiness seemed to pervade the whole house because Eliza was not there, and she was glad to stand at the door and say "Good night" to the few neighbours who passed.
At length one of them stopped at the gate and said—
"Isn't it a shocking thing about Mrs. Collins?"
"Why, what has happened?" asked Mrs. Brown.
"Haven't you heard? She was taken ill this evening, and the doctor says she won't live long." At this moment a girl was seen running towards them, and when she reached the gate she suddenly stopped. She was out of breath with her run, but she did not wait to recover it.
"Can you lend us a sheet?" she panted.
"Why, it's Jessie Collins!" said Mrs. Brown. "How is your mother now?"
"Doctor says she is a mite better, but I must get clean sheets for her."
She did not look at Mrs. Brown as she said this, for she knew she was no favourite of hers; and besides, the Browns had always been people who kept themselves to themselves, making few friends among the neighbours. But Mrs. Satchell, who stood near the gate, was an old friend of her mother's, and might be expected to help them.
But Mrs. Satchell made no reply to the appeal for sheets; and Mrs. Brown, after waiting for her to answer, said—
"I think I can lend you the sheets, Jessie. But they are old ones that I have patched."
"Oh, thank you! They will do, if they are clean; and I know they will be if they are yours, Mrs. Brown," added the girl, gratefully.
Mrs. Brown went upstairs for the sheets, and when she brought them down she said—
"Now, can I help you put them on the bed, or have you got anybody else to help you?"
"Thank you, Mrs. Brown. If you could spare a little time I should be glad, for you know how to do everything, mother says."
"Very well. You run back to your mother, and I will soon follow." And Mrs. Brown said "Good night" to her other neighbour, and was turning indoors when Mrs. Satchell stopped her.
"Look here, Mrs. Brown," she said, "you don't know what you're doing, lending sheets and helping them. I know Jessie and her mother too. And—"
"Yes; they are your friends," said Mrs. Brown, rather shortly; and once more saying "Good night," she went and told Minnie, who had just gone to bed, that she must lie awake until her father came home, and then tell him that she had gone to help Jessie Collins make her mother comfortable. "Father has got the key, and can let himself in, and so you need not get up," added her mother, as she took a clean apron out of the drawer, and also a clean pillow-case, which she thought Jessie might have forgotten to ask for.
She had never been inside Jessie's home before, and the sight of the dirty, close-smelling room she passed through on her way upstairs made her feel sick.
"It isn't cold to-night," she said, as she went up the stairs; "and if you were to set this downstairs window open it would make the bedroom fresher."
"All right," answered Jessie; and she dashed down again and sent the window up with a bang.
The bedroom was worse than Mrs. Brown had imagined. The sick woman had lain down in her clothes on the unmade bed, and now lay moaning, half unconscious of her surroundings.
"Doctor said she was to be quiet, so I wouldn't let any of 'em come up to her," said Jessie, by way of explaining matters.
Mrs. Brown scarcely knew where to begin the task of making things comfortable, but at last, with Jessie's help, she began to arrange the unoccupied side of the bed, rolling up the sheets, ready to pass under the invalid when they had made her ready to move.
To get her day-clothes off and a clean nightdress put on took nearly an hour, and they had just completed this task when the doctor came in again. He looked at his patient first, and then glanced at Mrs. Brown, whom he recognized at once.
"You have been at work, I can see," he remarked. "You must not disturb her further to-night, but if the room could be cleaned to-morrow it would give her a better chance of pulling through this illness."
"You think mother will get better, sir," said Jessie, eagerly.
"She is certainly better now; but you must still be very careful, my girl, and do exactly as I tell you. You could not have a better friend than Mrs. Brown," he added.
"I wouldn't let none of the others come in, as you said they were making mother worse."
Jessie said this in a tone of triumph, as the doctor went downstairs, closely followed by Mrs. Brown, who wanted to know what was the matter with Mrs. Collins.
"Nothing to be afraid of, Mrs. Brown. Various causes have been at work to bring about this attack. She is not a very strong woman, and close air, dirt, and a little intemperance together have done the mischief. Now, her daughter seems a well-meaning girl, but she wants the help and guidance of a friend, and so, if you could give her a few hints, as you would to your own girls, it would probably be of great service to her and her mother."
"I will do what I can, sir," said Mrs. Brown.
"We can none of us do more," said the doctor; and then he paused a moment to say, "I am very glad to hear that my little patient Eliza is going to the seaside with the Vicar's children. I don't think the work of looking after them will be too much for her now." And then, with a hasty "Good night," the doctor hurried away.
Jessie was coming down the stairs when Mrs. Brown went back.
"Mother wants something to drink," she said. "What shall I give her?"
"What did the doctor say she might have when he was here before?"
"Hot milk with a little water in it, or barley-water. She don't care about the milk; where can I get the other? Is it some kind of ale?"
"Oh no; you make it yourself, by boiling some barley and—"
But there Mrs. Brown stopped, for she could see by the expression of Jessie's face that she had never heard of barley-water before, and so she said—
"You must give your mother the milk to-night, and I will make some barley-water at home, and bring round in the morning. What time will your father be home?" she asked; for she did not think the girl ought to be left alone with the invalid all night.
But Jessie declared she was not at all afraid, and her sister and brother would be with her.
"Father don't come home till Saturday, and goes back Sunday night," added Jessie.
"Then you lie down on the bed beside your mother, so as to get a little rest," said Mrs. Brown, "and to-morrow I will come and help you clean mother's room, for the doctor says it must be done, and everything made fresh and nice, or she cannot get better."
"I know he said before that the house wasn't as clean as it might be, and I asked him if I should clean mother's bedroom, and he said I might take the carpets up and leave them downstairs if I didn't make a noise, and perhaps I might clean it another day. If you come in the morning you'll tell me what to do," said Jessie.
The girl's willingness to do as she was told quite astonished Mrs. Brown, and made her all the more willing to teach her and help her out of her various difficulties. Her mind was so full of these that when she got home, and found her husband waiting for her, she could only tell him of the state of affairs she had found in their neighbour's home, and forgot to ask whether Fanny had confided to him the story of the watch she had bought.
As soon as she had put the supper on the table for her husband she washed some barley and put it on to boil, in preparation for the morning, talking all the time about Eliza and what the doctor had said about her visit to the seaside, and how surprised she was to find Jessie Collins willing and anxious to do everything possible for her mother's comfort, now she was ill.
"I always thought she was such a naughty wilful girl, that I forbade our girls playing with her," added Mrs. Brown.
"Quite right, mother, quite right," said her husband. "For, of course, if our Fan had been allowed to run the street as this Jessie has, she would not be the lass she now is."
Mrs. Brown did not reply, but did not feel sure that Fanny was so much better than Jessie, as she had hitherto supposed; but she would not say a word of this to her husband, for he was so fond and proud of his elder daughter, and why should she try to make him uncomfortable over what might be a very trivial thing after all. The thought of the watch had occurred to her; but her husband had not mentioned it, and so she concluded that Fanny had not told him anything about it. She wished she had, but in the graver matters of the Collins' household this seemed of little or no importance, and she decided not to say anything about it just now, but to try again to persuade Fanny to tell her father all about it.
The next morning, as soon as the breakfast was cleared away and the necessary preparations made for dinner, Mrs. Brown took the jug of barley-water she had made, and went to see the sick woman again.
"She was awful bad in the night!" said Jessie, who had apparently waited the arrival of Mrs. Brown before doing anything but getting breakfast ready. She and Polly had just finished their meal and were waiting gloomily over the fire.
"Shall I go up and see your mother?" asked Mrs. Brown. "I have brought her the barley-water, Has she had anything this morning?"
"No; she wouldn't have a cup of tea, because I wouldn't give her a drop of ale last night."
"You must not give her ale until the doctor says you may. Perhaps she will like a little of the barley-water for a change. Give me a clean glass, that will be a change from the cup she has been having the milk in."
Jessie knew very little of illness, and she thought at first that these small details were mere whims of Mrs. Brown's, until she went upstairs and saw how eagerly her mother took the barley-water when Mrs. Brown raised her head and put the glass to her lips.
"Now we will make the bed comfortable before the doctor comes. Fetch me some warm water, and I will wash mother's face and hands," said Mrs. Brown; and Jessie went to do her bidding, while she shook up the pillows and arranged the bedclothes.
When the patient was washed, Jessie asked if she could clean the room. Mrs. Brown could see that it was very dirty, but, until the doctor came, she did not like to have it disturbed, and so she told Jessie it would be better to begin on the room downstairs. As Polly had not gone to school, she might also wash up the piles of dirty crockery that stood about wherever there was room to put them.
It was little wonder that Jessie and her sister looked dismayed, for Mrs. Brown, with all her experience, had to look round the dreary, dirty kitchen and consider where a beginning should be made.
At last she said, "Put a large saucepan of water on the fire at once, with a lump of soda in it, and, while it is getting hot, sort over the dirty things. Put the cups and saucers together to be washed first, and greasy plates and dishes wash afterwards."
But it was soon found that there was not a saucepan clean enough to heat the water until one was washed; and Mrs. Brown did this herself, by way of example, for both girls refused to do this unpleasant work.
Just as the saucepan was filled and put on the fire, the doctor came.
He said the patient was no worse, and then gave directions for the bedroom to be thoroughly cleaned, but urged that it should be done as quietly and quickly as possible, and no other visitors than Mrs. Brown admitted to the sick-room. Then he left directions for the patient's food and medicine, and went away.
"Now I shall have to go and look for a pail," said Jessie.
"We shall want a broom first," said Mrs. Brown. "I will sweep the walls and ceiling for you, for I can see there are several cobwebs hanging about."
Jessie looked dismayed. "I don't believe we've got a broom," she said, scratching her head. "Father broke the last, hitting mother with it. He said if she wouldn't use it he would; and then the handle broke, and mother put it all on the fire."
"Have you found a pail?" asked Mrs. Brown; "because I must go home for a few minutes to see about the dinner, and I will bring some things back with me."
A look round the yard and scullery followed, but very little was found, and at length Mrs. Brown said—
"You had better come with me, Jessie, and I will lend you what you want for to-day; and then if you cannot find your own things, you must ask your father to buy some when he comes home on Saturday."
It was Jessie's first visit to Fanny's home, and she looked round the neat, tidy kitchen in amazement.
"Oh, I say, I know how it is Fanny likes going to service! She knew how to keep a place nice, and to tidy before she went. But the missis was always scolding me for the things getting dirty."
"Well, you know, it is never too late to mend, Jessie," said her new friend. "And now you have a good opportunity of doing many useful things, for your mother requires a great deal of care, the doctor says."
"Will you show me how to make our kitchen like this?" asked the girl. "Why, if father could only have a place like this to sit in when he comes home from work, I don't believe he would want to go to the public of an evening; and he'll soon come back here to work, I expect."
"Well, my girl, you ought to be able to make things comfortable for your father and mother too. I will certainly do what I can to help you get things straight for him before Saturday."
"I shall have to send Polly for some soap and soda and things to clean with;" which reminded Mrs. Brown that the clean rags that had been thrown aside lately would be handy for cleaning windows and dusting furniture, for it would be too much to expect that dusters would be found in the Collins's household.
So the empty pail was filled with various articles that would be needed for the house-cleaning, and Jessie was directed to send for blacklead to clean the grate, as well as soap and soda.
"And what about your dinner? You and Polly will want some dinner."
"Oh, mother sends to the cookshop, or else we have steak."
"Well, when she goes out to one shop, she might go to the other and bring what you want. Another day I will show you how to make a nice stew; but we must get the saucepans cleaned first," added Mrs. Brown.
While she had been talking she had been cutting up vegetables and adding them to the contents of a saucepan on the hob.
"Is that stew?" asked Jessie, sniffing the savoury odour when Mrs. Brown stirred the contents.
"Yes, that is stew; it will cook itself if I make up the fire, so that I can come back with you for another hour and show you how to set about your work."
They went back, and Mrs. Brown swept walls and ceilings of both kitchen and bedroom, for both were festooned with dirt and cobwebs. Jessie was eager to set about scrubbing the floor, but Mrs. Brown insisted that the grate must be cleaned and the floor swept first. At last Jessie brought her pail, but her mother could not hear the sound of the scrubbing-brush, as it made her head so much worse. A good deal of dirt, however, could be removed by careful washing, and the windows cleaned; a clean curtain put up made it look quite a different place, and for once it smelled fresh and clean.
Then Mrs. Brown showed the girls how to make barley-water, after scouring out the cleanest of the saucepans for the purpose. Polly was busy the whole morning washing up the dirty crockery, and Mrs. Brown returned in the afternoon to direct the cleaning of cupboards and dresser, that these might all be put away before the scrubbing of the floor began.
They could not tell whether the patient upstairs approved of all this turning out. Sometimes Jessie and sometimes Mrs. Brown went up with milk or barley-water, but she made no comment on what was going on after the scrubbing in her own bedroom was given up.
MRS. BROWN was surprised to find how steadily Jessie kept on with her work of house-cleaning. Of course, it was something new and novel, and Mrs. Brown thought that when the novelty wore off, Jessie would get tired of sweeping and scrubbing and making things tidy, especially as she also had to run up and down stairs to wait upon her mother.
But she never flagged in this duty. She made fresh barley-water every day, and when the doctor ordered beef-tea she asked her new-found friend how it was to be made, and was most careful to see that the saucepan was quite clean before she put the meat into it.
Of course, the cleaning was far from perfect. The windows were not as clear and bright as well-cleaned windows should be, and the floor had streaks of dirt in places, as well as other failures that a careful housewife like Mrs. Brown could not fail to notice; but she was careful to say little of these failings just at first, but to commend Jessie for trying to make home more comfortable now that she was free to do it. Mrs. Brown soon discovered from chance words that Mrs. Collins not only disliked house-cleaning herself, but hated anything to be disturbed by other people doing it. So Jessie had never been taught or encouraged to try and do anything beyond running errands for her mother and washing a few tea-things occasionally.
By Saturday night, however, the house had been cleaned from top to bottom, and when Collins walked into the kitchen, with its bright, clean grate, he stared with amazement at the changed appearance of his home.
"I hope mother ain't no worse than when you sent to tell me she was ill," he said, wondering what the change might portend.
"No, father, she's better," said Jessie, who had just come down from her mother's room. "I'm making her some beef-tea," she added proudly, lifting the lid of the steaming saucepan on the hob.
"And who told you to do that?" asked Collins, putting his basket down in the corner. "And who told you to have this rout out?" he asked, with another look at the renovated kitchen.
"Why, the doctor said I must rub things a bit, and have clean things for mother; and Mrs. Brown lent me the sheets I wanted."
"Mrs. Brown! What made you go there to that proud set?" asked her father, angrily.
"Just because she offered to lend them, and Mrs. Satchell didn't," replied Jessie, sharply. "What was I to do? The doctor said I must have clean things for mother if she was ever to get better, and I ran out to get them, for ours are all dirty. I went for Mrs. Satchell, and found her talking to Mrs. Brown at their gate. I said I wanted the sheets for mother; but no one spoke for a minute, and I was afraid I wasn't going to get the sheets, when Mrs. Brown said she would lend them, and come and help me make mother comfortable."
"Ah! And she put you up to turning the place out," grumbled Collins.
"It was the doctor said it first," answered Jessie.
"Well, now, look here. I ain't going to have your mother interfered with and found fault with by no Mrs. Brown, there now."
"Dad, you're a fool!" said Jessie, in an angry tone. "And it's my belief mother would have died if I hadn't happened to see Mrs. Brown that night."
Collins went upstairs to see his wife, closely followed by Jessie.
"Look here, I ain't going to have mother upset," she whispered, with her hand on the door-handle.
"Who wants to upset her?" roughly asked her father; and as he spoke he gave the girl a push, which sent her reeling, and she fell down the stairs with her foot doubled under her, which caused her such pain that she fainted, and lay in a heap at the bottom of the stairs until her father, hearing her moans, came down and found her.
"There, wake up, Jess! Wake up!" he said, as he lifted her in his arms, and seated her on a chair in the kitchen. "There, it's all right," he said soothingly. "Your mother says Mrs. Brown ain't got no fault-finding ways about her, and so, if she likes—"
But Jessie's only answer was another groan, that frightened her father, and he went to the street door to look for Polly.
She was coming up the street, and ran forward when she saw him.
"Ain't we got everything nice?" she called out before she reached the door; for Jessie had said, again and again, how pleased her father would be when he saw the nice clean kitchen.
"Come in, come in," called Collins. "There's something the matter with Jessie; she's fell downstairs and hurt herself, though I don't see no blood anywhere."
Polly ran through the passage, and was almost as frightened as her father when she saw her sister leaning back in the chair, white, and looking as though she was dead.
"Oh, father, what is it—what is the matter?" she screamed. "Let me fetch Mrs. Brown!" And without waiting for her father to speak, she flew off to fetch the friend who had helped them so much the last week.
Mrs. Brown was just going out for her Saturday marketing, when Polly dashed in, crying—
"Oh, come, Mrs. Brown, come directly to our Jess, she's fell downstairs and killed herself!"
Mrs. Brown did not believe anything so terrible as this had happened; but she could see Polly was very frightened, and without stopping to ask any questions, she set down her basket at once, and hurried away with her.
When they saw Jessie, Mrs. Brown said, "We had better send for the doctor at once, Mr. Collins; but I will lay her down on the couch until he comes."
An old couch stood in the kitchen, which Mrs. Collins used to lie upon, and Mrs. Brown lifted Jessie on to it, and loosened her clothes and bathed her forehead; but when she touched one of her feet, a deeper groan and shudder of pain made them aware that the injury was there.
However, by the time the doctor arrived, Jessie had recovered consciousness sufficiently to tell them that her foot was in great pain, and when Collins told the doctor how she fell, he saw at once that the girl's ankle was badly twisted, and advised that she should go to the hospital.
"No, no! I can't go there!" said Jessie. "I must stay here, and look after mother."
"But, my girl, you will not be able to go up and down stairs for some time," said the doctor.
"Polly can go for me, and I can tell her what to do. Oh, make my foot better," she implored, as a sharper twinge of pain made her feel faint again.
The doctor turned to her father, who stood looking helplessly at the sufferer.
"I don't know what we shall do without her," he said. "My wife wants looking after, and who is to do it?"
"For your wife it might be managed," said the doctor; "but this girl will have to lie down here on the couch all the time."
"I will do anything you tell me, doctor, if you only let me stay at home," said Jessie. "Polly can help, you know."
"You would be more comfortable at the hospital," said the doctor, making a last effort on Jessie's own behalf; for he knew how tedious the days and nights would be for an active girl like Jessie to endure, and that she would need the care and nursing that would be given to her at the hospital.
He tried to make them all understand this; but Jessie said she would never get well if she did not stay at home, and help nurse her mother.
"I can tell Polly what to do, and we can manage to take care of mother between us," pleaded Jessie; and at last the doctor consented, and proceeded to dress and bandage the injured foot, and placed it as comfortable as the old couch would permit, telling her she must not try to move it, and must lie as still as possible, or he would be compelled to send her to the hospital. Mrs. Brown thought it was a pity the doctor did not insist upon the girl being taken there at once; but she did not dare to say so, for she could see that Collins would rather Jessie stayed at home. And so she held her peace for the present; but when the doctor had gone, she drew him into the passage.
"Mr. Collins, Jessie would have been better at the hospital," she whispered; "but as you have decided that she shall stay at home, couldn't you arrange for one of your wife's old friends to come and sleep in the house, and help the girls a bit in the daytime. I know Jessie was going to wash some clothes next week; but now you must have somebody else to do it," she added.
The man scratched his head in perplexity. "I must go and see if the foreman can let me come back here to work, and let somebody else go and do my job over there. What about your husband, Mrs. Brown?"
"I dare say he would be willing to go, if the managers liked to send him, as you are in such trouble just now," answered Mrs. Brown.
"Oh, never mind my trouble. I hate being under an obligation to anybody, specially my neighbours," said Collins, roughly. "If Brown likes to take my job, I'll speak for him, and it will be something to his advantage, I may tell you. I hear you have been kind to my wife the last few days, and I am thankful for it. Do you want me to say any more?" he demanded.
"I did not want you to thank me! I am always ready to help a neighbour at a pinch, and was glad to do what I could for Jessie," said Mrs. Brown, with a touch of pride and pain in her voice; and, saying a hasty good-bye to Jessie she went home, her eyes full of tears, which she dashed away before she knocked at her own door.
Jessie heard what had passed between her father and Mrs. Brown in the passage, and when he went back to the kitchen she said—
"Now, what are we going to do? You don't suppose Mrs. Brown'll come back and look after us as she has done all the week, after what you said to her to-night."
"What have I said? And what has she said of us? Didn't their girl tell you that you wasn't good enough to go with them. Do you think I've forgotten it?" demanded her father, angrily.
"Of course you haven't! Neither have I! And I didn't go to ask Mrs. Brown to help us; but not even Mrs. Satchell, who has always pretended to be such a friend to mother, would lend us a clean sheet, and if it hadn't been for Mrs. Brown, I believe mother would have died. As to being better than us; why, of course it was true. Their house is clean; but ours is always dirty. They could lend me clean sheets; but we hadn't enough for ourselves."
"I tell you I earn more wages than Brown, let 'em say what they like," vociferated Collins.
"Wages ain't everything," said Jessie. "I tell you the little Browns always looked nicer than we did, though their frocks didn't cost half so much, mother said; but then, they always had tidy boots to wear. And sometimes when I had a new frock, I couldn't have boots, and my toes were all out, or else there were big holes in my stockings; but Mrs. Brown showed Fanny how to mend hers, and I don't believe mother knows how to mend stockings now," said Jessie.
"Don't you say a word agin your mother!" interrupted Collins, sharply. "She was the handsomest woman in this town when I married her."
"I ain't saying a word against her!" retorted Jessie, "and Mrs. Brown ain't either. 'Take good care of your mother, Jessie. Look after your mother, Jessie,' has been her word to me every day, while all the time she's just been trying to make me do the things she taught Fanny long ago. Perhaps mother couldn't help the place getting dirty; perhaps her mother didn't show her how to do it, but it don't make any difference; we are dirty, and the Browns are clean, and Mrs. Brown has been trying to teach me like she did her own Fanny, and—"
"Ah, that was the girl who told Polly she was better than you," interrupted Collins, in whose mind the words seem to rankle still.
"Yes, Fanny said it, I dare say, but I know Mrs. Brown didn't; she wouldn't, though I don't suppose she liked her girls to go with us, because we were dirty and untidy, and played about in the streets at night as long as we liked. She didn't want Fanny to do that, and so I dare say she said, 'Now, you keep away from that Jessie Collins, or she'll want you to run the street with her.'"
"You seem to know all about it," said her father, who could not help smiling as she mimicked the tone and manner of Mrs. Brown.
This was just what Jessie wanted, to win her father back to a better humour; for what should she do if he said Mrs. Brown was not to come again. In the midst of all the bustle and hard work of this last week, she had thought again and again of the talk she had had with her governess, and how Miss Martin said she hoped she would grow up a useful woman, who she would be proud to say had been to her school.
To have Miss Martin proud of her would be something worth working for, and if anybody could show her how to become a useful woman, it would be Mrs. Brown, and so her father must be persuaded to ask Mrs. Brown to come in and out still, though they must have one of her mother's old friends, she feared, to do the washing now.
Collins persuaded himself that they could not do without him at home, and so he went to see the foreman of the work he was doing away from home, to tell him that his wife was ill, and he could not leave again for the whole week, especially as Jessie had sprained her ankle and could not get up and down stairs.
"Well, who can you get to go in your place?" said the foreman. "You told me you didn't mind being away from home, but very few of the fellows like it," added the man.
Collins scratched his head. "There's Brown," he said at last.
"Brown! But I thought you said you would never work with Brown, as he didn't work fair with his mate!" and the foreman looked keenly at Collins as he spoke.
The man fidgeted from one leg to the other, and looked very uncomfortable.
"Brown is the only chap in the shop that understands the work we are doing over there," he said at last.
"Just what I said when it begun; but you gave the fellow such a bad name, that—"
"Well, you see, he had been ill, and perhaps he was weak and not up to the mark," interrupted Collins, who did not want to hear any more of that former talk he had had with his foreman.
After a pause the foreman said, "Well, you will have to go and arrange it with Brown yourself, as it is for your accommodation; but make him understand that the pay is better, and that I shall expect him to stick to it until we have finished, for I don't care to change men in the middle of a ticklish job like that." These last words were said that Collins might understand that if he gave up this job he could not take it on again.
"All right, I know what you mean," he said. "Shall I tell Brown to come round and see you to-night or to-morrow?"
"Oh, I know Brown well enough to know he won't care to come on Sunday, so tell him to come to-night, or join us at the station ready for work on Monday morning."
Collins had hoped that he would be told he need not trouble himself about seeing Brown; but now he had to go to his house, and ask, as something of a favour, that he would take over his job for him, and it was not a pleasant task.
To his relief, however, he heard that Mrs. Brown was out; for when the door was opened to Collins's knock, Brown said—
"The missis is out. I hope your plucky lass is no worse."
The words gratified Collins, and he said, "No, thank ye. Jess is about the same; but I wanted a word with you."
"Come away back, then, and let's hear it. I'm mending some of the youngster's shoes while the missis is out at her marketing." And he led the way through the passage, and handed Collins a seat in the cosy, comfortable kitchen, while he fetched the lamp from the scullery, where he had been doing his shoemaking work.
"Now we can see what we are at," he remarked, as he set it on the table. "Now, what is it I can do for you?" he asked good-naturedly.
"Can you take my job?" asked Collins.
"Your job?" repeated Brown; for he knew that Collins was considered a more highly skilled workman than himself, and received higher wages in proportion, so that to be asked to take up the particular work Collins had been doing greatly surprised him.
"It is a ticklish job, as you know," went on Collins, "and last week there might have been an accident through my hand shaking as it did. Electrical engineering ain't child's play, you know. Well, I had heard that my wife was ill, and that might have caused it; but now I know how bad she is I may be worse, and so I want you to take over the job at once, and let me stay at home and look after things a bit. 'Specially as Jess has got her ankle hurt."
"To be sure you do," said Brown, thoughtfully; and then he added, "but I must see Mr. Thornton, and hear what he says about it."
"Well, go and see him at once. I have just been there, and he told me to come to you. Now, mind what I say, Brown; it is a ticklish job they have got there, so have all your wits about you while you are at work."
Brown thought he understood what the man meant. Collins sometimes followed his wife's example, and took a little more beer than was good for him, and it might be this that had made his hand unsteady; but he thanked Collins for the hint he had given him, and prepared at once to go and see the foreman.
"NOW, Nursey, father said before he went away that I might go all round here by myself." And the little boy extended his arms and swung round on one foot to explain to Nurse the wide extent to which he was given leave to ramble.
"Yes, Master Eustace, I know all about it," said Nurse, "and Eliza can walk all round there too."
"But I don't want Eliza; she can nurse the baby or look after Winny; but father said I was getting a big boy now, and must take care of myself, and so, of course—"
"Ah, that is all very well to remember one part of father's talk, and forget all the rest," interrupted Nurse. "Father told you just before he went away that you were to do as Nurse told you. Don't you remember?"
"Yes, but he didn't say anything about Eliza," answered the child.
"Perhaps not; but Eliza must do as I tell her, and so must you," concluded Nurse, looking gravely at the boy.
The Vicarage party had been about a week at the seaside, and mother and father having seen them comfortably settled, had gone on to visit a sick relative according to their original intention. They had stayed at the quiet little village of Stillborough the previous year, and Eustace had rambled round the coast and neighbouring common with his father many times, so that he considered himself quite an expert traveller, and did not at all like to confine his explorations so as to be within ken of Nurse, as she sat on her camp-stool sewing, or reading a little bit to Winny out of her own book. It was still worse, the little boy thought, to have Eliza in attendance upon him, and so he had tried to come to an understanding with Nurse once for all.
Eliza sat near Nurse on the sand, with Winny in her lap, listening and smiling at Master Eustace as he tried to lay down the law that was to govern his own particular wanderings, and having done this at least to his own satisfaction, the little boy walked away.
"I wish the master had not said so much to the child about taking care of himself!" exclaimed Nurse, as she turned her head to look after him. "Of course the master meant it for the best, for him and for us too, but there's nothing that child is afraid of, and a nice treat we shall have with him, I know;" and Nurse sighed.
"Shall I go after him, Nurse?" asked Eliza, who thought nothing of a long ramble on the sands in attendance upon her favourite so greatly had she improved in health already. "Shall I go after him?" she repeated, springing to her feet as she spoke.
But Nurse pulled her skirt to sit down again. "Not now," she said. "I can see him between those clumps of sea-thistles. Ah! he is coming back now," said Nurse, in a tone of satisfaction. "But I tell you what you must do if you should be away from me, and see Master Eustace wandering off by himself—send Winny back to me, if you should have her with you, and just follow on behind Master Eustace, so as to keep him in sight without letting him know anything about it. Try to remember this, Eliza, and that I give Master Eustace into your care, for you will be able to follow him better than I can."
The girl felt very proud of the charge thus entrusted to her.
"See, he is coming back now, Nurse," said Eliza, who was always ready to condone the little fellow's faults.
"There, I have been a far far way, Nursey, and I am back safe, you see," said the little fellow proudly, as he stood before Nurse and made a grimace of defiance at Eliza.
"Yes, I see you are here safe and sound, and if you never try to go further than the far far way near the bushes, Nurse will not scold you," she said.
"Could you see me all the time?" asked the child.
Nurse nodded, and the boy looked disappointed. "Then it isn't a far far way," he said, in a complaining tone.
"Quite far enough, Master Eustace," put in Eliza.
"You don't know anything about this place, for you did not come with us last year," retorted the boy, loftily.
And once more he discussed the subject with Nurse, but they could not arrive at any definite conclusion upon the matter of distance; and when the little boy went off again, Nurse repeated her charge to Eliza to keep her eyes upon and follow him at a distance if he went far.
For the next few days, however, Master Eustace had very little opportunity of going out of bounds, for each day in succession for nearly a week had to be spent indoors, it was so wet and chilly.
It was during this time that Nurse learned to appreciate Eliza for her unfailing patience and good temper in keeping the children amused during the weary hours when they could not get out even for a short walk all day. It was a relief to Nurse, and a boon to the little ones, who were disposed to want all the toys that had been left at home, and did not at all like the restrictions that had to be imposed upon them for the sake of other people in the house.
All the games that Eliza had ever played were brought into requisition, besides many others invented for the occasion.
At length the weather cleared, and the sun shone out as brilliantly as though the sky had never been dimmed by a cloud, and Eliza was almost as delighted as the children at the prospect of being able to go out on the sands once more.
They were all nearly ready to start, the children equipped with pails and spades, when Nurse noticed that Eliza had put on a cotton frock.
"My dear, you must put your warmer frock on to-day," she said.
"Oh, Nurse, see how bright the sun is!" exclaimed Eliza, in a disappointed tone. "And we are all ready to start," she added.
"Never mind! We will only walk slowly down to the beach that you may soon overtake us. But this is just one of the days when your warmer frock is likely to be useful, for there is sure to be a chill in the air after the rain."
Nurse's advice was not pleasant to the girl, and she reluctantly turned back and put on the warm frock instead of the bright pink cotton she had on. She did it as quickly as she could, and ran along the terrace to catch Nurse before they could get down to the beach; but at the corner she also saw Eustace coming from the direction of the shop, and waited for him to join her. He had a little bundle tied up in his handkerchief; the handle of his spade passed through the knot, and the bundle hanging over his shoulder.
"What have you got there, Master Eustace?" she asked.
"I'm Robinson Crusoe," answered the little fellow, in an important tone, and marching on by her side.
Nurse had been reading some chapters of Robinson Crusoe to him during the last few days, and his mind was full of the adventures of that hero.
Eliza was ready to enter into the little boy's amusement, and so she said—
"I'll be your Man Friday."
"Will you?" said the child, eagerly. But the next minute he said, "How can you—you're only a girl?"
"Never mind! I can carry your things and do as you tell me," said Eliza; and the next minute the spade and bundle were transferred from the little boy's shoulder to Eliza's and they went on to the beach walking in this fashion.
"What now?" asked Nurse. "What have you got there, Eliza?" she added.
Eliza shook her head. She believed it was stones, but she did not say so.
"Eliza isn't her name now. She is my Man Friday," answered Eustace.
"Oh, I see! Well, what are you and your Man Friday going to do this morning?" asked Nurse, relieved to find that whatever the little fellow contemplated doing, Eliza would be at hand to keep him out of danger and mischief.
"We are going to look over this island first thing, of course," answered the boy, "and we can't waste our time here. We shall find you by-and-by, I dare say, and then you and baby and Winny will be savages, and you must do what I tell you."
"Very well; but that part had better come after dinner, because you will have to do as I tell you, and come home to dinner in good time, and you must look after your Man Friday, and see he don't get away."
This, of course, was intended as a hint to Eliza, and Nurse knew she understood it as such. And the two went off for their ramble, and Nurse did not see them again until dinner-time, and then Eliza's bundle had somewhat diminished in size.
It was Nurse's custom to put the children to bed for an hour after dinner, and they usually fell asleep in the course of a few minutes. But to-day Eustace pleaded that he and Man Friday might go off on their rambles again as soon as dinner was over.
"We have found a cave, and, of course, we can sleep there," announced Eustace, running to get his hat.
But Nurse said she wanted Man Friday to do something for her before they went out again, and amid tears and expostulations, Eustace was laid in his own little bed, while Eliza and Nurse sat down in the shaded sitting-room for their own afternoon rest. Eliza soon fell asleep, but Nurse could hear that Eustace was grumbling and tumbling about in his bed, and was by no means disposed to go to sleep this afternoon. She let Eliza have her usual rest, for she knew the girl needed it, and so she kept Eustace as quiet as she could until the time for rousing the children came, and they all went out again.
Nurse usually took a parcel of bread-and-butter and cake with her, and they bought some milk on the beach about five o'clock, returning home about seven to a more substantial meal; and afterwards the children were bathed and put to bed.
To-day, however, Eustace demanded that Man Friday should carry their portion of bread-and-butter, that they might eat it together in the cave.
"Don't change your frock," said Nurse, when Eliza went to wash her face and hands before starting out again.
Eustace insisted that his bread-and-butter should be tied up in the handkerchief, and Nurse saw that there was a piece of bread there already, and then learned that the child had bought a penny loaf in the morning by way of providing stores for his journey, and he and Eliza had eaten part of it before dinner. But he insisted upon the remaining portion being taken in the handkerchief, and carried the bundle himself until they got down to the beach, for fear Nurse should tell Eliza to take it out.
Here she was "Eliza," and under Nurse's control; but when once their camp was reached, she was "Man Friday," and under his direction. This was the compact that Nurse had been obliged to make with him in the morning; and so, as soon as her stool was set up, and baby and Winny set about their digging, Eliza and Eustace went off, Nurse looking after them with a smile of complacent assurance that nothing could happen to the little boy with Eliza in attendance, little dreaming what weary, anxious hours would pass before she should see either of them again.
"Now we are going to our cave," announced Eustace, when they were fairly away from "the savages." "I know just where to find it, though I did forget when father first went away. It's a wonderful cave, Friday, and leads right through the mountains to another country."
Eliza opened her eyes. "There are no mountains here, Master Eustace, only the chalk and sand cliffs."
"Of course; you have never seen my island before, Friday, and cannot be expected to know a mountain."
Eustace said this with such a look of lofty disdain that Eliza found it difficult to keep from laughing, which would be altogether wrong in "Man Friday," as Eustace had explained to her. Though she could not help saying, "The cave is a long way off," as they walked on and on until the bank of sea-thistles were left far behind, and the cliffs ran down much closer to the sea than they did near their camp where they had left the savages.
"You have only got to follow me," commanded Eustace, looking round at her. "You're not afraid, are you?" he demanded.
"Oh no, not afraid! I'm not afraid," replied Eliza.
"It's like a girl to be frightened because you cannot see any houses here, and there aren't many people about; but my father says it is a grand view, and we can be close to the sea and the mountains too." And, thus reassured, Eliza followed the little boy into what looked like a hole cut in the side of the cliff. It ran a good way back, but the floor was firm and dry, dotted with pretty little shells, and more delicate seaweed than they found near the camp, and Eliza was soon busy picking up both shells and seaweed, while Eustace, as became his dignity, sat on a shelving bank to watch his "Man Friday," not admitting even to himself that he was tired after his long walk.
"Have you got enough?" he asked at length. "We have got to explore this cave, you know, and find a place where we can make our bed."
Eliza stood up and peered into the shadowy part of the cave, where the sun's rays never reached the sandy bottom, and she found it wet.
"I shouldn't like to sleep here, master," she said, still in her character of "Friday."
"Never fear, I will take care of you, Friday. Now, follow me close," said Eustace, who thought he would rather have Eliza near him while going up the dark steps that had been cut in the chalk which he had once ascended with his father.
"This is a queer place," said Eliza, with a shiver, as they turned a sharp corner at the back of the cave, and began to climb the rough uneven steps that led them up into the darkness, as it seemed to the girl. But if a little fellow like Eustace was not afraid to go first into this queer place, Eliza was not going to yield, and so she followed on as closely as she could, but it was a great relief when at last a streak of daylight could be seen in what looked like the roof of this stairway.
"Now are you frightened?" asked Eustace, triumphantly.
"No, but I am glad to see the light, and I hope we shall soon get to the top."
But Eliza found that when the chalk steps ended a sandy and clay bank began, through which a path had been trodden, and they had to climb this, greatly to the detriment of their clothes. But at last they emerged at the top, and came out upon what looked like a wide heath or common, but there was not a house to be seen anywhere, and Eliza declared she would not go any further for fear of losing their way, and missing the particular slope that would lead them to the steps down to the beach.
"Suppose we untie our bundle, and have our supper," said Eustace, who was hungry after his climb.
Eliza was only too glad to sit down in the bright sunshine and eat the bread-and-butter they had brought with them, or at least a part of it; for Eustace said they must keep part so that their wallet should not be empty.
They sat there for some time, until at last the little boy showed signs of being sleepy, and then Eliza jumped up in great alarm.
"Master, we are a long way from the savages, and I shall be frightened if we don't soon get back," she said.
The little trick answered, and Eustace roused himself.
"You ain't fit for a Man Friday," he said, standing up.
"Ah, I wish the Vicar was here, don't you?" said Eliza, still trying to keep up the fiction that she was afraid, but thankful that they were at last going down the sandy slope that would take them to the beach.
LITTLE ROBINSON CRUSOE went bravely down the descending path between the high sandbanks, Man Friday walking closely behind, for Eliza began to fear that they had sat too long in the warm sunshine at the top of the cliff, and wished they had not such a long walk to go before they could reach the camp, for she was afraid Nurse would grow anxious about them being away so long.
As the little boy drew near the chalk stairway, his steps grew more slow, and Eliza, noticing this, said—
"Master, Man Friday had better go first now," and as she spoke the little fellow gladly let her pass him with the wallet over her shoulder, while at the same moment a quantity of sand and lumps of clay came tumbling down the side of the bank, and the girl could not help wishing they were at the bottom instead of the top of this stairway. To enter the dark hole required some courage, but she took care not to let Eustace see that she had any fear, although she could hardly repress a shudder.
"It's like real Robinson Crusoe, isn't it?" said the little boy, trying hard to keep up his courage. "You are a girl, and girls don't like these things like men do, I suppose."
"No, they don't," said Eliza; "but girls' frocks are handy sometimes, and if you take hold of mine, and keep close to me, we can help each other to get down the steps better."
They had reached the chalk bank and groped their way into the darkness, Eliza carefully feeling with feet and hands along the wall lest they should slip down the roughly cut steps.
"Now we shall soon be down," she said, when they had descended about half a dozen steps.
Then they were cheered with a ray of light through a hole at the top of the cliff, by which they could see that they had come to a place where the steps made a sharp bend, and they had to turn the corner of the chalk wall very carefully.
"Now we shan't be long, master," said Eliza, cheerily; for after a few more steps she could see a tiny speck of light far below, and knew that this must be the lower entrance to the dark staircase, and that in a short time they would reach the cave into which it opened.
But almost at the same moment she heard the thunderous roar of the sea as it beat upon the cliffs below, and she stood still for a moment to listen.
"Did the sea make a noise like that before?" She spoke half to herself, half to the little boy, who was clinging closely to her skirts behind.
"Why, you silly, the sea always makes a noise like that," answered Eustace; and he tried to push Eliza forward, for he did not like the darkness, and was impatient to reach that spot of light below them, which he could see now as well as Eliza. She, too, would be glad enough to be out upon the beach once more, although she feared that Nurse would be angry with her for staying away so long. But even this was forgotten in the tenseness with which she listened, and the care she took that the little boy should not push past her or make her slip down the steps.
"Oh, you are slow!" said the little fellow, impatiently. "Let me come first," he added; and he tried again to push past the girl.
But she firmly kept her place, and held him back.
"Listen! Listen!" she said. "I think the water is in the cave where I picked up the pretty shells; and if it is, and you should fall in, you might be drowned."
The little fellow was awed for a minute, but quickly exclaimed—
"I am not afraid. If the water has got in we must run through it."
But Eliza was not to be moved from her determination, and would not go faster, for above the roar of the water outside and the swish-swish of it as it rose across the floor of the cave, she thought she could hear a closer lap-lap, as though the waves were trying to climb the stairs they were descending. So she put the foot that was to descend first very slowly and cautiously forward, and before the bottom was reached, her worst fears were realized, for the descending foot vent into deep water at last. The poor girl sank down upon the step on which the little boy was standing, and for the moment was quite overcome by the horror that seemed to have seized upon her. But she quickly mastered it for fear of frightening the child.
"We must go back again, Master Eustace," she said as quietly as she could.
"What for?" demanded the little boy, although as he spoke he ceased to push the girl, for he, too, felt that something had happened that he did not quite understand.
"The water has come into our cave," she said. "One foot went into it just now, so that we are close to the edge."
Eustace quickly clambered up the steps, holding fast by Eliza's frock.
"I must take care of you," he said, when she asked him not to pull quite so hard.
They made their way back to where the stairway turned, and were glad of the peep of daylight from above when they saw it again.
"We must make haste now," said Eliza, "for we shall have to walk home along the cliffs, and that is further round, I heard Nurse say."
They clambered on as quickly as they could for a few yards further, and then met a steep bank of earth, while the little bit of daylight visible was still a long way ahead of them.
"Why, what has happened?" exclaimed Eliza, as she stumbled forward on to the soft mass of sand and clay that rose like a wall before them, nearly closing the entrance of the stairway.
At the same moment the little boy's courage and endurance quite gave way, and he sank down.
"I am so tired I can't walk any further," he cried, and burst into a storm of sobs and tears.
For a minute or two Eliza was too much overwhelmed to do anything but look up at the tiny rift in the darkness. Then she stooped down and took the little boy in her arms.
"Master Eustace, God can take care of us in this dark place," she whispered. "He knows where we are and all about us."
The little fellow raised his head and tried to stop his tears.
"I'm so tired," he said, with a gasp. "If I wasn't so tired and my legs so stiff, I'd climb up this bank and help you to get out, but I can't, Eliza."
"No, dear, we must just stop here and let God take care of us. The water won't stop in the cave for all the time. When the tide goes down, the water will all run out again," she said.
As this thought occurred to her, half the trouble seemed to drop away and leave her able to think how she should comfort the little boy and make him warm and comfortable, so that he might go to sleep and forget all his weariness and discomfort.
"We'll go back a little way till we get to the wall down there," she said, pointing down to the bend in the stairway. "There I can make a tent of my frock, and we will have our supper and go to bed in our cave, and be real Robinson Crusoes."
The word "bed" had a charm for the tired little fellow, and he readily agreed to let Eliza take the direction of affairs. So they went back to the corner formed by the bend, and Eliza said—
"There, that will be my armchair. You can lie down against me, and I can cover you all up with my warm frock. Isn't it a good job Nurse made me put it on to-day?"
She kept talking like this for fear Eustace should cry again, for she was afraid she might cry too if he did.
When the corner was reached she took off her hat, drew the frock over her head, carefully wrapped her petticoats closely round her, and held out her arms for Eustace. The little boy was glad enough to creep into her lap, and then she folded the soft warm skirt all round him.
"Isn't that nice?" she said in a cheery tone, as Eustace laid his head against her.
"Shall I go to sleep?" he asked.
"Oh yes, of course, when we have had our supper. Robinson Crusoe always had supper, I think," she added, for she wanted him to eat some of the bread-and-butter they still had in the wallet.
She had to eat some, too, although she thought it would choke her at first. Still, for the sake of the child she must try; and they both ate some bread-and-butter. Then he kneeled down in her lap and said his prayers, as though he was at home in his own nursery.
When Eliza had made him as cosy and comfortable as she could, wrapped round in her frock, he said—
"When father says, 'God bless you, my little Eustace!' before he goes to bed, will God tell him we are out here in the dark, all alone?"
Eliza shook her head. "I don't know how God speaks to people," she said; "perhaps He puts the right kind of thoughts into their minds;" and as she said this, it occurred to her that the idea of the tide going out, that had never left her since it first entered her mind, was one of the thoughts that came from God to comfort and help her to be brave, that she might take care of Master Eustace. Of course the Vicar would pray that God would take care of all of them, and especially his own little boy, for she knew he was very fond of Eustace, and so perhaps the thought had come to her through the Vicar's prayer.
At any rate, it was such a comfort to the girl that soon after her little charge was asleep, she, too, had closed her eyes, and slept soundly for an hour or two, leaning against the chalk wall with her frock drawn closely round the child.
But she woke out of this sleep with a start that almost woke Eustace. She could not remember where she was for a minute or two.
She felt cramped and stiff, and her feet were very cold. Raising her head, she saw one star looking down upon her through the hole in the roof, and she remembered all that had happened, and that their one hope of escaping from the cave lay in the tide going down. She wondered when that would be, and what the time was now.
Then she managed to move the little boy without waking him, so that she could move her feet, and change the position in which she was sitting.
But having done this, she could not go to sleep again. That one star up above seemed to be watching her and inviting her to keep her eyes open and look at it.
By degrees she noted that the deep blue of the sky was growing paler and paler, and the joyful thought came to her that the night was almost over, and the morning was coming at last.
She kept her eyes steadily fixed on the one rift of sky until her star paled, and the purple sky hid it. Then her eyes grew tired, and try as she would she could not keep them open, but fell asleep once more.
Meanwhile, Nurse had a troublesome time with the little ones. Miss Winny had grown fond of her little nurse, who was always ready to play with her. When she saw her walk away with her brother, and show no signs of coming back, she called—
"Lila! Lila! Me want you! Me want you!" and then turned to Nurse, and said, "Make Lila come back."
"She will come soon," said Nurse, soothingly.
But this did not satisfy Winny. "Me want her now! Me want her now!" she screamed; and then burst into a flood of tears, in which baby very soon joined.
Nurse raised her voice then, and called "'Liza! 'Liza!" as loudly as she could; but the wind carried her words in the opposite direction, and no sounds reached the young explorers, who very soon disappeared from view altogether.
This brought a fresh outburst of lamentation from the little girl, who would not be pacified by anything Nurse said to her; and at last Nurse threatened to take her home, put her to bed, and not let her stay until the others came back. She tried to amuse her by scooping up some sand the little girl's spade, but it would not do. The child knew the difference now between this kind of play and the interest Eliza took in building a castle or digging a trench, and she shook herself, and screamed the louder for "Lila."
Nurse tried all sorts of plans to make the little one forget her playmate, but it was of no use; and after an hour or two, she decided to take the children home without waiting for Eliza to return.
"Winny is a naughty girl!" she said sharply, as she gathered up her various belongings, and prepared to return home.
But Winny refused to go without "Lila," seated herself on the sand, and screamed until Nurse grew desperate. So, asking another nurse who sat near to keep an eye on her till she came back, she rushed off with baby, and left him in charge of the landlady while she went back to fetch the little girl.
Altogether it was a most unhappy evening for Nurse, but she did not grow anxious about Eustace and Eliza until she had bathed Winny and baby, and put them both to bed, the little girl sobbing piteously even in her sleep, for she had refused to be comforted to the very last because "Lila" did not come home.
When, however, she was snugly tucked into her cot, Nurse had time to think of the young Robinson Crusoe. She went to the landlady of the house, and asked if she knew where the cave was.
"Cave! What cave?" she asked.
"I don't know; only I heard Master Eustace tell Eliza he was going to take her to some cave on the shore."
"There are no caves hereabouts," said the landlady, in a reassuring tone, "and there is no call for you to fidget over the children, for our shore is as safe as my back garden. They will be home in a few minutes, I dare say;" and she went about her business, leaving Nurse by the window to watch every one who came up the street from the beach.
Little groups of twos and threes were passing now, dragging spades and pails behind them and Nurse wished she could see Eustace and Eliza.
"Those children will be tired out," she said, when the landlady came in to lay the supper-cloth.
"They are late," she admitted, "for it is getting dusk, and you have never been so late as this with them."
"I wish I dare leave the children upstairs, and I would go and look for them."
She hoped the woman would offer to look after the baby if he should wake, but she was not disposed to make the offer.
"I expect my boy in every minute, and he knows every inch of the shore. I'll send him to find them the moment he comes in. I expect Master Eustace has fallen dead tired, and can't get along. My boy can carry him better than your girl can."
"I doubt whether Eliza could carry him many yards, for she is not at all strong."
The suggestion had relieved her a little, and a minute afterwards she saw the landlady's son come dashing in.
"We want you to go and look for that little Master Eustace and the girl, Tom," his mother said; and Nurse told what she had heard about their going to look for a cave.
"There ain't no cave on our beach," replied Tom. "There's just a hole or two in the cliff that the waves have scooped out. Which way have they gone? Down Prawn Point?"
"Which is Prawn Point?" asked Nurse.
The boy explained, and Nurse knew that it was that direction Eustace always had chosen for his rambles.
Tom scratched his head. "You ought not to have let them go to the Point," he said seriously.
"Is it dangerous?" asked Nurse, in a tone of alarm.
"Well, that depends upon the time. When did they go?"
"This afternoon, about four o'clock, I should think," answered his mother.
The boy whistled. "The tide would be coming in."
"Is there danger? Tell me if there is, for I must send for his mother and father at once," almost screamed Nurse.
"Well, I wouldn't care to be round Prawn Point, I can tell you," answered Tom.
Nurse did not wait to hear any more. There was a telegraph-office a little further up the street, and Nurse rushed off there.
"Can you send a message directly?" she panted.
"Oh yes," said the girl, calmly. "Will you write it down?"
"I can't write now," said Nurse, in agitation "Say, 'Come at once; Eustace and Eliza lost.'" The girl looked up as she finished pencilling down this message.
"Do you know which way they have gone?" she asked.
"To some place called Prawn Point," answered Nurse.
"Ah, that is a nasty place," said the girl. "You haven't told me the address," she added, as Nurse was turning away from the counter.
She gave the address where the Vicar was staying, and returned home almost distracted, but was relieved to hear that the landlady's son had started in search of the children, and that he expected he should find them on the other side of the Point, where they would be compelled to stay until the tide went down.
"Oh dear, they will be frightened to death, even if they are alive!" said Nurse, wringing her hands, and pacing up and down the small sitting-room.
In the course of an hour a reply came from the Vicar.
"Coming first train in the morning," he said.
The landlady assured her that the children would be safe at home in their own beds long before her master came, for three or four men besides her Tom had gone out now in search of the children, and they would be sure to find them.
But hour after hour of that terrible night passed bringing no news of the children to their distracted Nurse, and some began to whisper that they must have been carried out to sea by the outgoing tide, and that nothing might ever be seen of them again.
WHEN Eliza looked up through the hole at the paling sky, she quite intended keep awake until the sun was up, and then creep down the stairs to see if the cave was clear of water, before she disturbed the little boy from his sound sleep.
But before she was aware of it her eyelids drooped, her head sank back against the chalk wall, and she too was as soundly asleep as the child. She slept on for an hour or two, and then woke up with a start and in a fright. She looked up through the hole at the morning sky, and saw that it was quite bright. She felt sure that she should find the cave had dried in the morning sun, so she slipped the little boy aside out of her arms, unfastened her frock, and after some pulling and tugging, managed to get her arms out of the sleeves, and tucking the frock securely round the little sleeper, she made her way down the steps as quickly as she could.
When she reached the last step, she saw, to her dismay, that the tide was coming in again, and the sea was just beginning to flood the cave once more, but it was not deep enough yet to more than wet her feet, and she walked through that to look out and see if she could carry Eustace to the dry sand which she knew would lie a little way beyond. But, to her great consternation, there was no dry spot within view of where she stood, and she gazed out upon the water as it came slowly lapping in, and wondered whether anybody had been to look for them or would come this morning; and with the wild hope that Nurse or somebody might be searching for them, she thrust her head out as far as she could, and called, "Nurse, Nurse."
But no answer came to her call, and Eliza grew almost desperate as she thought of the little boy asleep up the steps. Presently he would wake up and cry for his breakfast and for Nurse to come to him; and what could she do to pacify him? And with the thought of poor little Robinson Crusoe's distress, she took courage to step out of the cave into the water beyond. It was very terrible to see nothing but the whirling, eddying water all round her, but she boldly ran forward to where she thought she would be seen if any one had come in search of her. To her intense relief, she saw the figures of three men in the distance, and she raised her arms and waved them, at the same time shouting "Help, help!" For a minute they did not seem to hear or see her, then all at once one of them began to run, and waved his arms in token that he saw her; and by that time Eliza's clothes began to dabble in the water, and she made her way back to the cave, but still stood at the edge looking out, for fear the men should pass, and this hope of rescue be lost to them.
But in a minute or two she saw, to her amazement, that the man who had outran the others was no other than the Vicar himself. She was too much overcome to speak for a moment, but before he stepped into the cave, she called out, "Go up the stairs quick, sir—Master Eustace is asleep just at the top;" and as the Vicar ran past her she sank down in the water, but was picked up the next minute by one of the fishermen who had followed closely behind the Vicar. The other, seeing the girl's scanty, dripping clothing, pulled off his thick guernsey and covered the girl up in it, and then ran back for a boat.
Eliza lay limp and inert in the fisherman's arms, and he wondered in some alarm whether they had not come too late to save the girl.
There was little doubt but that the Vicar's son was safe, for he could now be heard calling—
"Man Friday, Man Friday, I won't come till you find Friday."
The Vicar said afterwards that he rushed up the steps, and almost fell over the outstretched legs of the little boy, who was sleeping as comfortably wrapped in Eliza's frock as if he was in his own cot at home. He picked up the precious bundle, and would have gone out by the cliff entrance, but saw that it was blocked by the fall of sand; and he was just turning to go down again, when Eustace, rousing sufficiently to know that he was being carried in somebody's arms, began to kick and struggle and call for "Man Friday."
He looked round, thinking there might be another child; but, seeing Eliza's hat, he concluded she must be Friday, and by that time the boy was sufficiently awake to recognize his father, and tell him Lila was with him.
"My darling! my darling!" was all he could say as he kissed the child again and again while carrying him downstairs to the cave.
But at the sight of it being empty and the waste of waters all round, the little fellow almost sprang out of his father's arms.
"Dadda, dadda," he cried, "we can't go without Friday! See, I have got her frock to keep me warm."
"Hush, dear, hush! Eliza is safe. Do you think I would leave the girl who forgot herself to make you warm and comfortable?"
For answer Eustace kissed his father; but he was not satisfied until he saw the blue bundle being carried in the arms of the fisherman, and was told that that was Man Friday being carried to the boat that they could see approaching them in the distance.
Evidently Eustace was very little the worse for his adventure, for as his father waded through the water murmuring thanksgivings to God for his boy's escape, he was telling his father, as graphically as he could, how he was Robinson Crusoe and Lila his Man Friday; and how they had gone along the beach in search of the cave his father had showed him the year before; and how they had climbed to the top, and sat out on the heath to have their tea.
Then the finding the water in the cave and on the steps was told; and how he should have been afraid, only Man Friday was not, even when they went back and found they could not get out at the top.
"She told me God would take care of us till the tide turned, when I cried. And then she made a cosy bed-place with her frock, and I just went to sleep till you found me."
"Brave little woman!" murmured the Vicar, under his breath.
"Wasn't I brave too, father?" asked the little boy, looking down earnestly into his father's eyes.
"Yes, dear, you were. To go to sleep and let God take care of you in His own way was the best and bravest thing you could do. You believed what your Man Friday said—that God would take care of you until the tide turned; and then, of course, you could help yourselves. Man Friday must have gone to sleep too, I expect," added the Vicar to himself.
But the little fellow shook his head in dissent. "I told her to stop awake and help God take care of me," he said, "and she could not lie down like I did."
"She certainly took good care of you," said the Vicar; and then, with one more plunge through the deepening water, the boat was reached, and the little boy could see for himself that it was Eliza the fisherman had carried just in front of them. But when he saw her face he looked very grave. "What have you done to her?" he demanded, looking at one of the men.
"She was just like that when I picked her up yonder," said the man.
The truth was that Eliza had fainted as soon as there was no further demand upon her courage and endurance.
The Vicar understood better than Eustace or the fishermen what a terrible time it must have been for the girl, and that she had completely broken down as soon as relief arrived was not at all surprising.
"We will send for the doctor as soon as the boat gets in," said the Vicar.
"Ay, I expect he will be there to meet us, for my mate sent his boy to tell the ladies that the gell was badly like and might want the doctor," said one of the fishermen.
"Thank you. I am glad you did that, for, of course, my wife is in a terrible state of anxiety. We have been travelling all night, and only reached here at six o'clock this morning."
"Oh, father, did you come on purpose to look for me?" said Eustace, in a penitent tone.
His father looked at the grieved little face. "I don't think you will go so far away from Nurse again, will you?" he said gravely.
The boy shook his head. "No, I never will, father. But ask God to let Lila get well soon," he added.
"Yes, dear. I am afraid Eliza may be very ill after this, so that you will have to be careful and not give her any trouble, or want her to walk far with you. We shall have to take great care of her when she is well enough to go out again," concluded the Vicar.
There was quite a little crowd of visitors besides Nurse and Mrs. Parsons standing at the end of the landing-stage when the boat reached its destination.
Eustace threw off the frock when he saw his mother, and the Vicar helped him out of the boat, the child exclaiming as he jumped—
"I am so hungry. Have you got anything for me, Nurse?"
Everybody being thus assured that very little ailed Eustace, their attention was turned to Eliza, who still lay still and white on the little couch arranged for her in the boat by the fishermen.
"Give me the frock," said the Vicar, and he put aside the rough guernsey that covered her, and carefully wrapped her in it.
"Let me carry her, master," said one of the men, when he had finished mooring the boat.
But the Vicar shook his head. "Thank you all the same, but if she should waken, she will know me, and the sight of a stranger, as she is now, may frighten and hurt her."
And the Vicar took Eliza in his arms, and carried her as if she was a baby, while Mrs. Parsons and Nurse went on to give hungry little Eustace his breakfast and to hear his story, while the Vicar followed, and was soon joined by the doctor.
They did not, have far to carry their burden. The landlady had already prepared a warm bed, and Eliza was soon undressed, wrapped in a blanket, and covered up. Then the doctor gave her a restorative, which, in a few minutes, revived her, and she looked round in astonishment, as Mrs. Parsons bent tenderly over her.
"I am very sorry," began Eliza, in a faint voice.
But the lady held up her finger. "You must not talk or feel sorry, for we are all very glad to have you back safe. Now, you are to rest, and do exactly as the doctor and Nurse tell you. Are you quite comfortable?" asked the lady.
Just then Winny's voice was heard calling, "Lila! Lila!" and the girl's face grew bright as she heard it.
"Oh, please let me see Miss Winny," she said.
Mrs. Parsons opened the door and let the little girl come in.
"Up! up!" she cried, stretching out her arms towards her young nurse; and her mother lifted her on to the bed and let her lie for a minute or two beside her, the little one stroking her cheek and murmuring, "Poor Lila! Poor Lila ill!" And in a very few minutes Eliza was asleep.
Mrs. Parsons arranged to take the children to the beach while Nurse watched beside Eliza and got what rest she could, for she had slept very little all night. Eliza slept, and Nurse too, until the doctor came in again, when he set their fears at rest by saying that a day or two in bed was all that was necessary for Eliza's recovery.
The girl slept nearly the whole of that day and the greater part of the next, only rousing up have a meal of light food that would help her to go to sleep again.
The third day, however, the girl was more wakeful, and wanted to get up, and the doctor allowed her to do so for a short time in the evening.
"You will come out with us, won't you, Man Friday?" said Eustace, when Eliza went into the sitting-room to tea.
But Eliza shook her head. "Not to-day, dear," she said, with a smile, for she had never felt so weak before, and knew she would not be able to walk to the beach, even if she wished to do so.
"Now, Eustace, you must be very kind and quiet for Eliza's sake, or else she will be ill again," said his mother; and the little fellow looked tenderly up at his young nurse as she sat in the easy-chair that Nurse usually occupied.
The Vicar went back to his father's house as soon as Eliza was declared to be out of all danger, for the old gentleman was still very ill. But Mrs. Parsons did not leave until Eliza was quite well.
Before she left she heard from the Vicar that their stay at the seaside would have to be extended, for he had heard that scarlet fever had broken out at the other end of the town, and what was worse for them individually, the Vicarage drains had been discovered to be out of order, and they would have to be thoroughly repaired before the children could return home.
Mrs. Parsons wrote to tell Mrs. Brown of this alteration in their plans, and also of Eliza's adventure and illness, and how highly she and the Vicar esteemed her for her brave endurance and unselfish care of their little boy. The letter concluded by asking Mrs. Brown if she would allow Eliza to stay on at the Vicarage when they returned, as they would like to have her as nursemaid to the children.
Eliza wrote as well, asking that she might be allowed to go to the Vicarage nursery, and telling her mother how kind the Vicar and everybody had been to her, and that she would be quite well and strong again by the time they came home.
When Mrs. Parsons left them to rejoin the Vicar, Nurse took care that Master Eustace did not go roaming again.
"I don't want to go and look for another cave, for fear it should make Man Friday ill," said the little boy. "We will play Robinson Crusoe without a cave this time," he added.
It was on a Saturday morning that the letter reached Mrs. Brown, telling her of Eliza's adventure, and how greatly pleased the Vicar and his wife were with her kind, unselfish ways with the children altogether.
To say that Mrs. Brown was pleased with this letter would not express a tithe of what she felt when she read it, and to have this offer for Eliza of a place in the Vicarage was more than she had anticipated to be possible, and she felt proud indeed, and looked forward to her husband's return in the afternoon, to tell him the wonderful news.
Of course, she told the two girls who were at home, and Selina danced with delight as she dusted the kitchen chairs, while the more thoughtful Minnie paused in her work of cleaning knives and forks, and said—
"Mother, God must have told her what to do to take care of Master Eustace, and that is what we shall feel proud of. Of course, if our Eliza had not tried to serve God in the little things here at home, she would not have known what to do when she was shut up in that nasty cave."
It was a view of the matter that had not occurred to Mrs. Brown herself, but Eliza had always been the little comforter at home, and was always ready to sympathize and help everybody, quite forgetful of herself and her own interests.
Selina had another way of showing her pride and pleasure in her sister's brave doings. She wanted to run out and tell all the neighbourhood what great things Eliza had done. Her mother knew this, and kept a watchful eye upon her; and when the kitchen chairs were dusted, the little girl was sent upstairs to dust the bedrooms, for Mrs. Brown did not wish the neighbours to hear the news before her husband came home.
She wanted to tell him about the letter herself; but in this she was disappointed, for Selina, having finished all the housework she was capable of doing, had earned the right to go and meet her father at the railway station, and Mrs. Brown would not deprive her of this justly earned pleasure.
As she was going out, however, Minnie said, "Now don't tell father everything there is in that letter, because I know mother wants to tell some of it herself."
"Do you, mother?" asked the little girl.
"Well, yes. I think I should like to tell father something of it," replied Mrs. Brown.
Selina paused and looked puzzled. "Why didn't you tell me that I couldn't go and meet dad to-day," she asked.
"Because that wouldn't be quite fair," said her mother, "I always let you go out for an hour when you have done your housework properly, and as I have had no fault to find with you to-day, you have the right to go and meet your father if you like."
"Yes. But she need not go and tell him everything, as she generally does," put in Minnie, who did not see why her mother should be deprived of all the pleasure of imparting the pleasant news, because she would be strictly fair to Selina.
To this appeal from her sister the little girl hesitated to reply. Half the pleasure of going to meet her father would be taken away if she could not tell him all the wonderful news in the letter. At last she said, looking up into her mother's face—
"May we do it between us, mother? You tell half and I tell half."
Mrs. Brown laughed.
But Minnie said, "It is as much as we can expect, I suppose, from a chatterbox like you. Now, mother, tell her what she may say, and what you want to tell father," added Minnie.
"Very well, you may tell father all about Master Eustace and the cave, and let me tell the kind offer that has been made to take Eliza into the Vicarage nursery."
"Yes, yes," answered Selina. "I will remember that I am not to say a word about that. But I am glad I may tell about the cave, because that is the best bit of all;" and the little girl ran off by the shortest road to the railway station, for fear she should be late, and so miss her father.
BROWN had been away from home since the previous Monday morning, for he was now duly installed in the post previously held by Collins, and was likely to continue there.
It had all come about in the most natural way possible. When Brown went with the other men that first Monday morning, the foreman went to show him where Collins had been working; but almost as soon as the man saw what had been done, he exclaimed, "Collins never did this, surely!" and he called some of the other men to ask what they knew about it.
They each in turn disclaimed having touched this part of the work, and Collins being a more highly skilled workman, was scarcely likely to allow them to do it; but, at the same time, it was equally difficult to understand how he could put such work into this as he had done by what they saw before them.
"What is to be done with it, Brown?" said the foreman, scratching his head in perplexity, for he felt he had neglected his duty in not looking more closely after Collins and his work.
"There is nothing for it but to undo it," replied Brown.
"Unwind all this coil, do you mean?" said the foreman, aghast at the proposal.
"There is nothing else for it that I can see," answered Brown. "To let it pass as it is will never do, for some bad accident may be caused through that bit of scamped work. It's a nasty job, I know, but I should not like to think that the whole station here might come to grief, and lives be lost, for the sake of a day or two's hard work. I will be as quick about it as I can, and say nothing to anybody, for the sake of Collins himself."
"All right. I see you understand how matters are. You had better have one of the boys to give you a hand; but you need not let him know why we are having it undone."
"You may trust me for keeping a still tongue over the whole matter. Collins had a pretty peck of trouble last week," added Brown, "and I expect it was thinking of his wife bad in bed that made him a bit slack with his job."
"It was the whisky, more likely," said the foreman, sharply,—"I hear he was bringing it in as well as being at 'The Blue Posts' every night—that upset him, and I was to blame that I did not look after him more sharply."
The foreman took care that there was no further remissness on his part, and kept a pretty close watch on Brown and the way he worked.
He soon found, however, that the careful, steady way this man did his work was not likely to lead to further trouble, and when the bit of scamped work was put right, Brown proved to be as quick and skilful as ever Collins had been, and at the end of the week Brown learned, to his great satisfaction, that he might consider himself permanently engaged for this class of work, which would mean higher wages and less laborious though more highly skilled tasks for the future. This, perhaps, would mean more to Brown than any other man in the factory, for the long illness of the previous year had left a lingering weakness that hard work had made very trying occasionally. Now quickness of eye, steadiness and deftness of hands, rather than actual strength, was what would be required of him, and he had carefully trained both eyes and hands whenever he had an opportunity, in the hope that some day they might prove useful both to himself and others. The careful mending of the children's shoes at home had been part of this training. The repairing of his wife's sewing-machine now and then had also helped, so that now his fingers could handle the more delicate parts of the work as neatly and deftly as any man in the factory, and he was reaping the fruit of his long and painstaking labours.
When Selina met her father that Saturday afternoon, she was so full of her story about Eliza that she never noticed that he was looking more grave than usual; but Mrs. Brown saw that there was something unusual the moment her eyes met those of her husband.
"What is the matter?" she asked anxiously, as he came in.
"Nothing but what will keep," he said pleasantly.
"Are you going away to work again next week?" asked the inquisitive Selina, who had heard the question.
"To be sure I am, pussy," answered her father.
Mrs. Brown breathed a sigh of relief, for this disposed of her first fear that something had gone wrong with the work, and he would have to go back to his old place once more.
She had prepared a nice little Saturday dinner for him, and this fear relieved, she said—
"There, come along, father, and have your dinner. What did you think of Selina's news?" asked Mrs. Brown, cheerfully, as she set the dinner on the table, and drew her husband's chair to its usual place.
"Oh, the chatterbox was in such a hurry to tell me everything at once that I shall have to hear it over again before I can quite understand all about it."
So Minnie volunteered to give this second and revised version of Eliza's story, and then Mrs. Brown added her share, and told him of the offer made for Eliza to go into the Vicarage nursery.
"Thank God for that!" said Brown, fervently; and his brow cleared, and he looked less anxious, his wife thought, during the remainder of the meal.
What could have happened to trouble him, she wondered. But there was no opportunity to ask him any questions just now, for Jack came in before dinner was over, and he wanted to tell his father all that had been going on at the factory during the week.
"Collins is a fool," was his final comment.
"Well, my boy, if you have to work under him, it is your duty to do the best you can, and hide his folly as far as possible. You could not have a more skilful workman to learn under," added Brown.
"I don't know so much about that," grumbled Jack. "And there is not much skill required in the work we have to do," he added.
"Oh, as to that, you must train your fingers to do better work in all sorts of ways. Take your mother's sewing-machine to pieces. I dare say it wants a good clean, and it will go all the better if you do it," he added, laughing, with a glance at his wife.
"It certainly does want a good clean," said Mrs. Brown. "I have used it a good deal lately, and now I have finished Eliza's new frock, I shall be able to spare it."
"Are you going to send the new frock to her?" asked her husband.
"She says she does not think she will want it now, as Nurse has found a place where they will wash her new cotton ones very nicely, and she can wear one of them to go to church."
"A clean cotton frock for Sunday!" repeated Jack. "That would not suit Fan, I know," he said.
No one made any comment, but Mrs. Brown noticed that the anxious look returned to her husband's brow, and she wished Jack would go out and give her an opportunity of having a few quiet words with her husband. But Jack had some other news to impart, it seemed, for he did not move from his seat, and presently he said—
"Collins has taken to the drink pretty badly, dad."
"Has he? I am sorry to hear that."
"Oh, well, it isn't to be wondered at, you see; for his wife has done it for years and years, and he has had a pretty bad time with her, the chaps say."
"But she has not had anything lately, I know," said his mother, quickly, "and Jessie is doing all she can to keep things straight and comfortable at home, though the poor girl can't put her foot to the ground yet."
"Oh, well, Jess has had a pretty good fling, being out at all hours of the night, so that it won't hurt her to be tamed down a bit," remarked Jack. "But all the fellows are sorry for Collins himself. Don't you think you could say a word to him, dad, to make him pull up a bit? They say at the factory that you know a thing or two that might make him pull up short, if you said he must."
Brown looked at his son in surprise. "What have you heard, lad?" he asked.
"Nothing very special, only that—There, I won't say what, for, after all, nobody seems to know anything for certain."
"Of course not, where there is nothing to know," said Brown, laughing. "However, if I come across Collins to-night, when I go out marketing with mother, I will see if I can have a word with him, though he may think I have no business to interfere with him and what he does."
Having received this promise from his father, Jack went out, and then Mrs. Brown said—"Now you must tell me what is troubling you."
"Well, wife, I think it is troubling me, and yet it is only a trifle, after all. I had a letter from our Fanny last night, and I don't know what to make of it."
"A letter from Fanny!" repeated his wife. "What did she want?"
"Well, that I can hardly tell you, for it was a rigmarole about not being loved now; but I could see that Eliza's new dress that her aunt sent was at the bottom of the whole trouble."
"But she had no right to it," said Mrs. Brown, in a sharp tone.
"Of course not. But, you see, she always has had the new frocks, and she thinks she always must. Now, it seems to me that through this and other little things we have spoiled her a good deal, and now, the thing is, how are we to undo the mischief?"
"Not by giving way to her in this, for that will make matters worse," said Mrs. Brown, promptly.
"Yes, I see that well enough; but how are we to make her see it, and yet convince her that we love her just as dearly now as when she had the new frocks, and Eliza those she had outgrown?"
His wife shook her head as she recalled the talk she had with Fanny the evening of her first holiday.
"It would not be so difficult if she were different," she said, more to herself than to her husband.
"Different?" he repeated.
He was very proud of Fanny. People had called her "a bonny girl," "a winsome lassie," and friends always noticed her, and he did not like even his wife finding fault with her.
"Different," he repeated again. "What would you have, mother?"
"Well, we have been partly to blame, no doubt, but our Fanny has grown very selfish and wilful. I did not notice it while she was at home, but things have happened since she has been away that has brought out very clearly the faults that were hidden before, and I was quite upset when I first found it out."
"What was there to find out? What has happened to alter our girl so much as all that?" asked Brown, curiously.
"Well now, I did not want to tell you myself, for I hoped Fanny would do it, as I asked her. Mind, I am not saying she is so altered since she has been away, for I suppose the selfishness was there before, only we did not see it, and there was nothing to bring it out. You see, to get Fanny nicely ready for service, with new underclothes, frocks, and aprons, cost me a pretty penny, one way and another, to say nothing of the hours I had to sit sewing to get everything ready. Well, when the Vicar's offer came for Eliza to go to the seaside to help Nurse with the children, I thought at once Fanny's first wages would come in nicely to buy what I wanted to send Eliza away neat and tidy; but when she came home for that first holiday, instead of bringing me the ten shillings, as I had hoped, she had bought a watch with it, which she wore round her neck."
"Bought a watch for ten shillings?" repeated Brown.
"Yes, she told me she had given all her first month's wages for the rubbishing thing." And Mrs. Brown could scarce restrain her tears even now, as she thought of the glittering thing as she saw it on Fanny's neck.
"I suppose you told her it was rubbish, and not worth the money she had paid for it?" said her husband.
"Wouldn't you have told her the same thing? I know you would. What should a girl like her know about buying a watch?"
Brown could scarcely help smiling at his wife's evident annoyance, and he concluded that she had said some rather hard words to Fanny, which she had taken to heart, and had grown discouraged since, as she recalled them, and then foolishly concluded that because her mother had spoken angrily, and afterwards refused to let her have the new frock, that she no longer loved her.
"I see it all now," he said, his brow clearing. "You said a few sharp words about this ten-shilling watch, and afterwards refused to let her have the new frock, and she concludes from this that, as she is away from home now, you care less for her than when she was one amongst us."
"She never could be so foolish," said Mrs. Brown.
"Well, we can set matters right with that letter of yours," replied her husband. "Instead of going to our own church to-morrow night, I will go and see Fan, and take the letter with me for her to read. The walk would be too much for you, I know—it upset you before; but it will be good for me, and I can tell her all the news, and let her feel that she is still one of us, though she may be away from home. Now, what time will you be ready to do your marketing to-night?" he asked, for he did not want to say any more about Fanny just now.
"I shall be ready soon after tea; but I must go and see Jessie Collins before I go, for she wants me to bring her some meat from the market."
"How is the poor girl?" asked Brown. "It must be hard for her to lie still after having the run of the street as she has had."
"The worst of it is she doesn't lie still," said Mrs. Brown; "it is almost impossible, I suppose, with only little Polly to do everything. Of course Jessie tries to sit up and help her with things, when she is in a muddle, and, as I tell her, every time she does this she is undoing all the good that has been done, and making her foot worse."
"Ah! she ought to have gone to the hospital when it was first hurt," remarked Brown.
"She should too, if she had been my child; but her father didn't want her to go, you could see, and Jessie wanted to be at home to look after her mother. I never saw a girl so fond of her mother as poor Jessie is, and to think I should have had such a bad opinion of her! I feel vexed with myself when I think of it sometimes," added Mrs. Brown.
"The girl's good qualities have been brought out by her mother's illness," remarked Brown. "How is the poor thing now?" he asked.
"Not much better. She is just a 'poor thing,' and lies there in bed, without any wish to stir herself, and help things downstairs."
"But is she well enough to do that? I thought you said she was very ill."
"So she was at first; but the doctor has told her to try and sit up a little while, and he told me it would do her good if she made some effort to get about. But when I have asked her to try and do as the doctor says, she promises to try to-morrow. But that to-morrow never comes, and she just lies there, day after day, and nothing seems to rouse her; nor will she take the least interest in home affairs. 'Jessie can manage things now,' she says, if I try to persuade her to get up."
"'But Jessie has hurt her foot, and ought to go to the hospital,' I said to her yesterday; but she only sighed, and said things would come right somehow, and 'Jessie liked to stop at home.'"
"Well, it isn't like you, mother," said Brown; "and there's no telling what I might be if I had a wife like Mrs. Collins. It has always been the same ever since they were married, I have heard. Some of the chaps say she was a pretty dressy piece, but had no idea of making home comfortable for her man. She just let things drift as they could, and when she took to the drink it was more because the gossips persuaded her to take it, than that she cared so much for it herself. It was too much trouble to say 'No' and stick to it," commented Brown. "Her husband always said she was a very easy-going woman, and never troubled him much about anything, so long as she got her money every week."
"Easy-going? Yes, I suppose she was; but somebody else was bound to have the trouble. And now, where are the wages? She don't get the wages every week now! Nor Jessie either; for so much of it goes in drink that the poor girl don't know how to make ends meet very often," exclaimed Mrs. Brown, angrily.
"Are things really as bad as that?" exclaimed Brown. "Well, well, I will try and get a word with him to-night, for the poor girl's sake. Don't stay long when you go over there, and if she hasn't got the money for the meat, just find out what she wants, and I dare say we can make it up between us, and be little the worse off. We can afford to help a neighbour, in thankfulness for God's help to our girl," added Brown, reverently.
"All right. I'll find out what Jessie wants, and very soon be back. If I go now, while Minnie gets the tea ready, we can start as soon as it is over, and get back before the market is so crowded."
But to Mrs. Brown's inquiry as to what Jessie wanted from the shop that night, Jessie shook her head, and burst into tears.
"Thank you, all the same, Mrs. Brown," she said, after a minute, "but I shall have to send Polly for a bit of steak over the way. Father hasn't come home yet, so it isn't much of his wages we shall see at home."
"Never mind the money to-night, Jessie; just tell me what you want, for Brown is in a fidget for me to get back. Shall I do the best I can for you, as I should for myself?" she asked.
The next minute Mrs. Brown had gone, for she thought she heard Collins's unsteady footsteps coming down the street, and she beat a hasty retreat by the back door, for she did not want to meet him if he was the worse for drink.
"NOW we've got a ticklish job, missus, and I wish Collins had gone straight home this afternoon with his money, instead of going off up the town as he seems to have done, for he is an ugly customer, I have heard, when he has had a drop too much."
"Well, I should try and find out before I spoke whether he had been drinking, and if he had—well, it would be better to walk on and take no notice of him," prudently advised Mrs. Brown.
Her husband shook his head. "The thing is, what ought I to do? Jack says it is getting a common thing with him now, and we all know the manager won't stand a man drinking at our works; and so, as I know this, if I can say a word to make him pull up short, it is my duty to do it at all costs."
Mrs. Brown almost wished her husband had stayed at home, for she knew the quiet determination of his character where he thought anything was a matter of duty. When they reached the outskirts of the market, she gave him her basket to hold while she went into a shop, and almost at the same moment Collins came reeling along the road, and seeing Brown with the large market-basket in his hand, made some jeering remark about him being a "tame cat." Mrs. Brown was in the crowded shop, and neither saw nor heard Collins, and Brown only heard part of what was said, but he laid his hand on the shoulder of the half-drunken man, and whispered—
"Look here, Collins, old man. I want—"
But Collins did not give him time to say more. With an oath he struck out at him, exclaiming, "You'll get more than you want this time;" and with a second blow in the face knocked him down in the roadway, and would have kicked him in his fury if one of the men near had not dragged him back.
A crowd quickly gathered round, and when Mrs. Brown came out of the shop, she found her husband lying insensible in the centre of this crowd, and she guessed at once that Collins had been the aggressor. She pushed her way through to his side, and one of the men ran for a doctor; but by the time he arrived Brown had so far recovered that he could sit up on a chair that had been fetched for him from a neighbouring shop, and look round in a dazed fashion.
"Take him home as quickly as you can," said the doctor.
Brown had not spoken, and Collins was not to be seen, and Mrs. Brown would not ask a question as to how it happened while the crowd were within hearing; but as they walked slowly back, Mrs. Brown said—
"How did it begin?"
"Oh, just after you left me he came up and said something about a tame cat, and I put my hand on his shoulder and began to speak, when he struck out all round, and at the second blow I went down, and don't remember any more. My head is badly bruised, though, I can feel," he added.
Before he reached home, the poor fellow seemed so ill that his wife became alarmed; and as soon as he was safe indoors, she went for the doctor, telling him what had happened, but not mentioning his assailant's name, merely mentioning him as one of his mates.
The doctor ordered his patient to bed at once, and said he would probably be obliged to stay there for a day or two at least.
"Oh, I hope not," said Brown anxiously. "I hope you will pull me round so that I can go to work on Monday morning as usual," he continued feebly, for he felt very ill.
"Now, you must just keep him as quiet as possible, and don't let him worry himself about Monday morning," said the doctor, when he was leaving. "If you keep his head wet with the lotion I will send, and he takes the medicine, he may get all right quickly; but mind! he must keep in bed to-morrow, and must not talk to anybody. Quiet and rest is the only thing that will save him from a long turn in bed," added the doctor.
Jack came home while the doctor was there, and went back with him to get the lotion and medicine.
"You must do your share, my lad, towards keeping the house quiet all day to-morrow," said the doctor, as he handed Jack the bottles.
"I wonder who could have done it? Did my father tell you, sir?"
"No, he didn't; and you must not ask him just now. Don't ask any questions; wait till he is well enough to tell you all about it."
The doctor's manner impressed Jack, and he feared that his father must be very ill. What a misfortune that would be for them just now, for the outside work on which he was engaged could not wait, and so another man would have to be found who could do it.
The lad went home in a very subdued frame of mind, willing to do anything that would help his mother that she might devote all her time and care to nursing his father.
He said something of this when his mother came down for the medicine, and to ask whether the doctor had sent any further message.
"Only this, that you must look after him well and keep him quiet," said Jack; and then he added, "Is there anything I can do to help?"
His mother looked at him for a minute, and then said—
"I had hardly began my marketing when this happened, and I want two lots of meat to-night, for I promised I would bring Jessie's from the market."
Now, if there was anything Jack disliked it was being sent on what he called "tame cat business" in other words, the Saturday marketing for the home. But one look at his mother's anxious face decided him, and he said quickly—
"All right, I'll go. Tell me what to get and where to go, and I'll be back in a jiffy."
The marketing question thus being settled, Mrs. Brown could devote all her thought and attention to her husband, and was careful to follow the doctor's direction to the very letter, and kept his head constantly bathed as he lay in bed.
Jack was as good as his word, and brought back the various articles he was sent for with an account of the money he had spent, and delivered all to his sister Minnie as if she had been his mother. Then when his mother came downstairs to have her supper, he took the meat he had bought for Jessie, with a message that his mother would not be able to go there again that night.
This message, however, was not delivered, for just as Jack reached the door it was flung open, and Collins staggered out, and the next minute Jessie appeared at the other end of the passage.
"Oh, Jack, why didn't you stop my father?" she said, in a reproachful tone. "He only came in about ten minutes ago, and you can see he has been drinking. Polly is out, too, and I am afraid mother is worse to-night."
A sudden twinge of pain in her injured foot was more than Jessie could bear, and with a groan she burst into tears.
"There, don't cry," said Jack, wishing his mother or Minnie had come. "Don't cry, Jess," he repeated. "See, I have brought you some meat, and I'll go and look for Polly if you like. I dare say your father will soon be back. The chaps at the factory know your mother is ill, and they will look after him and see that he comes home all right presently," added Jack, by way of comforting Jessie. He could not deliver his mother's message just now, he thought.
"Polly won't be home yet awhile. We've always been used to a Saturday night run, and she thought father would be at home, and she won't come back for another hour, I know," said Jessie, speaking through her tears. Just then a deep moan was heard from the bedroom above, and Jessie started forward and tried to crawl to the stairs.
"Oh dear, it's mother, and I know she is worse. Help me upstairs, Jack. I must go to her."
Jessie's foot and ankle were so tightly bandaged that it was very difficult for her to get upstairs, but with Jack's help she managed to reach her mother's room. "I couldn't come before, mother," she panted.
"Your father, Jess; I want him," said the invalid, in an eager whisper.
"He'll be in soon," said Jessie, feeling vaguely alarmed at the change in her mother.
"You must take care of your father when I am gone," went on Mrs. Collins. "I have never been the wife to him I ought, but he was always good to me, and you, too, and never till lately did he touch the drink. He got tired of waiting for things to be better, I suppose. Just as they were coming too," she added, with a sigh, "for I know you have been trying to straighten things out and keep the house clean, which I never could do. Don't, don't give up trying, Jess. I never could begin, but you have, and so you can keep on after I am gone."
"Oh, mother, mother, don't talk like that! Try and get better, and help us all to make home comfortable."
But the invalid closed her eyes, and murmured faintly—
"Too late, too late. My life is gone—wasted, wasted," she murmured, more and more feebly.
Jack was awestruck, and crept away as gently as he could to fetch some help for Jessie. As he went out he met Polly coming in with her arms full of parcels of various sorts and sizes.
"Jessie is upstairs," he whispered. "I think your mother is worse, and I am going to fetch somebody."
"Oh, fetch your mother, Jack! She knows just what we want, and we don't mind her seeing things, because she won't go and talk about it to other people. Oh, do fetch her!" added Polly, imploringly.
"I'll go and see if she can come," answered Jack. "But you had better go and tell the doctor that your mother is worse, and ask him to come at once;" And then he ran off towards home, and reached the gate in time to see his mother open the door.
"Where have you been, my boy?" she asked as he came up the steps.
"Over at Jessie's. Can you go now, mother? I think Mrs. Collins is dying. She spoke so solemn a little while ago."
"Dying!" repeated his mother, in a startled tone, "I never thought it would be so soon as this."
"I wish you could have heard what she said about wasting her life," said Jack. "Couldn't you go to Jessie, and let me sit beside father's bed and bathe his head? That's all there is to do, isn't it?"
"Yes, that is all; and he seems so much better now I think I might leave you to keep the rags on his head moistened. He is in a good sleep, and I don't want him disturbed, so you must be very quiet when you change the rags on his head, for the sleep will do him quite as much good as the lotion. You'll try to keep awake?" she added.
"Yes, mother, I'll do anything, so that you can go to poor Jessie," said Jack.
The two went up to the dimly lighted bedroom, and Jack watched his mother change the wet rags on his father's head, and felt sure he could do the same if he could only keep awake. This would be the most difficult part of his task, but he was determined that his father should not suffer through his neglect; and so he sat down with a resolute determination that however sleepy he might feel, he would resist the inclination to go to sleep.
He heard his mother close the street door as she went out, and listened to her quick footsteps as she went up the street, and then the silence seemed to descend and wrap the whole house in its folds, so that Jack could hear every breath his father drew, and noticed the regularity with which every breath came and went. Then he began thinking of all that had happened that night, and what he had heard from the dying woman about her life being wasted.
He knew it was true, for had not she and Jessie been the byword of the neighbourhood? Every decent mother had warned her girls to keep away from Jessie Collins; and now it seemed that it was the fault of the way in which Jessie had been brought up rather than her own, for his mother said Jessie had very good points in her character, and had made the most of what she had learned at school.
Thinking of this kept him from going to sleep, and his thoughts travelled from Jessie to his sister Fanny, and he could not help wondering what sort of girl she would have been if she had had the same chances as Jessie, and no more.
"The way people are taught and brought up has a great deal to do with what they are afterwards, but it isn't everything," was the conclusion Jack arrived at after a good deal of pondering; and then he noticed that his father was not sleeping so peacefully, and he remembered that he had not yet put fresh cool rags on his head, and at once squeezed those that were in the basin of lotion, and took off the hot almost dry ones, to be replaced by those that were cool and moist.
In a few minutes he noticed that this change had restored his father's peaceful breathing, and he felt repaid for all the trouble it had cost him to keep awake. He did not wait so long before changing the damp rags the next time; and soon after daylight he heard his mother put the key in the street door, and then he crept down to meet her.
"How is father now?" she asked anxiously, as he went down the stairs.
"All right. Just as you left him. He has not woke once."
"Then you have not been to sleep, my boy, but have kept his head bathed as I should have done."
"How is Mrs. Collins now?" asked Jack.
Mrs. Brown shook her head. "It is all over, Jack. A wasted life has come to an end; and bitterly as she repented of it at the last, there was no time left to undo even a little bit of the mischief it has caused to others as well as herself. Now you go to bed, Jack, and I will go to father. Mrs. Tate is with Polly and Jess now, and no one can do any more for them just at present."
"IF you please, ma'am, may I see Fanny?"
The lady who had opened the door looked at Jack in surprised silence for a minute, and then he said—
"Fanny is my sister, ma'am!"
"Oh dear, what a pity, to be sure, that you have missed each other! How could you have managed it? I hope your father is no worse?" added the lady.
"No, ma'am, he is a good deal better to-day, thank you."
"Fanny will be glad to hear that. She has gone home this afternoon, because of the news she got yesterday morning."
"Yes, ma'am," answered Jack, not knowing what else to say, and wondering how Fanny could have heard the news. "Good afternoon, ma'am," he said, as he turned away to walk home, hoping he might overtake Fanny and ask her how she had heard that his father was hurt.
He walked on quickly, keeping a sharp look-out for his sister as he went, but could see nothing of her. Just before he reached home, a thought occurred to him that made him almost stand still in the middle of the street, and he exclaimed, half aloud—
"Why, how could Fanny have heard that dad was ill yesterday morning? He wasn't hurt till last night. That's a rum go! I'm sure Mrs. Lloyd said she had the news yesterday morning;" and he walked on at a brisker pace, for he was anxious to reach home now and solve this mystery.
As he turned into the street, he saw his mother coming towards him. She had evidently been to see Jessie Collins, and he hurried forward to meet her before she reached their own door.
"Why, how is it you are back so soon, Jack? I thought you said you should go to church with Fanny?"
"Yes, so I should; but she has come home to tea, and I missed her somewhere."
"Home to tea?" repeated Mrs. Brown, in surprise. "She must have come in, then, while I have been away, and I didn't stay long with Jessie either."
"I say, somebody sent and told her father was ill yesterday morning," said Jack, as they were turning in at their own gate.
"Nonsense. No one could have done it, for there was nothing the matter with him until last night."
"Well, Mrs. Lloyd says Fanny knew it yesterday morning. I never thought about it till I was half way home, and then it seemed a rum go to me that Fan should know before anything had happened."
Mrs. Brown looked at Jack in silence for a moment, while she took the key of the door from her pocket; then she said, in a changed tone—
"Jack, we must keep this to ourselves, if Fanny isn't indoors. I am still to keep your father very quiet, the doctor says, and it will never do to upset him about Fanny just now. And he will be cross if he hears that she has had leave to come home, and not come."
"But where could she go?" asked Jack. "She doesn't know anybody out there, does she?"
"She may have made friends!" said his mother. "But mind, your father must not know this just now."
Almost at the same moment Selina opened the door.
"We heard you talking," she announced, "and father said I might come and see who it was. Haven't you been, Jack?" she asked.
"Been? Been where, Miss Inquisitive?" asked her brother.
"Why, to see Fanny, of course. You said you should meet her as she was going to church."
"Well, I missed her," said Jack.
His father was downstairs in the sitting-room now, and heard what he said to Selina.
"You have not seen Fanny?" he said questioningly, as they went into the room.
"No; he missed her somehow," said Mrs. Brown, answering for him.
"Why didn't you go on and see if she had started?" said his father.
"So I did, and saw Mrs. Lloyd, who told me I must have missed her coming along," answered Jack.
"But you could have gone to the church," said Brown, in a tone of annoyance.
"Yes, if I had known which church she was going to to-night; but there are two within easy reach of her place, and she told me the last time I saw her that sometimes she went to one, and sometimes to another; or she may have gone for a walk," suggested Jack, who expected Fanny to come in at any moment, as she evidently had not arrived yet. And then, to avoid being asked any more awkward questions about his sister, he asked his mother how she had found Jessie Collins.
"Oh, she is very poorly, of course, and her foot is very painful to-day, but she is less anxious now they have got her father to go home again. Radford took him this afternoon, and though he looks very bad, he understands all that has happened."
"Poor chap, he has had a hard time of it," said Brown, "and the hardest part is that, having kept himself a sober man all these years, he should break down just now. Did he see you?" he suddenly asked of his wife.
"Oh yes; he was sitting near Jessie when I went in, and he looked up, and asked how you were, and if it was true you had had a bad fall. 'Quite true,' I said, 'but we don't want any fuss made about it,' and then I talked to Jessie while he went and sat by the window."
"I should like to go and see him," remarked Brown.
"That will never do," said his wife, promptly; "it will make matters worse all round. And besides, I heard while I was out that the foreman was coming to see if you would be well enough to go to work as usual to-morrow morning."
"To be sure I shall. Thanks to the doctor's care and your good nursing, I shall be right as a trivet by the morning, and a deal better at my work than stopping here to wonder over this and that, and wish I could alter things."
"Well, if the foreman thinks you had better go, I will not hinder it," said Mrs. Brown, thinking of Fanny, and how her father would worry if he only heard the news Jack had brought.
Just before bedtime the foreman came in, for he had heard all sorts of reports about Brown's illness, and wanted to satisfy himself as to what had happened.
"I wasn't there to see!" answered Mrs. Brown, when the man asked if she had not gone out with her husband. "I had gone into a shop, and when I came out there was a crowd, and Brown lying in the middle of it."
"Well, you know what Collins said—that he had killed you."
"Oh, Collins was mad with drink on Saturday!" said Brown, quickly. "No one believes a man when he is like that."
"And you don't want it to be believed, you mean," said the foreman.
Brown laughed. "Who is likely to believe that I am killed when they hear I have gone to work as usual on Monday morning. Besides, what good would it do to have the police meddling between friends?"
"That is sensible enough, if it satisfies you, that you will not again be hurt by the same fool."
"That's it? Whoever it was knows he is a fool now," said Brown, "and he won't be likely to repeat it. I shall be all right when I once get back to my work, and so I hope you'll let me go as usual to-morrow."
"Let you? I shall only be too glad to have you, if you can come. But it must be on the understanding that you give up if you are not well, and take things easily if you are. Everything is straightforward now, and you like your work, I know."
"Like it? I should think I do, and I should like my Jack to have the chance of learning this branch of it."
"Well now, that will be the very thing for us. I suspect the boy you have had has let his tongue run away with him as to what happened down there, and so I will arrange that he stays here for a time, and your boy can go in his place if he is a steady reliable lad, and he can keep an eye upon you and make things comfortable if you are not quite the thing."
Brown himself hardly liked to accept this kind offer; but Mrs. Brown said eagerly—
"If you could manage this without being unfair to the other boy I should be very thankful, for Jack could let me know at once if his father was not well, and my mind would be at rest about him."
"Well, then, let Jack come with his father to-morrow morning. It will be a lesson, perhaps, to the other chap not to let his tongue run so fast about what does not concern him, so that it will be quite fair to make the change, Mrs. Brown."
Then the foreman went away, and husband and wife could talk over this piece of good fortune—for it was an opportunity of learning the more highly skilled portion of the work, if a lad was careful, steady, and observant.
Jack had to prove whether he would use the opportunity thus given to him; but he was delighted and astonished when he came in to learn that he was to go with his father the next morning. "My boy, it will be the making of you, if you only take care and learn all you can," said his father.
"I shall have to stick to my books, though, if I want to get on," said Jack, to whom book-learning was not pleasant.
"Yes, you will; for, as you know, I have had to do it, old as I am, that if ever the chance came in my way I might be able to take it. There will be arithmetic, and lots of other things to learn of an evening," added his father.
"But you will go this week, at any rate," said his mother; "for I shall fidget about your father unless I know he has somebody to look after him."
"Why, mother, what do you take me for?" said Jack, in a half-offended tone. "Of course I am very glad to go with father, because you will know things are all right; unless I write and tell you he is not so well, and ought to come home."
Brown laughed. "I see you are to go as a sort of keeper, as though I was not to be trusted by myself."
"Well, something like it," admitted his wife. "I know how anxious you are to keep this work, now you have got it. How hard you have tried to fit yourself for this kind of work if ever it came in your way, that you may be inclined not to give it up even when you ought, for fear you should lose it altogether."
"Well, you may be right," said Brown, "for I don't mind telling you that I should be awfully disappointed to lose my present job now. It is responsible work, and requires all a man's thought and attention while he is at it. And because of that, I hope I should not be tempted to stop on when I wasn't fit, even to save my place. So, if Jack sees I am not up to the mark, he must tell me, and I will come home at once, and go under the doctor again. There is no telling what might happen if there was any mistake or neglect where I am now."
"All right, father; don't worry yourself about it," interrupted Jack. "I will keep a strict watch, never fear; and if you only blink as though you had got the headache, off you go, and I shall send for the foreman."
"Right you are, lad," said Brown. "That is what I want you to do for me; and you can think about the book-learning, and whether you will take it up when you are off duty."
"So I can. And I dare say by the end of the week I shall be able to make up my mind whether the job will be worth all the trouble and bother and fuss of having to learn this and that."
"Perhaps it will be better than deciding at once that you will take this chance of getting on," said Mrs. Brown.
But it was easy to see that she would be greatly disappointed if Jack decided against it.
When the lad had gone up to bed, Brown spoke of this.
"Better let him think it out for himself, and count the cost," he said. "Book-learning he don't like, as you know; and he must decide for himself whether he will take the trouble to overcome this dislike, or whether he will jog along as most of the men do. He has got to live his own life, and must decide this question for himself. Many a man quite as good as I am would not take my job, even if they could, because of the responsibility of the thing. I will talk to Jack about it while we are away; but I shall not say a word to persuade him either way, for I don't think that would be fair. As Jack did not leave your letter for Fanny, don't you think you might go over and see her yourself, mother?" he suddenly broke off. "You know, I meant to go to-day, and clear some of the cobweb out of the silly girl's head; but as I couldn't go, and Jack managed to miss her, well, I think it will be better for you to go when you can manage the walk."
"Yes, it will be best, certainly," assented Mrs. Brown, who was wondering where Fanny could have gone when she went out to tea, and how she could have heard that her father was ill before it happened.
The next morning Brown seemed quite recovered, and he and Jack went off by the early train with the others. As soon as breakfast was over, and the girls gone to school, Mrs. Brown went to see Jessie, and hear what they were going to do about her mother's funeral.
She was afraid no provision had been made in any way, and was not surprised to find Jessie in tears, and to hear her say—
"Father is in an awful way about the funeral, Mrs. Brown. He doesn't know what to do, or which way to turn."
"Your mother did not belong to a club or anything of that sort?"
"Mother didn't. She never could save; and father knew it, so he joined a club where they make some sort of allowance when a wife dies. But he hasn't kept this paid up, and unless he can clear the books this morning before twelve o'clock, we shan't get a penny, and mother will have to be buried by the parish." And Jessie burst into tears again at the thought of such an indignity as a parish funeral for her mother.
Mrs. Brown was silent. Perhaps she thought a parish funeral was all that Mrs. Collins deserved; but she did not say so, and she could sympathize with Jessie in her love and regard for her mother. So, at last, she said—
"Do you know how much there is to pay up this club of your father's?"
Jessie shook her head. "Father said it was nearly a pound, and he would never be able to get it in time," sobbed the girl.
"Has he tried?" asked Mrs. Brown.
"He asked two or three of his mates last night," said Jessie.
Again Mrs. Brown was silent, while she thought over what she could do to help.
"Do you know how much money he would get if the club money was all paid up?"
"About six pounds," replied Jessie.
"Enough to buy you and Polly new black frocks, repay the money you must borrow to get this, and still leave plenty to bury your mother decently, and provide something for your father. Now, if I lend you the pound that is wanted, will you promise that I shall be repaid out of this six pounds as soon as you get it?"
"Oh, Mrs. Brown, if you would do this for us, I am sure father will be glad to pay you the moment we get the club money."
"Very well, I will trust you. But, you see, it is what I have got to spend in the house this week, and so I shall have to ask people to give me credit until you can pay it back," explained Mrs. Brown.
"Yes; I see. I understand," said Jessie. "And, of course, you never have credit, Mrs. Brown?"
"Not now. Not as a regular thing. But, you remember, Brown was ill a long time last year, and there was no help for it but to get into debt. Thank God, these debts are nearly all paid off now; but we have had a hard time of it, Jessie, to keep our heads above water sometimes."
Jessie opened her eyes in amazement. "Why, everybody thought you had got a little fortune somewhere!" she exclaimed. "We knew Mr. Brown was ill, and couldn't work; but it didn't seem to make any difference, and you all held your heads as high as ever. Mother said this again and again."
"I did not know that we ever held our heads above our neighbours," said Mrs. Brown, quickly. "Of course, we did not want it talked about that we were sometimes glad to have a dinner of dry bread, and to sell all our best furniture. I tell you this, Jessie, that you may understand that I cannot afford to lose this money I am going to lend you. Now, how will you manage to send it?" asked Mrs. Brown, in conclusion.
"Polly hasn't gone to school yet. She knows where to take it, and I know where father keeps the book. Oh, won't he be glad when he comes home, and I tell him he can go and see about the funeral as soon as he has done work! Why, we never did anything for you when you wanted it, but you are ready to help us all you can," added Jessie.
"Well, for one thing, you did not know how we were pushed. You thought we had a fortune, so that it was not your fault that we were sometimes hungry," said Mrs. Brown. "But when you can do a neighbour a kind turn, do it, whatever it may be. Now, let me sweep up the room and make you comfortable, while Polly goes to pay the club." And as she spoke Mrs. Brown fetched brush and broom, and soon made the kitchen neat and tidy.
"I didn't feel as though I could do anything this morning," said Jessie.
"I dare say not, my dear. Things are hard with you just now, I know; but I have always found it a good rule not to let anything interfere with the sweeping and cleaning. When Brown was ill, I seemed to lose heart sometimes; but I kept a clean floor and a tidy dresser, for it would have made me worse to see things all in a muddle."
When Jessie herself was made comfortable, and her lame foot placed on a pillow, Mrs. Brown went home, wondering whether she had done a wise thing or a foolish in parting with her money so readily. It would put her to some inconvenience through the week to be without ready money in her pocket, until it occurred to her that perhaps Fanny might lend her a few shillings. She resolved to tell her all about Jessie Collins, and ask her if she could let her have a little money until Collins could return what she had lent.
"AH mother, is it you?" The exclamation came from Fanny Brown, who had been sent to post a letter, and saw her mother close by as she turned away from the letter-box.
For answer, her mother kissed her and said, "You do look well, Fanny. You have got a colour like a rose. I am glad you have got such a nice comfortable place."
"I don't see how you can tell what sort of place I have got," said Fanny, a peevish look coming into her face as she spoke.
"Oh, you may trust a mother's eyes for seeing proof of that," said Mrs. Brown. And then she added quickly, "How was it you did not come home to tea yesterday, as your mistress gave you leave to come?"
"Oh, Jack has been telling tales again, has he? What business has he to come spying upon me as he did?"
Her mother looked at her in surprise. "Spying upon you!" she repeated. "He came because father sent him to tell you all the news of what has happened the last week. Who told you that your father was ill on Saturday morning?"
Fanny tried to laugh. "Oh, it was just a guess of mine," said Fanny, lightly. "I wanted to go out with a friend, and I knew I could get out that way. Now, don't scold, mother. Things have altered since you were at service, years ago."
"They have indeed," answered Mrs. Brown, in a grave tone; but she would not say any more just then, for she wanted to gain her daughter's confidence, and this was a bad beginning.
"Are you going back with me, mother?" asked Fanny, after a pause, as her mother walked beside her.
"I should like to come and sit down in the kitchen for a rest, after my long walk. You might ask your mistress if she has any objection."
They had reached the side entrance, and Fanny took a key from her pocket to let herself in.
"Come in, mother. Mrs. Lloyd won't mind, I am sure," she said.
"I would rather you went and told her I had come, Fanny," said Mrs. Brown, hesitating at the open door.
"Oh, well, come inside while I go and tell her," said the girl, sharply.
She was back again in a minute or two. "I am to make you a cup of tea after your long walk," she said, "and you can tell me all the news while I am getting it." And Fanny stirred the fire under the kettle and reached down a cup and saucer in a great bustle. "How is father?" she asked carelessly.
"Better now. But he had a bad fall on Saturday night, and was ill all day yesterday."
"Oh La! How did he fall?" exclaimed Fanny, pausing in her bustle of preparation. "I didn't think my words were coming true like that," she added, with a little more concern.
Her mother told her that the fall took place in the town when they were out marketing; but she did not enter into particulars, assuring her that the danger was all over now.
"I have some good news for you too," she added quickly.
"Oh, that's about Eliza, of course; she is the favourite now."
"Don't be foolish, Fanny. I never made a favourite of one more than another; and I am sure you will be pleased to hear the letter Mrs. Parsons has sent me about Eliza."
And she drew the precious letter from her pocket and began to read it. To her at least it was intensely interesting. But Fanny did not see anything to make a fuss about, and she said so, while her mother sat sipping her tea and wondering what could have happened to Fanny that she cared so little for her sister or any of them at home now, and she wondered what she had better do about telling her of the death of Mrs. Collins and the trouble they were all in through it.
But necessity compelled her to do this, for now that she had lent all her housekeeping money to pay Collins's club, it had left her almost without a penny, and so the sad tale had to be told.
"La, mother, do you mean to say you have been running after that Jessie Collins like that? Why, you didn't like me to speak to her when I was at home," retorted Fanny.
"No, I didn't; but I did not know her as well as I do now, and when you were at home, she did little else than run the street, which is no good to any girl. But I have had to do more than go in and out to help them, Fanny, I have had to lend them all my week's housekeeping money to pay up the club that Collins might get the allowance to pay for his wife's funeral. If it had not been paid this morning, the whole six pounds would have been lost."
"And serve him right," said Fanny, coldly. "He kept away from the drink for years and years. What made him take to it just lately? I have seen him hardly able to walk," concluded the girl.
"So have other people; but the poor man is in a great deal of trouble now, and who knows but he may give up the drink after this. At any rate, I could not see them in such trouble and not lift a finger to help them, so I have lent them all the money I had got, and have come to ask you to lend me a few shillings till the end of the week, just to piece out with what I can get on credit," added her mother
"I want a few shillings for myself," said Fanny, in an angry tone. "You seem to think, mother, that I ought to give you every farthing of my wages. I want a new pair of boots and a new frock, and I can't have them because I have not got money enough, and now you come and ask me—"
"I only want you to lend me what you have saved towards buying the new frock," interrupted her mother. "I do not ask you to give me a farthing of your wages. Thank God, your father is in good work, and whatever you can lend me, Jack shall bring back next Saturday as soon as your father gets home from work."
"Well, I can't do it, mother, for I haven't got it," answered Fanny, in a dogged tone. "Mrs. Lloyd pays such poor wages that I don't think I shall stop much longer."
"Fanny, you would never be so foolish as to leave a comfortable place like this," exclaimed Mrs. Brown, looking round the cosy kitchen, which she had already calculated in her own mind required so little hard work to keep neat and nice. "Why, this is as nice as any parlour," she said, uttering her thoughts aloud.
"Oh, it's all very well," said Fanny, with a toss of the head; "but a comfortable kitchen isn't everything, and I have heard that I can get higher wages than Mrs. Lloyd pays."
"Money is not everything, my girl. A considerate mistress, who tries to make things comfortable for her servant, and where a growing girl like you has as much to eat as she wants, may not be so easily found as you seem to suppose. Higher wages will mean harder, rougher work, very likely. Here you have just enough to keep you comfortably employed, and you have a mistress who does not mind teaching you how to do your work thoroughly."
"Oh, I have learned nearly all she can teach me now," said Fanny, with a smile, and a complacent look round her neat little kitchen.
Her mother sighed. "Well, as she has been at the trouble to teach you a good many things you could never learn at home, don't you think it would be very ungrateful to leave her so soon after you have been able to master the work and do it properly?"
"Ungrateful!" repeated Fanny. "Don't I work for every penny I get?"
"Yes, I dare say you do. Nobody keeps servants to look at, of course; but when an untrained girl, like you were, comes into a house like this, a mistress has to be at a good deal of trouble before she is of very much use. I know what it is when I have to begin teaching what I do at home. Why, it is easier to wash up tea-things than to teach a girl to do it properly, and it is the same with other things."
"Oh, well, I believe Mrs. Lloyd likes to teach girls, and to worry them too," retorted Fanny. "Of course, Eliza never gave anybody any trouble," she added, with something like a sneer.
"We were not talking about Eliza," said her mother, calmly. "When she goes into the Vicarage nursery, I dare say she will have to learn a good many things, and I only hope, if Nurse has this trouble with her, she will stay and repay her with the work she has to do."
"What wages is she to have when she is a proper nursemaid?" asked Fanny, eagerly.
"That is not mentioned in the letter," answered her mother. "I dare say Mrs. Parsons thought that it would be sufficient to let me know that she was willing to take her. They will pay enough to keep her neat and tidy, and that is all a girl should expect while she is learning the duties of her place."
"Oh, they are old-fashioned ideas! People don't think like that now; and I tell you, Mrs. Lloyd does not pay enough, and I dare say I shall tell her so very soon."
"I hope you will not do anything so foolish, Fanny. Your wages ought to be sufficient for all you want at present. It puzzles me what you can do with so much money," added Mrs. Brown, rising from her seat as she spoke. "Would your mistress like to speak to me," she added suddenly, as though the thought had just occurred to her.
"I know she is very busy and cannot spare the time," said Fanny, quickly. She did not ask her mother to sit and rest a little longer, and Mrs. Brown felt that, for some reason she could not understand, Fanny was glad to get rid of her. She noticed, too, that the girl opened the street door which was close to the kitchen, most carefully and cautiously; for the truth was Fanny did not want her mistress to see her mother, and had not let her know that she was in the house for fear she should say she would come down and speak to her.
Mrs. Brown went away feeling depressed and disappointed. She had been careful not to say a word that was harsh or fault-finding, and yet Fanny had shown so little pleasure at her visit that her mother felt sure she was glad to have her go, instead of pressing her to stay as long as she could; and the poor woman sighed as she thought of the change that had taken place in Fanny since she had left home.
She knew that she was always a little selfish, a little wilful; but with Jack and the others to be considered as well as herself, these faults were kept in check a good deal. But, in spite of this, it must have been that Fanny herself never really tried to overcome these faults, or there would not have been such a change in her as her mother now deplored. The thought of this made her grave and anxious as she walked homeward, for she felt helpless now to combat this, and yet she felt sure it would bring trouble to her child if she did not overcome it.
Then she was disappointed, too, that Fanny could not lend her a shilling or two for the week's provisions; there were some things she could not get on credit, and she hardly knew how she was to manage now that she had parted with all her ready money.
In her thoughts of this and Fanny's unkindness, she quite forgot that she had told Minnie and Selina that they might come and meet her when they came out of school, until she saw them running towards her, each trying to reach her first.
"Oh, mother, you have come a long way without us!" said Selina, reproachfully. "You said we might walk as far as the corner of Green Lane, and we have not got nearly so far. It isn't fair," said the little girl, in a complaining tone.
"Didn't you stay long with Fanny?" asked the more thoughtful Minnie.
"Not very long, dear. You see, Fanny's time is not her own now; she is in service," said Mrs. Brown, by way of warding off any further questions on this subject.
Then Selina suddenly remembered that she had been told to ask her mother to go and see her governess that evening.
"There, I had nearly forgotten all about it!" exclaimed the little girl. "May we go with you to teacher's house?" she asked.
"No, dear. If Miss Martin had wanted to say anything to you she would have told you in school," replied Mrs. Brown. "Minnie shall take the key, and go and get the tea ready by the time I come back. I had a cup of tea at Fanny's; but I dare say I shall be ready for some more when I get home. Now, my nearest way to Miss Martin's will be to turn up the next road, but you two had better go straight home now."
"It is a shame to have such a little bit of walk with you, mother," grumbled Selina. "You must have stopped a tiny while with Fanny. I'll ask her when she comes home why she didn't keep you a long long time."
"We shouldn't have liked that," said Minnie, clasping her mother's hand tighter as she spoke. "I think it was kind of Fanny not to keep mother away from us, for fear we should be waiting for her."
Mrs. Brown let them talk on until they reached the corner where their roads parted, and then she bade the two girls go home quickly, while she walked onwards to see their teacher. She felt in her pocket to make sure that she had got her precious letter from the seaside, for she had no doubt that Selina had been chattering at school about this, and Miss Martin wanted to see it for herself, and hear exactly what had been said. But to her surprise, Miss Martin said no word about the letter that was so important to Mrs. Brown.
"I want to have a few words with you about poor Jessie Collins," she said, as soon as her visitor was seated. "I have heard from Polly what a good friend you have been to them ever since her mother was taken ill, and I want to know whether we can help the poor girls in any way. You see, they are rather difficult people to deal with, and the Vicar being away from home makes matters rather worse, for Collins being such a strange, independent sort of man, Mr. Nye, our curate, might give offence if he called upon him just now."
"He might; there is no telling," said Mrs. Brown. "But the poor girls are in need of any help that a friend can give them."
"Yes, I thought that would be the case, and I think Jessie Collins is not so hopelessly naughty as people have thought her," said Miss Martin.
"Naughty!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown. "People have made a great mistake about Jessie Collins. Of course she was rude and rough from being allowed to run the streets as she has; but underneath this she is a kind-hearted, unselfish girl, and as willing to learn anything I could teach her that would help her mother as my own girls would have been," said Mrs. Brown, warmly.
"I am very glad to hear this," said Miss Martin, "I always liked Jessie, although she was far from being a pattern girl. Still, she was always ready to help anybody in trouble, whether it was a friend of hers or not, and I wondered whether there was anything I could do for them. I have a left-off black dress I could give her, if you think they will not be offended."
"Oh no; I am sure Jessie will be pleased to receive it from you, she has told me about the last talk you had with her, and that you expected her to be a credit to the school, which she is now, I can assure you, for her loving, self-denying care of her mother would be an honour and credit to any girl, though the world may never hear of it. Her father is learning to know her value too, and I hope she may help him to overcome the love of the drink that has taken hold of him lately."
"Yes, I have heard he has been very unsteady," said the teacher, "and this, of course, has made things worse for them at home."
"Yes, it has, and Collins was always such a steady man that people are the more surprised," said Mrs. Brown. "For years and years the poor man has had a miserable home, but he has made the best of it, and never grumbled to the neighbours, though everybody has known for the last year that Mrs. Collins drank more than was good for her, and either could not or would not try to make home comfortable for her husband and children. Things have been going from bad to worse lately, for he lost heart, and took to drink, too, and since her mother's illness the whole burden of keeping the home together has fallen upon Jessie, and every penny Collins can get from his club will be swallowed up in funeral expenses and paying some of the rent that is owing. I said at first the girls might be able to have a new black frock each, but I learned afterwards that it would have to go to the landlord; and so you may be sure how grateful Jessie will be when she hears of your gift."
"Ay, and what of yours?" suddenly asked Miss Martin. "Polly told me this morning that you had given them all the money you had."
"Not given," interposed Mrs. Brown, "only lent until the club money is paid."
"And this must be at a good deal of inconvenience to yourself," said the teacher, quickly, "and so I want you to let me share in this loan. You lent them a pound, let me lend you ten shillings until Collins can repay you."
Mrs. Brown coloured, but a smile of relief slowly beamed in her face, as she said slowly—
"Oh, ma'am, it's just as though God knew what I wanted, and told you, too. I shall be so grateful if you would lend me ten shillings until Collins gets his money, or until my husband comes home on Saturday."
"Certainly, you shall have it," said Miss Martin. And as she spoke she placed half a sovereign in Mrs. Brown's hand, who was truly thankful for this timely help.
Then she told the teacher of the letter received from Mrs. Parsons concerning Eliza, and the two could rejoice together that the girl was likely to do so well.
Before she went, Miss Martin gave her the black dress for Jessie, and promised to try and get some further help for the girls from a friend, and with this hope to give Jessie Mrs. Brown hurried homewards.
"WELL, I declare! Who'd have thought of seeing you here?"
"I didn't expect to see you," replied Fanny to her new friend, Miriam Jarvis. They had stepped from different train-cars at the terminus a mile or two from where they lived, and came face to face with each other as they were crossing the road. Neither looked very pleased to see the other, and they strolled along side by side in an aimless fashion, until Fanny suddenly said, "Can you tell me where Spring Grove is?"
"Spring Grove?" repeated her friend, looking hard at Fanny. "It is the place I have come to find. Have you come about a watch?" she added quickly.
Both girls reddened as the question was asked.
"Yes, I have," said Fanny. "I believe they have cheated me, and am going to take my watch back."
"They won't give you the money back," interrupted Miriam. "I tried it when the man came for the last month's money, but I am going to tell them that I can't pay any more, and see what Judds himself says about it."
"I can't pay either, and get other things that I want. It don't sound much, perhaps, but three shillings off of every month's money isn't so little as it seems when you have to buy shoes and stockings and caps and aprons, and a new dress every now and then," said Fanny, in a complaining tone.
"That's just it," answered the other. "You and I both want new Sunday frocks, and I mean to have one, too, for my cousin, where we went to tea last Sunday, says mine is getting very shabby."
"And I know mine is," answered Fanny, in an aggrieved tone, "for my mother gave the frock my aunt sent for me to my little sister."
"What a shame!" exclaimed Miriam. "I do call that mean."
"Yes. Mother seems to think I have more money than I can spend because I get ten shillings a month."
"Does she know about your watch?" asked her friend.
"She knows I have got it, for I wore it the first holiday I went home after I had it; but she doesn't know I have got to pay such a lot for it. She thinks the first ten shillings bought it, and she made a fine fuss about that, I can tell you. Said I knew nothing about buying a watch."
"Well, I suppose we don't, and Judds know it," admitted Miriam.
"Well, that may be; but we don't like to be told of it as if we were babies, and that's what my mother did, and I shan't forget it either," exclaimed Fanny, in an angry tone.
They walked and talked over their grievance concerning the watches until they saw the name of the road they were in search of, and then it was arranged between them that Fanny should go first, as they thought it might not be wise for them to go together on this errand.
She found that "Judds" was a small shop, but it seemed to be well stocked with very glittering jewellery besides watches, and she marched boldly up to the counter and laid her watch down before a little man, who was looking over some watches he had just unpacked.
"If you please, sir, I find I cannot afford to pay for my watch, and so I have brought it back, and—"
"You should have thought of that before you bought the watch. We never take them back," said the man, curtly; and he went on with his work at the little box before him.
"But I tell you I cannot afford to pay for it," said Fanny, pushing the watch a little further across the counter. He took no notice, but went on with his work as though he had the shop to himself.
After waiting a minute or two, Fanny said, "You must take the watch back and give me the money I have paid for it. I gave the woman ten shillings when she brought it, and I have paid two months since, which makes sixteen shillings."
Fanny stopped talking, hoping the man would lay the money on the counter when he had done with the box he was busy over. But he seemed wholly absorbed in his task for some minutes, and when at last he did look up and saw Fanny, he immediately pushed her watch towards her again and said—
"It is of no use standing there. I tell you we don't do business in that fashion. You have got a good watch, and you must pay the price agreed upon for it."
"But I can't," said Fanny, almost in tears now. "My mistress makes me pay for all I break, and will have me wear—"
"I have nothing to do with your mistress and what she does," interrupted the man. "You have bought a watch, and you must pay for it, and our collector will call in the course of the week; or, if it will be more convenient, I will tell him to postpone calling until next week, but it must not go beyond that time," he added.
"I can't pay it," said Fanny, with a gasp, picking up her watch as she spoke, and fairly bursting into tears as she went out of the shop.
As she expected, she met her friend Miriam outside, and one glance at Fanny's tearful face was enough to tell her that her errand had failed. But she was not to be daunted.
"I'll give him a piece of my mind if he doesn't take my watch back," she exclaimed. "Wait for me, Fanny," she added, and she walked into the shop.
"This watch isn't a good one," she said, laying it down on the counter as Fanny had done.
"Why, what's the matter with it?" asked the man. "It keeps good time, don't it?"
"No, it doesn't; and it isn't worth the money you ask for it," added Miriam, boldly.
"But you saw it before you signed the agreement to pay the price we asked?" said the man. "We instruct our agents to let every lady examine the watches before she is asked to buy."
He spoke quite calmly, while his very coolness seemed to make Miriam more angry.
"Oh yes. The woman puts a watch into our hands and tells all sorts of lies about it being a better watch than any other that could be bought, and that she only asks us to pay ten shillings down and we can have the watch to wear at once. I wish I had never seen her or the watch either."
"But you saw it and signed the agreement at the same time," said the man, mildly.
"Yes, I did; but, of course, I thought the ten shillings I had paid would be taken off the price of the watch—the two pounds—and weeks after that has been paid, you send a notice to tell us we are not to pay any money to the agent who delivers the watch. What do you call that but cheating?"
"There is nothing in the agreement about the fee paid to the first agent being taken off the price of the watch. It is a very carefully drawn agreement," added the man.
"I dare say it is," retorted Miriam. "You've had it made so as to squeeze money out of poor servant girls; but you won't get any more out of me, I can tell you. If you don't take this watch back, and hand me the money I have paid for it, I shall keep it, but not another farthing will I pay for it."
"Oh, we have means to enforce our rights!" said the man, calmly. "One visit from our inspector will be sufficient, he will let you know what to expect if the money is not paid at once to him: however, we are not in the habit of unduly pressing our customers, and so I will tell our collector to defer his visit for a week, so as to give you a little more time," said the man, soothingly.
"Then you won't take the watch back and give me the money I have paid for it?" said Miriam, sharply.
"No, indeed, we cannot do that, miss," replied the man. "You have had the watch three months now—"
"But I have only worn it twice," said the girl. "It has been locked up in my box all the time, and is as good as if it had been in your shop," she added.
But the man still shook his head. "We cannot do business that way," he said.
"Give me back the ten shillings I paid the woman, and keep the watch," she said, pushing it towards him.
But he was not to be moved. "We never return money under any circumstances," he said.
"Very well, you'll never have a farthing more of mine. You may send the police as much as you like, and I'll tell the magistrate how you cheat poor servant girls;" and snatching up her watch, Miriam walked out of the shop, not tearful, like Fanny was, but angry and defiant.
"What have they told you?" asked Fanny, anxiously.
"Just what they told you, I suppose." Miriam could scarcely speak civilly even to her friend, she was so angry.
"It is a shame," said Fanny, the tears filling her eyes again.
"They are cheats and swindlers, and they shan't have another farthing of me. No, not even if they send a policeman, as the fellow says he will," declared Miriam.
At the sound of the word "policeman" Fanny shivered.
"Do you think he would do that?" she asked.
"Oh, there's no telling—he might; but if he does he must. I won't pay him any more money, I know," said Miriam.
The two girls walked on together in silence for a few minutes, and then Miriam said—
"Have you thought of what you would like for a new frock? The summer is getting on now, so it won't do to have anything too light."
"I'm not likely to get a new frock of any sort, light or dark," replied Fanny, in a grumbling tone.
"But you must," said her friend. "The one you wore on Sunday is getting too short for you, and the body is too tight. Oh, you must have a new one," concluded Miriam, in a decided tone.
"Mother ought to have let me have the one auntie sent," grumbled Fanny.
"It's no good crying over spilt milk," said Miriam. "The thing is just this. I want a new frock, and so do you, and if we could make up our minds to have them alike, my cousin could let us have them cheap."
"Your cousin?" repeated Fanny, with widely opened eyes.
"La, how you look!" laughed Miriam. She had forgotten all her anger and anxiety about the watch now, and was only anxious to arrange matters with Fanny so that she might call upon her cousin as she went home and ask her to get some patterns of dresses before the next Sunday, that she and Fanny might choose one.
"How is it your cousin can buy dresses so cheap?" asked Fanny.
"Because her husband is in the trade. He is at one of the biggest shops in the town. And my cousin being a dressmaker, she can get lining and everything cheap, so that she could make up your dress for very little more than it would cost you to buy the stuff."
"Would she do it for me as well as for you?" asked Fanny.
"I dare say she would, as you are my friend. And if we could settle between ourselves what we would like, she could, perhaps, get it cheap, if we had them both alike."
"Oh, I should like that," said Fanny, "if you would."
"Yes, I should, if we could think alike about it. We should not be able to have light dresses now, because the summer will soon be over; so I will tell her to get some patterns of dark stuff, that we could wear in the winter, perhaps, as well as just now."
"Yes, that would do," said Fanny, approvingly. "But the dress must not cost too much, because of that watch. Oh, I do wish they would take it back," she added, with a sigh.
"Oh, bother the watch! Do let us forget it for a little while; we have had enough of it for one day."
"I wish I could forget it altogether, for I have had very little pleasure out of it," said Fanny.
"Don't go talking to my cousin like that about it. I have never told her a word about mine; and I don't want her to know of it just now, so mind you don't say a word," added Miriam.
"Have you told your mother and father?" asked Fanny.
"Oh no! How could I? They live fifty miles away in the country. My cousin got me my place, and the Vicar wrote to recommend me; and I should not like to let them know at home that I have been cheated over this watch. But I feel sure Judds have cheated us both," she added in a more serious tone.
"Do you really think they have?" asked Fanny. "The woman told me when I bought mine that the price of watches was going up through so many men going to the war that very soon there would not be a good watch left, they were being sold so fast."
"I don't believe it," said Miriam, laughing. "They'll say anything to get you to buy their watches. But, now, mind, not a word to my cousin about this, or it's very likely my father will say I am not fit to be away from home by myself. Now, what colour do you like for a dress?" suddenly asked Miriam, determined to forget all disagreeable subjects if she could.
"I had a brown frock last time, and I liked that a good deal better than the one I have got now."
"Very well, we'll ask my cousin to get a brown among the patterns, though I am not sure that I shall like such a dull colour. What time have you got to go in?" she suddenly asked.
"Oh, it is my afternoon out," said Fanny, "so that if I get in by six o'clock, it will do. My mistress has her tea half an hour later when it is my turn to go out," explained Fanny.
"I generally go in the evening; but as I wanted to go to that place to-day, I thought I had better go while it was light. We shall have time to call at my cousin's and tell her to get the patterns for us," concluded Miriam, as they reached the tram terminus where they met earlier in the afternoon.
They would ride the next mile, and then, in the ordinary way, their roads separated; but as they went it was arranged that they should go together to see Miriam's cousin, and explain just what they wanted for a new dress, and also to inquire what the probable cost would be, and whether they would have to save up their money before buying the dress, or whether they could order it as soon as they had chosen the pattern, and pay for it in monthly instalments.
"We could pay four or five shillings out of our wages every month, and not miss it," said Miriam.
Fanny had thought the same thing when the woman was persuading her to buy the watch, but she was not so sure about it now. Still, she could see her friend's cousin and hear what she said, and decide what she would do afterwards.
So, as soon as they left the tramcar, they hurried to Mrs. Scott's, and told her what they had been talking about—that they both wanted new best dresses now; and they would like to know what it would cost to make them each a dress that they could wear at once, or even in the winter with an extra petticoat.
"Mother says I have not done growing yet," explained Fanny, "and so it will not do to have a frock to put away."
"No, indeed; and there is no occasion for it," said Mrs. Scott. "You can have a nice neat material, suitable for any season. Now, about the price. It must, of course, depend upon what you girls can afford, in the first place. Could you afford to pay twenty-five shillings for a dress, both of you? Of course, it will be made and everything found for that money."
Fanny shook her head at once, for the sum to her seemed enormous.
Miriam laid her hand on her arm. "Look here," she said, "my cousin would not want you to pay all that at once, she told you. How much should we have to pay a month for a dress like that?" asked Miriam.
"Well, that would depend upon the material you chose. You see, it is all in the way of business," she said, turning and speaking more directly to Fanny. "If I have to give credit, I have to charge for it, and the longer I have to wait for my money, the more I must charge for the dress. You understand what I mean," she added, looking at the two girls.
Miriam looked vexed that her cousin spoke so plainly, for she was afraid Fanny would not venture to order a new dress just now.
"But you could give us a little credit, Cousin Madge, without charging for it," she said.
"Well, it would depend upon what you called a little," said Mrs. Scott. "I suppose you have both saved something towards the new dresses, and the next month's money, we'll say, pays a little more than half what the dress is to cost. Now, if you can pay half when you take the dress home, and the second half a month later, then I should charge you very little indeed for that month's credit; but if I had to take the whole amount in monthly instalments of a few shillings a month, then I should have to charge a good deal more for the dresses. Now, think the matter over between now and Sunday, and make up your mind what you can afford to pay, and how you can pay it. John will bring me some patterns and prices from the shop on Friday, and I shall be ready to tell you what I can do when you get out on Sunday."
"We shan't be able to come to tea," said Miriam.
"Well, you can come in as you go to church, if you like; I don't mind," said Mrs. Scott.
"I wish we didn't have to go about it on Sunday," said Fanny, as they were on their way home.
"Oh, what does it matter?" said Miriam, crossly.
"Well, my mother and father wouldn't like me to go about a new frock on Sunday!" said Fanny. "And it will vex them, I know, when they hear about it."
"Then they shouldn't have given the other to your sister, as you say they did. I would do it on purpose to serve them out," concluded Miriam, a view of the matter that seemed to commend itself to Fanny; for she laughed, and promised to meet her friend at the corner of the street where Mrs. Scott lived at six o'clock the following Sunday evening.
"THERE'S a letter for you, Fanny, on the kitchen table. When you have read it, I want you to go out again and fetch some cakes and biscuits for tea to-morrow. I have a friend coming in the afternoon, and she will stay to tea, of course."
It was Saturday afternoon, and Fanny had been out for some errands for her mistress, who met her at the lower street door as she was coming in.
"You must shut the cat outside when you go," said the lady. "Twice to-day she has fetched me down here with her scratching to get out."
"Yes, ma'am," answered Fanny; but she was thinking what a nuisance Sunday visitors were, and wondering what time she would be able to get out if this lady visitor was coming to tea. She wanted to go early, for she had promised to meet Miriam at six, to go and see about their new dresses, and she would go too, visitor or no visitor, if it was possible. She muttered this to herself, as she picked up her letter, which she saw at once came from her father.
She tore it open, and read the few lines that it contained, and then threw it on the table again.
"I might have known it was something like that!" she exclaimed in a tone of vexation. "Father says he is coming to meet me, to go to church to-morrow. Of course he will some about six, and how am I to be in three places at once?"
Fanny stood for a minute pondering the situation, and then went for the money for the cake, resolving to take what advantage she could of her father's letter.
She took it with her, and handed it to her mistress.
"You see, ma'am, father says he is coming to meet me, to go to church to-morrow evening. Shall I send and tell him not to come, as you are going to have company?"
"Oh dear, no! There is not time to do that, and I should not like to disappoint you both if there was. If my friend is here, punctually to her time, tea will be nearly over before you want to go out, and in any case I can manage it if you get everything ready before you go. If you leave here five minutes before the time, you will meet him at the corner of the road. I can leave the tea-things in the dining-room, for you to clear away when you come home."
"Thank you, ma'am," said Fanny; and she went off on her errand, glad to know that she would be able to go out in good time the next day, but wondering how she could avoid meeting her father on her way to Mrs. Scott's, for she had no intention of missing this appointment.
Almost at the same moment Miriam touched her on the shoulder.
"Just the girl I wanted to see!" she exclaimed. "I want you to come out a bit earlier to-morrow. Meet me at a quarter to six instead of six o'clock."
"I only wish I could," answered Fanny; "but the missus is going to have company to tea, and I may have a job to get away at six."
"What a bother, to be sure!" exclaimed Miriam. "Some of our folks are going out to tea, and so I can get away earlier. I do think it is a shame that poor servants can be muddled about as we are, we ought to be able to claim our own time and stick to it. Half-past five is your time, I know. That was why I said a quarter to six, for I thought you could walk round to my place in that time, and it would be nice to talk over things again before we go in to my cousin's."
Fanny shook her head. "I don't believe I can get away so early as that," she said. "I shall have a scramble to get away before six."
She did not say a word about meeting her father, for she did not want Miriam to see him. He looked just what he was, a respectable working-man; but Miriam's cousin and her husband were very genteel people, and would be sure to look down upon people like her father.
Fanny was very fond of him, she thought, and would guard him and herself from hearing disparaging remarks passed upon his manners and his clothes. But she did not consider the pain she would cause him by keeping him waiting, while she went about this other business.
She quite intended to see him after her visit to Mrs. Scott, but she could not afford to wait much longer for her new dress, because Miriam had noticed that her present one was shabby and short, and Miriam always looked so nice, that Fanny was almost ashamed to be seen out with her.
Miriam pressed again that she should insist upon coming out at her promised usual time, and Fanny gave a sort of half promise to do this, although she feared it would not be of much use. Still, the thought that she was being hardly dealt with easily found a lodgment in her present frame of mind, and she went home feeling she had a grievance against her mistress for having company to tea on Sunday.
The old-fashioned practice of Saturday cooking prevailed in Mrs. Lloyd's small household, so that Sunday was a very quiet day, and Fanny had very little to do beyond setting and clearing away meals; so on this particular Sunday Fanny had time to think over what Miriam had said about servants having a right to keep to their own time, until she had worked herself up to a state of surprising dissatisfaction, and Mrs. Lloyd, looking at her gloomy, sullen face, wondered what could have happened to upset her while she was at church in the morning.
"Did any one come while I was out this morning?" she said, at last.
"No," answered Fanny, in an insolent tone.
"I think you are forgetting who you are speaking to," said the lady, reprovingly.
"I ain't likely to forget that. Servants seem to have no rights in these days."
"Certainly not the right to be insolent!" said Mrs. Lloyd.
Fanny went out of the room, and shut the door with a bang.
As she sat over her dinner in the kitchen, she recalled something else her friend had told her. She was to have her wages raised in a few weeks' time, and it had been brought about by having given her mistress notice to leave, and it occurred to Fanny that she might do the same thing with a similar advantage. Mrs. Lloyd was evidently annoyed, "cross," Fanny called it, and she took care to do all that was possible to vex her through the afternoon, and when at last the lady said, in a tone of expostulation, "Fanny, you really must be more careful," she said, in reply, "Well, as I don't seem to please you lately, I'll go this day month."
"I cannot take your notice to-day, Fanny, and I hope by to-morrow you will have thought over what has happened, and be ready to beg my pardon for what has occurred."
"Beg your pardon!" repeated Fanny, in an angry tone. "That I never will, and so you need not think it."
"Leave the room at once, Fanny; you have said quite enough for to-day," said her mistress, in a firm tone, and Fanny went out, feeling somewhat ashamed of herself.
The visitor came a few minutes after five, and Fanny carried in tea and had her own before the clock struck the half-hour, and she was dressed and ready to go out by ten minutes to six.
She did not go where she was likely to meet her father, but in another direction to see her new friend, Miriam.
"You are late," grumbled Miriam; "I told you to meet me a quarter to six, and it will strike in a minute or two!"
"Well, I told you I wasn't sure that I could come," said Fanny, in a deprecating tone.
"And I told you to stand up for your rights and not be put upon."
The day had been a miserable one to Fanny, and this greeting from her friend did not make her more cheerful.
"I wish you knew my missus."
"I know my own, and they're all about alike, I expect," said Miriam.
"But now about our frocks. I want to have a word with you before we go to Lizzie's. I was there on Friday evening, and she showed me a lovely piece of stuff. It is not the colour I wanted; but it is such a lovely piece of stuff, and my cousin says it will wear so well, that I shall put up with the colour if you like it."
"I shall like it if it is cheap," said Fanny, trying to laugh; "but, as the people won't take back my watch, I shall have to be careful."
"I tell you what it is, you ought to have more money than you get. You do all the work of that house, and you ought to be paid well for it, and I should tell the missus so if I was you."
"I mean to, if I get the chance," said Fanny. "I must, if I am to have a new frock," she added.
"Well, now will be a good time," commented Miriam. "You have been there just over three months—haven't you?—and so you could easily say, 'I want you to raise my wages next month, and I shall give you notice if you don't.'"
"Is that what you said when you got yours raised?" asked Fanny.
"Something like it," answered Miriam. "Of course I am older, and do nearly all the cooking at my place, and that makes a difference. But still you ought to have nine pounds a year now, and I should tell the lady so, and that you can't stay unless she raises your wages to that."
By this time they had reached Mrs. Scott's, and were very soon looking over the patterns she had obtained for them.
"There, this is the one I like," said Miriam, drawing forward a piece of material, soft, and fine, with a small satin flower of the same colour—a rather dark cinnamon-brown.
"Oh, I do like that!" said Fanny, as soon as she saw it. "My mother would like it too, I am sure," she added.
"It is neat enough for any one to like it," said Mrs. Scott. "But the question you girls have to consider is whether you can afford it."
"You said the stuff was very cheap, Lizzie," said Miriam, quickly.
"So it is, very cheap indeed, considering how good it is; but I could not make either of you a dress for less than a pound, and I should want half the money when you had the dress, and the other half within two months."
Fanny looked at Miriam in blank dismay, it seemed an enormous sum to her.
"Suppose we wanted four months to pay it, what would you charge then?"
"Twenty-five shillings," answered Mrs. Scott, promptly. She did not attempt to persuade the girls to have dresses of that particular material, but showed them some cheaper, which she assured them would also be durable, and serve them for afternoon dresses when they had done with them for best. Fanny looked on silently, leaving Miriam and her cousin to discuss the merits of the various stuffs; but although she took no part, she was thinking and making up her mind about whether she should say she would have the brown dress, and give notice the next day that she would leave, unless her mistress would give her nine pounds a year.
When she was being served with the cake, the previous evening, she heard a lady ask if they knew of a servant who could do housework, and that she gave ten pounds a year. Ten pounds seemed an immense sum to Fanny just now, and she thought if she could only get that, she need not be so worried about the watch and other things, for with this she would have plenty of money for all she needed.
So, by the time Miriam had finished her discussion, Fanny had made up her mind to have that ten pounds a year if it was possible; and so, when Miriam turned to her, she said—
"I will have the brown dress, if you do, and I will pay five shillings a month, as I have not got much put away for it."
Mrs. Scott looked at her in some surprise. "You have thought it all out, I suppose?" she said.
"Yes; I have counted it all over, and I don't think I could do better than have the brown frock," said Fanny, decidedly.
"I am glad," said Miriam. "Of course, I can have one too; so we shall have frocks alike after all. Now, when can we have them, Lizzie?" she asked.
"Well, if you come in one day this week to be measured, I dare say I can let you have them in a fortnight," said Mrs. Scott; and then she wished the girls good night, and they went away.
It struck seven as they went up the street. "I am going to St. Peter's to-night," said Miriam.
"I want to go to St. Mary's; that is close by; and we are late now," said Fanny. Her father was to meet her at the corner of St. Mary's Road, close to the church, and Fanny hoped he had waited for her. She was not sorry that Miriam was determined to go in the other direction, and she crossed the road and looked eagerly round, feeling sure her father was waiting for her somewhere near.
She went a little way up each road in turn, and then back to the corner of the churchyard, and waited; but her father was not to be seen. Fanny went to the church porch and looked into the church, hoping to see him on one of the benches near the door, and because he was not there Fanny grew anxious and disappointed, almost heart-sick, as she looked into strange faces, and her father was not among them.
She wished now that she had come here direct, instead of going first to meet her friend. She lingered near the church until the service was over, and then looked eagerly at the people as they came out, and among those she saw the lady who had asked about a servant at the confectioner's shop the day before. She walked up the street alone, and not seeing anything of her father, Fanny decided to speak to the lady, and ask if she still wanted a servant.
The lady looked a little surprised at being asked such a question at such a time and place, but replied—
"I am wanting a servant. But how did you hear of it?"
"I was at Carpenter's buying some cakes for my mistress yesterday, and heard you tell the young woman that served me that you were in want of a servant, and would give ten pounds a year."
"Yes, I will, to a suitable girl. But you had better come and see me to-morrow morning," added the lady; and then she gave Fanny her address and walked on, leaving the girl almost bewildered by the swiftness with which her good fortune had come to her.
She gave one last lingering look round the two streets to see if she could by any possibility have missed her father coming out of church, and then walked home.
"Why, Fanny, where have you been?" said her mistress, when she opened the door.
"To St. Mary's church, where I was to meet my father."
"And did you meet him, after all?" asked the lady.
"No; I could not see him anywhere," answered Fanny.
"You were not there by six o'clock, nor yet by half-past six; for your father came here about a quarter to seven to ask if you were going out, for he had not seen you anywhere."
"Father came here?" uttered Fanny, slowly.
"Yes, he did, and seemed a good deal put about that you were not at the place to meet him. If I could have left my friend, I should have asked him to come in, that I might have had a few words with him about you; but, as it was, I could only tell him that you went out about a quarter to six, as nearly as I could tell."
Fanny tossed her head. "I want to give you warning to-morrow, and so you need not trouble yourself about me if father does," she said.
Mrs. Lloyd took no notice of this rude speech, and Fanny went upstairs to take off her hat before setting the supper-tray.
The next morning, directly after breakfast, when Fanny went to clear the table, she said—
"If you please, ma'am, I should like to leave this day month, and can I have an hour this morning to see a lady about another place?"
Mrs. Lloyd looked at her in amazement.
"Another place!" she repeated. "Have you told your mother and father what you intend to do?"
"No, ma'am, not yet; but I dare say I shall before I leave."
"Do you think your mother will be pleased to hear that you have done this without asking her advice? When you were coming here, she wisely came to see me first and judge what sort of a home you were likely to have with me. I suppose you have been tempted by the offer of higher wages?" concluded Mrs. Lloyd.
"Yes, partly," answered Fanny. "Everybody wants as much money as they can get," added the girl.
"You will learn one day that money is not everything, Fanny, and a light, comfortable place such as you have here may be worth more than higher wages with little comfort."
Fanny muttered something about "being so particular;" but Mrs. Lloyd took no notice of this, but gave her permission to go out for an hour when some of the morning work was finished.
Fanny's coolness and assurance puzzled the lady, and she wondered who or what could have effected the change that had undoubtedly taken place in the girl.
Looking back to that time, Mrs. Lloyd recalled the Fanny that first came to her—a happy, lighthearted, hopeful girl, willing and eager to give satisfaction, and then, after a few weeks of this, a change gradually crept over the girl, and she grew anxious and dissatisfied and careless, as though her heart was no longer in her work, but as if she had some secret care upon her mind that was constantly troubling her. What could it be? What could have happened in the short time she had been with her?
But there was no answer to her anxious questioning. She knew nothing of Fanny's watch, or of the way in which she spent her money. She had to remind the girl once or twice that she must keep herself supplied with house-slippers, but beyond this she had never made any complaint about her dress. Indeed, she was much pleased with her neat, tidy appearance always, and the way in which her mother had provided for her first start in life gave her great satisfaction, so that she was unusually disturbed when the girl gave her notice to leave after she had been there little more than three months.
"IF you please, ma'am, I've got the place, and the lady will give me ten pounds a year if you can let me go in a fortnight." Fanny had returned, highly elated at the success that had attended her efforts to "better herself," as she called it.
Mrs. Lloyd looked somewhat surprised. "The lady is coming to see me about your character, I suppose?" she said.
"I don't know, ma'am. She didn't say anything about that," answered Fanny.
"You think she is going to take you without a character?" asked Mrs. Lloyd.
"I don't know. I told her I had been living here, and gave her your address."
"Then perhaps she will call and see me," said Mrs. Lloyd. "I hope she will; it is always more satisfactory. How many are there in family at this place?" asked her friend; for she was a true friend to Fanny if she could only have believed it.
"I don't know. I didn't ask," said the girl, a little pertly.
"Is it a larger house than this?" asked Mrs. Lloyd.
"Oh yes; bigger than this," answered Fanny, in a tone of triumph, as though she owned the larger house.
"Tell me the name and address, that I may make some inquiries for you before you decide to take this place," said her mistress.
Fanny pouted and looked sullen. "I can do that," she said. "The lady only wants to know if I can go to her in a fortnight. Her name is Lewis, and she lives at 16, Mortimer Street," she suddenly added, apparently fearing that Mrs. Lloyd would decline to let her leave at the fortnight if she refused to give the address.
"Very well. I will let you know this evening whether I can spare you in a fortnight. Now set the dinner-table; I am going out this afternoon."
Fanny wondered whether her mistress was going to see Miss Martin to ask if she had another girl in the school who could take her place, and what her mother would say when she heard she was going to leave.
Well, it would save her the bother of telling the story herself, she thought, as she took off her things and put on her cap and apron.
She noticed that Mrs. Lloyd did not sit long over her dinner to-day, and this confirmed her suspicion that she was going to the school, for that was a long walk from this end of the town, and there were no tramcars running in that direction. So, when the lady came back about five o'clock looking rather tired, Fanny felt sure she knew all that had happened while she was out, and she would find out who was coming in her place if she could.
But, in point of fact, Mrs. Lloyd's visitor of the day before had told her that if she wanted to make a change, she could recommend a girl about Fanny's age, who, she felt sure, would give satisfaction. But before telegraphing to this friend to engage the girl to come to her, she resolved to make some inquiries about the place and people Fanny had told her of.
Of course it was rather a delicate undertaking, for apparently Mrs. Lloyd had no sufficient reason for asking the questions she did.
But from the information thus gained, she judged that there were several children, and that Fanny might not find it a very easy place; but there was nothing to justify her in refusing to let her go there, she decided, and a little more hard work would not hurt Fanny, and might teach her a useful lesson of contentment.
Just as the tea-things were placed on the table a telegram came for Mrs. Lloyd, announcing that the girl could come at the time named, which removed the last difficulty concerning Fanny going to the new place; and so, when she came to clear the tea-things, Mrs. Lloyd said—
"I shall be able to spare you, Fanny, at the end of a fortnight; but as you will be leaving so soon, and must give each room in turn a good clean before you go, I shall not be able to spare you for a whole day's holiday next week, but will let you go home to tea one day to tell your mother about your new place."
"Thank you," said Fanny, rather ungraciously.
"You had better go at once, and tell Mrs. Lewis that you can go to her in a fortnight, as she wishes. You can wash up the tea-things when you come back," added her mistress.
Fanny ran off to Mortimer Street in joyful haste, and on her way met her friend Miriam, who had been sent out on an errand.
"Oh, I say, I have got a new place!" exclaimed Fanny aloud, as soon as she saw her friend.
"Where is it?" asked Miriam, with almost equal eagerness.
"16, Mortimer Street," answered Fanny; and at the same moment the man who was in the habit of calling for the payment of her monthly instalment on the debt for her watch passed and looked at the girls, and then wrote down the address he had heard in his pocket-book.
The friends were too much occupied with their own affairs to notice him, but went on eagerly with their talk.
"You are to have ten pounds a year!" repeated Miriam. "Well, you are in luck! And only sixteen, too!"
Fanny laughed. "They think I am eighteen," she said. "The lady asked if I was eighteen, and I said, 'Not quite.' And she said, 'Well, you look quite eighteen, and so I think you will suit me.'"
"I don't think much of Mortimer Street," remarked Miriam. "I suppose there are a swarm of children."
"Two or three, I think," said Fanny. "I shan't mind that. It will make a little life in the house," she said.
"Yes; if you don't have too much of it," commented Miriam. "When are you to come out?" she asked the next minute.
"Oh, Sunday evening, of course. I shall have to help cook the dinner in the morning."
"Well, it will be all right for your new frock now," said Miriam. "I am glad we ordered them on Sunday."
"Yes. So am I." And Fanny bade her friend good-bye, and hurried on to Mortimer Street.
She had to ring the bell several times before she could make herself heard, for a game of romps seemed to be in progress, and the noise of children's voices, shouting, screaming, and laughing, made other sounds inaudible in the house.
"I won't have that row in my kitchen, I know," muttered Fanny, as she gave another vigorous pull at the front-door bell.
This time somebody did hear it, and at once flew to the door.
It was a boy about ten, and in answer to Fanny's inquiry for Mrs. Lewis, the boy slammed the door in her face, and dashed off upstairs, calling—
"Mother! mother! here's a girl wants you!" Fanny was not too well pleased. "What a way to answer the door!" she said, half aloud.
The next minute it was opened by Mrs. Lewis herself.
Fanny stated her errand. The children, crowding round their mother to look at the stranger, made open comments on the "new girl's" looks.
"If you please, ma'am, Mrs. Lloyd says she can spare me to come to you this day fortnight, and if you would like to see her about my character, she will be at home any morning before eleven."
"Oh, very well. I may call if I have time," said Mrs. Lewis; and she pulled the children in as they went crowding out on the doorsteps.
Recalling this last scene as she walked homewards, Fanny did not feel quite so elated over her good fortune. Some of the gilding had been rubbed off the promised ten pounds a year. She felt disappointed too, for she had felt sure of seeing the present maid-of-all-work, and asking her a few questions concerning the place, and why she was leaving.
She walked home more soberly than when she came out, and for the first time asked herself whether she was wise in leaving Mrs. Lloyd in such a hurry. "There, it's too late to think about that now," she said to herself after a minute or two. "If I don't like the place, or the children are too tiresome, I can leave at the end of the month, and Mrs. Lloyd will give me another character, so I am not going to worry myself. Ten pounds a year is ten pounds, and I may think myself lucky to get it."
She did not tell Mrs. Lloyd a word about the children, simply saying she had told Mrs. Lewis she could have her character, but that she did not know whether she would call for it or not.
"It would be much more satisfactory in every way to come and see me, and ask a few questions," commented the lady.
Fanny tossed her head. She thought her mistress wanted to prevent her taking the place even now, and she hoped Mrs. Lewis would not have time to come and hear all Mrs. Lloyd had to say about the things she had broken and damaged since she had been there.
As she washed up the tea-things she wondered who was to be her successor—which of the girls Miss Martin would recommend, and how soon the school would hear that she was going to leave her first place in less than six months, and so forfeit the Vicar's prize. She told herself again and again that she did not care a pin about this prize; but in reality she cared very much, now she came to think about it, especially as her sister Eliza had given such satisfaction to Mrs. Parsons and the Vicar. But then, again, came the thought of the higher wages she was going to have at her new place, and that consoled her, if it did not perfectly satisfy her.
The next few days were busy ones, for Mrs. Lloyd superintended the turning out of each room in turn that the house might be quite clean for the new maid, as it had been for Fanny when she came; and it was not until the last week of her stay with Mrs. Lloyd that Fanny received permission to go home for the afternoon to have tea with her mother, and tell her of the change she was about to make.
Fanny decided that she would find out as she went home who was coming to take her place, and so, instead of hurrying away directly after dinner, she did not go out until nearly three, for she intended to go round by the school and arrive there just as the girls were leaving at four o'clock. She should hear then all about the girl who was coming to take her place, and also what her mother had said when she heard she was going to leave.
But when the school was reached, and she met her sisters coming out of the playground, and they ran eagerly forward to meet her, they did not say what she expected to hear, "Why are you going to leave your place, Fanny?"
"How is mother?" she asked, after various questions and exclamations had passed.
"She is very well, but she has gone out to tea, as you didn't come home at the proper time. Mother said this was the day for your holiday; and she made a cake, too," put in Selina.
"Yes, she thought you would have written to tell us if you could not come as usual," explained Minnie.
"Oh, Fan, father was cross the other Sunday when he came to meet you and you did not come," said Selina.
"I was cross, too," said Fanny; "but, after all, it did not matter, for I got—"
And there she stopped, for she did not mean to say a word about the new place just now, especially to Selina; and at the same moment a group of old schoolfellows gathered round her, and one among them exclaimed—
"Now, Fanny, you are coming home with me to tea. You said you would the last time you had a holiday, and now you must."
"But I haven't had a whole holiday this time. We are busy just now," said Fanny.
"Never mind, a promise is a promise, and you must come with me. Minnie can tell them at home where you are."
Fanny made a slight resistance to this plea, but it was very slight, for she was not anxious to go home, as her father had been so put out at not meeting her that fateful Sunday evening.
She sent a message to her mother that she would come in and see her on her way back to Mrs. Lloyd's, and then she kissed her sisters and joined the group of girls with Mary Taylor.
This was the girl she had decided in her own mind would succeed her at Mrs. Lloyd's, and she was surprised that she had not heard at once about this. Perhaps for some reason it had not been openly spoken of in the school; but if she went home with Mary to tea she would be sure to hear the news.
On their way to Mary's home, when the other girls had left them, she said to her friend—
"Are any more girls leaving yet, Mary?"
"No. Mother is rather disappointed, for, you know, she had my name put down for the next place that teacher heard of. Now she has written to my aunt who lives near London to look-out for me."
Fanny was puzzled. So Mrs. Lloyd had not been to Miss Martin for another maid, and she wondered whether by her carelessness she had brought her old school into such ill repute that her mistress would not have another girl from there.
It was not a pleasant thought, and she put it away from her as quickly as she could, laughing and chatting with Mary quite merrily.
She was not in a hurry to go home when tea was over, and she left herself so little time to see her mother that she could hardly wait while Selina fetched her from Jessie's; for it was there she had gone to tea; to show her how to manage some alterations that were necessary in the black dress Miss Martin had given her for Jessie, and which there had been no time to do before.
Fanny chose to be aggrieved that her mother should devote so much of her time to Jessie Collins.
"I never heard of such a thing in my life," she grumbled to Minnie, while Selina ran to tell her mother she was waiting. "When I was at home I was not to talk or play with Jessie, and now mother makes more fuss of her than she does of her own children. I don't think it's fair to keep me waiting here when I have so little time because she is with her favourite."
"Fanny, how can you talk like that?" protested Minnie. "Mother did not go to help with the frock until long after the time for you to come home. She got a hot dinner for you, and a cake for tea, and now you come when it is time to start to go back again. I call it shameful; as bad as serving father as you did. It seems as though you were tired of us all now you have got a nice, comfortable place," added Minnie.
"Well, perhaps I am going to leave that nice, comfortable place," said Fanny, with something like a sneering laugh.
"It would serve you right if you did," said Minnie, in an angry tone; and in the midst of these angry words Mrs. Brown hurried in.
"My dear Fanny, where have you been that you did not get home to dinner as usual?" said Mrs. Brown, kissing Fanny and taking no notice of Minnie's wrathful face.
"We are busy, and I could not get away until after dinner," answered Fanny, "and I must get in early, or Mrs. Lloyd will be cross," she added.
"But surely you can stay with us for an hour now you have come!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, quickly.
"No, I must not stop a minute. I forgot I promised to go to tea with Mary Taylor the last time I was at home," said Fanny, "and she made me go with her when I went to meet the children coming out of school."
"Wait a minute, then, and I will put on my other bonnet and go with you," said her mother. "Cut yourself a piece of cake, I shall be ready by the time you have eaten it."
Fanny cut a slice of cake, and her mother was ready to start before she had finished it. When they had begun their walk, Mrs. Brown said—
"How was it you did not go to meet your father as he asked you, my girl? I never saw him so upset as he was when he came home that Sunday night. He says he could not have missed you if you had gone near the place within half an hour of the time he mentioned. It is not fair to treat your father like this," added Mrs. Brown, in a reproachful tone.
"There, mother, hold your tongue. I thought what it would be when you said you would walk with me. You always find something to grumble about. I had to go somewhere else before I could go to meet father. I am sure I have got as much to grumble at as he has, for I was waiting and looking about at that corner all church-time. I do think if father really wanted to see me, he might have waited a bit longer."
Mrs. Brown was angry at the manner in which Fanny spoke.
"He did more than just wait for you," she said, "he went on, and asked your mistress if you could not come out to church, and she said you had been gone nearly an hour. Then your father felt sure that you had gone another way on purpose to avoid him, and he came home at once, worried and upset, I can tell you. I said I would ask you to tell me all about it when you came home, and I hope you will, Fanny," added her mother, in a more persuasive tone.
"I don't know that there's anything to tell," said Fanny, suddenly. "I have made friends with another girl, who is a servant living close by, and I had promised to meet her before I got father's letter, and then I had to go another way to St. Mary's Road, and that was how I missed him, I expect."
Mrs. Brown breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh, Fanny, why didn't you send him a line the next day, saying you were sorry you had missed him? Or why didn't you go to him first, and he would have gone with you to meet your friend, and you could have gone to church together?"
"Well, I might have done that, I suppose," remarked Fanny, "but I never thought of it. Tell him when you write, mother, that I am sorry, and that I was looking for him all the evening round by the church." Then she added, "Now, mother, I must walk on faster, or I shall be late; and Mrs. Lloyd wants to go out, I know."
So Mrs. Brown bade Fanny good-bye, somewhat relieved by the explanation the girl had given, and yet feeling vaguely uneasy about her, she knew not why.
Fanny hurried along the road when she left her mother, reflecting that she had escaped a good scolding, such as she had expected, for no word had been said about her leaving her situation, and her mother had heard nothing of the new one to which she was so soon going.
"ARE you the new servant? If you are, mother says you're to go down to the kitchen, and wash up the things. My sister is ill, and the doctor is coming presently."
The speaker was the elder boy of the group of children she had seen before, and this was Fanny's introduction to her new situation.
The boy who had helped her to carry her box set it down in the passage and went away; while a feeling of forlornness began to creep over Fanny as she followed the little boy down to the kitchen.
When they reached the door, she paused for a moment.
"Is this the kitchen?" she asked, almost aghast at the sight of the dirty, comfortless room, that seemed to be filled with dirty cups and plates from end to end. Even the single wooden chair, that stood near the table, was piled high, like the table and dresser, with dirty crockery, and a vision of Mrs. Lloyd's cosy little kitchen rose in contrast.
"What are you staring at?" asked the little boy. "Jane ran away the other morning, so there's been nobody to wash up the tea-things and dinner-things."
It occurred to Fanny that she had better follow the example of her predecessor, and run away too; but she knew now that her situation at Mrs. Lloyd's was filled, and the thought of ten pounds a year made her willing to put up with some discomfort.
After a silent look round the room, she slowly took off her hat, and when the boy was turning away, she said—
"Wait a minute; you must show me where to find things, if I am to clear up this muddle."
A fire was lighted in the choked-up grate, for the first thing, and a kettle of water put on to boil, and when the little boy had told her where various things were kept, and had left her to find out what she could for herself, she commenced her task by taking off her afternoon frock, and putting on the one she had worn in the morning, and a large coarse apron over it, for the kitchen did not look as though it had been cleaned for a month, and dresser, cupboards, and table looked equally dirty.
At first, Fanny felt disposed to sit down and cry, but as the fire burned up, the kitchen began to look more cheerful, and with all her faults, Fanny was not afraid of hard work, and so she was soon sorting and separating cups and saucers from plates and dishes, and had more water on the fire to get hot, for she could do nothing without plenty of hot water.
No one came near her for nearly an hour. The children seemed very quiet, and she supposed Mrs. Lewis was upstairs with the little girl who was ill; so she set about her task of clearing up, and was nearly half done when her new mistress came into the kitchen.
"Come, make haste, Mary, I want the supper things set as soon as possible," she said.
"My name is Fanny," said the new servant.
"Well, we have been used to call the girls 'Mary' until the last, and she would be called Jane."
"I should like to be called by my own name, too," said Fanny; but the lady said that "Mary" was a much more convenient name, and so Fanny had to accept it.
She could not wash up all the dirty crockery, but as soon as she had done plates enough for the supper-table, she had to go upstairs and lay the cloth. Most of the children sat down to that meal, as well as her master and mistress, so that by the time that was cleared away, Fanny was tired with running up and down stairs, and had apparently made very little progress with clearing up the kitchen.
Ten o'clock had been the hour for going to bed at Mrs. Lloyd's; but apparently there was no such rule here, for after the clock had struck eleven, her new mistress told her to clear up all the rest of the dirty things, and put them away, before she went to bed; and that she must get up at six the next morning to get all the boots and shoes cleaned before breakfast, and the dining-room swept and dusted.
Fanny answered, "Yes, ma'am;" but it was easy to see that she already began to think she might have to pay too dearly for her increased wages, and by the time she got to bed, she was so tired that she cried herself to sleep.
By the end of the next day she had made up her mind that she would not stay more than a month, for Mrs. Lewis did not seem to understand how to manage either household or children; and now that one of them was ill, Fanny was kept running up and down stairs to the neglect of her other work, and was then scolded because it was not done.
Coming from a well-ordered household like Mrs. Lloyd's, it seemed to Fanny that everything went haphazard here, and mistress and maid alike seemed to be always struggling to overtake the work that needed doing, and yet never succeeded.
Mrs. Lewis was never a good manager, but now that she had her little daughter to nurse, matters were a good deal worse, and poor Fanny was so tired before bedtime came that she hardly knew how to drag one foot before the other.
It came to be a regular thing that she should cry herself to sleep every night, and oversleep herself in the morning.
Then, when the child got worse, and Fanny heard some one say it was scarlet fever, she could scarcely snatch time to have a meal in peace, for there was no time to sit down. When a meal was given to her, she took it to the kitchen and had a mouthful as she could snatch it, while washing up or getting something ready to take upstairs.
One day when she took up something to the sick-room, Mrs. Lewis gave her an apron full of odds and ends, and told her to put them on the kitchen fire; but the sight of a pink silk scarf, scarcely soiled, made Fanny decide to look then; over before she burned them, and when she did so, the pretty scarf and one or two pieces of ribbon were selected as being too good to throw away, and Fanny put them into her pocket.
At the end of a fortnight Fanny told her mistress that she would like to leave at the end of the month, as the work was too much for her.
Mrs. Lewis looked at her for a moment in silence, and then actually burst into tears.
"What am I to do if you leave me just now? Nobody else will come, with scarlet fever in the house."
"Is it so dangerous?" said Fanny, in a sudden fright.
"People are silly enough to be frightened of it," said the lady, "and so I hope you will stay with me until it is all over, and then I will make you a present for the extra work you have had, as well as give you a good holiday."
Fanny considered the matter for a minute, and then consented, though she heaved a sigh as she did so, for she was growing very tired of the hard drudgery of her work day after day, without any relaxation.
Since the little girl had been so very ill, Fanny had not been able to go out even on Sunday evening. Only when sent on an errand occasionally was there a chance of losing sight and sound of the constant work and worry.
She had been there three weeks, and began to wish that she had not consented to stay beyond the month, when one morning she woke up unusually early, but when she got up her head ached so much that she was obliged to lie down on the bed again.
She managed to crawl downstairs at six o'clock, and after breakfast she felt a little better; but before she went to bed at night her throat was sore, and she tied the pink scarf round it when she went upstairs. The following day, when she was answering a knock at the kitchen street door, she was startled to see the collector from Judds', as the boy who had brought potatoes turned away.
"You didn't expect to see me, miss," he said with a grin, as Fanny changed colour. She felt too poorly, too much upset by the sight of the man to reply. "Judds don't like this sort of thing," he said, after a pause. "Customers moving away and never giving us notice is against the rules. Now for the money," he added.
"I can't pay you to-day," said Fanny, thinking of the new frock that had been sent home the previous evening from Mrs. Scott.
"Then you know what the consequence will be, miss. I shall have to send the inspector to call upon you," said the man.
"Very well," was all Fanny could answer, for the shock of seeing this man, whom she thought she had escaped, for a time at least, seemed to deprive her of all her remaining strength. She shut the door, crept back to the kitchen, and sank down on the chair as though she was about to faint. She sat there until she was startled by the imperative ringing of the front-door bell. She stumbled up the stairs, and opened the door to the doctor. He stepped in, and then paused on the mat to look at her.
"What is the matter?" he asked. "You are ill. You have no business to be here, my girl. Where is your mistress?" he added.
Mrs. Lewis came downstairs at the same moment. "She is better to-day, doctor; I am sure she is better," she said, in a tone of glad excitement.
"I am glad to hear it," said the doctor; "but we have another patient here, I am afraid. This girl has taken the fever, and must go to bed at once. Send her to her room, and I will see her there presently."
"Go to bed, Mary," said her mistress, in a blank, bewildered tone.
"I will come and look at you in a minute," said the doctor, speaking to Fanny as she crept upstairs. She was thankful, indeed, to be told to go to bed, and thought nothing of what might happen to her next, for she was now too ill to think of anything. She had only just crept under the bedclothes when the doctor and Mrs. Lewis came upstairs. The result of the doctor's examination, and the talk with Mrs. Lewis that followed was that Fanny was taken to a fever hospital a few hours later, and the next day she was quite delirious. Fanny's things were put together in her box, the new dress taken down from its peg and tumbled in with the rest, and they were all taken away to be fumigated.
The doctor had remarked that Fanny was a strong, healthy girl, and might soon be able to come back; but Mrs. Lewis had her own opinion about this. The poor woman was so bewildered as she thought of what she should do, now that Fanny was gone, that she entirely forgot that the girl had friends who ought to be informed of what had happened to her, and it was not until the following Sunday that the thought of this occurred to her. She was doing something in the kitchen about six o'clock, when there came a knock at the street door, and when Mrs. Lewis opened it, Miriam stared for a moment at seeing the lady, and then said—
"Isn't Fanny coming out to-night?" She spoke rather aggressively, for she had been disappointed the previous Sunday.
"Oh, you mean Mary, I suppose?" said Mrs. Lewis. "Do you know where her mother and father live?" she asked.
"Has she gone home?" exclaimed Miriam, quickly.
"No. She has gone to the hospital, and I could only give the people this address, for she was too sleepy and stupid to tell us anything; so you go and tell her friends that she was taken to the fever hospital last Thursday."
Miriam nodded. "Whatever was the matter with her?" she said.
"She caught scarlet fever, but the doctor thought she would not have it very bad," added Mrs. Lewis; and then she shut the door, without waiting to hear any more from Miriam.
For a minute she stood still, wondering what she had better do, and how she could let Fanny's friends know what had happened to her, considering she knew no more of their address than that they lived at the other end of the town. At length she remembered Mrs. Lloyd, and thought she would be sure to know where Fanny's friends lived, and she felt sure that she should find the lady at home, as she seldom went out on Sunday evening. So she hurried to Mrs. Lloyd's, and, as she expected, that lady answered the door herself.
"If you please, ma'am, can you tell me where Fanny lives?" she said quickly.
"Fanny?" repeated the lady. "She has left my service."
"Yes, ma'am, and she's in the fever hospital, and nobody don't know nothing about it," interrupted Miriam.
"In the hospital! But the authorities there will know where she lives, surely!" exclaimed Mrs. Lloyd.
"No, ma'am, I've just seen the lady at Fanny's new place, and she says Fanny was sleepy and stupid-like when they took her away, and they put down that address, and she doesn't know where Fanny lives. She never told her, and she never told me," concluded Miriam.
"Dear me, what is to be done, then? For I don't think she ever told me her proper address. I know where she went to school, and I will go and see her teacher the first thing to-morrow morning."
This did not quite please Miriam. She had often wondered where Fanny lived, and why she had not been asked to go home to tea with her, and supposed that her home was hardly respectable, or she would have been invited to go there.
In reality it was Fanny's foolish pride that had made her unwilling to let her friend know where she lived; for Miriam had made no secret of the fact that her father was a small farmer, which sounded grand to Fanny, who was painfully conscious of how one thing after the other had been taken out of the home and sold to meet the expense of her father's long illness, and as yet they could not afford to replace this parlour furniture; but Fanny had spoken of it as though it still formed part of her home when Miriam told of the old-fashioned blue parlour that was seldom used, except for weddings and christenings.
Now, Miriam thought she would like to find out what sort of a house her friend's mother did occupy, and so she said—
"I am not going to church this evening, so if you will tell me where Fanny went to school, I will try to find her mother this evening."
But it had occurred to Mrs. Lloyd that it would be kinder to let the school-mistress know what had happened, and ask her to break the news to the girl's friends, rather than send a girl like Miriam to carry the message.
So she said, "Thank you for your kind offer; but I think the friend who recommended Fanny to me would be the best person to break this bad news to her mother and father."
"Well, I suppose it is bad news," said Miriam. "And I heard yesterday that scarlet fever was very much about."
"Very likely," Mrs. Lloyd replied; and then she waited for Miriam to go away, which she was obliged to do at last, without finding out where Mrs. Brown lived.
She went to her cousin's, and asked about Fanny's new dress.
"I took it home last Tuesday. I couldn't get yours and hers both done on the Saturday, I told you. What are you looking at?" said Mrs. Scott, in a tone of sudden alarm.
"Nothing. Only I wondered what would happen next," answered Miriam.
"Happen next! What do you mean? You are not going to tell me she has left her situation and taken that lovely new dress with her."
Miriam shook her head. "She has left her situation, but I don't suppose she has taken the new dress with her, for she has gone to the fever hospital," she said.
"The fever hospital!" almost screamed Mrs. Scott, and retreating from Miriam as though the talking of a fever hospital would convey the infection. "I heard only yesterday that people were being taken to the hospital in hundreds, that they have had to take a house outside the town to send some of the people there because the hospital is so full. And now that poor girl has gone there, you say."
"She's gone to the hospital! Won't they send her clothes with her," asked Miriam.
Her cousin shook her head. "I wish I hadn't been in such a hurry to send that dress home," she said, with a sigh.
"I wish I knew where her mother lived, I would go and tell her all about it," said Miriam.
"Well, I think you ought to know that," said her cousin, "and I ought to have been told before I made that dress. I suppose I may reckon that as lost now;" and Mrs. Scott scolded Miriam for not taking care to know all about her friend before recommending her.
"Oh, I dare say it will be all right, and you will get the money for the dress," said Miriam, crossly; and she bade her cousin good night in no pleasant mood.
"OH, mother, I do wish Fanny could have had her holiday next Monday? It would be so nice for us, and for you too, wouldn't it?" And Eliza kissed her mother in a sort of rapture at the anticipation.
The Vicarage party had returned from the seaside the day before, but Eliza could not be spared to come home until this afternoon, and now she could only stay for an hour; but she had come to say she was to have a whole long day with her mother the following Monday, so she wanted her to send for Fanny that they might spend this wonderful holiday together.
Mrs. Brown was not thinking so much of the holiday as of Eliza, and the change that had been wrought in her by this lengthened stay at the seaside.
"You have grown taller and stouter too, my dear, I am quite sure," said her mother, as though she had not said it half a dozen times before, as she looked at the girl. She was rosy and happy, and there was a quickness and alertness about her that told of increased health and strength, such as she had never before enjoyed.
"Don't you think Fanny will be surprised when she sees how I have grown," said Eliza, who was anxious to stand beside her elder sister and thus prove that she was taller than when she went away.
Mrs. Brown was by no means sure what Fanny might think or say; but she was anxious to please Eliza, and so she proposed that she should write a letter the next day, and ask Fanny if she could come out to tea on Monday if her mistress could not spare her for the whole day.
"Your daddy will want to see you, too, when he comes home on Saturday, and so it would be better, if Mrs. Parsons would allow it, for you to have two half-days instead of one whole day on Monday. Do you think you could ask her this, my girl?" said Mrs. Brown.
"I will, when I go back. Nurse likes me to ask her things," added Eliza.
"And you think she will arrange the nursery work so that you can come and see daddy on Saturday or Sunday?"
"I dare say it will be to-morrow," answered Eliza, "because the Vicar likes us to stay at home on Sunday, I know; but if I cannot come then, you may be sure daddy can have his day on Sunday."
Mrs. Brown took Eliza to see Jessie Collins, and the girl was not a little surprised to see the change in Jessie during the time she had been away. Her foot was better now, although she still limped, and was glad to lean on the table or back of a chair as she got about the room. Still, she managed to sweep and dust, and keep the hearth clean and neat, with her father's armchair ready by the side of the fire whenever he should come in.
By degrees the old chair was beginning to do its work, too, for Collins often spent an evening at home now by his own fireside, instead of going off to the public-house as he had done for some months past.
"If ever I do get father back into his old ways, it will be through your help, Mrs. Brown," said Jessie, as she told her that for the last three nights her father had sat in his chair smoking and reading, as he used to do before he took to going out.
"I don't know what we should have done without your mother in our trouble," said Jessie, turning to Eliza. "My mother would have been buried by the parish, and Polly and I could not have had a bit of mourning for her. Father often talks about that. He thinks more of what you did to save my mother from a parish funeral than anything else you have done, though he likes to see us in our black frocks and hats, looking like decent girls, he says."
Eliza nestled up to her mother's side, looking up at her with affectionate pride.
"Yes, I know what a dear mother she is," she said.
"You and Fanny ought to be proud of her," said Jessie.
"Oh, we are! we are!" said Eliza, warmly; but still she was very glad that somebody else should learn to appreciate her mother; and she talked to Jessie about her visit to the seaside, and explained how it was she and Master Eustace were shut up in the cave. The two girls had a very pleasant hour together, until it was time to go and meet Minnie and Selina coming out of school, and to see her teacher once more.
Mrs. Brown intended to write her letter to Fanny so that she might have it some time during the next day, but the business of getting tea ready, and thinking how well Eliza was looking, put it out of her mind, and she did not think of it again until she went to bed. It was too late then, and so it was not until Saturday's work was nearly done that the letter was written, and Selina sent to post it, as she went to meet her father coming from the railway station.
Just as her father reached home, Eliza came from the Vicarage to spend an hour or two with him.
"This is your day, daddy, and Monday is to be Fanny's day," said the girl. "I am going to have another holiday on Monday, so that I may see everybody, and Fanny is to come on Monday."
"My bonnie lassie! Why, you look almost as well as Fanny herself," exclaimed Brown, holding his girl at arm's length to admire her.
"I shall know whether I have really grown, as people say I have, when Fanny comes, and I can stand at the side of her. I know just where my head used to reach when she was at home," said Eliza, with flashing eyes.
"Why, I declare you are growing like Fanny, my girl," said her father.
"I hope not," said Jack, quickly; "one Fanny is enough in the family. Have you seen anything of her this week, mother?" he asked.
Mrs. Brown shook her head. "I have been waiting for Eliza to come home, that I might have something to write about," she said.
"You have written now, haven't you, mother?" said Brown.
"Yes; but I am afraid she won't get the letter until Monday morning. Selina was rather late in posting it."
"Oh, mother! I hope it won't be too late for her to come out on Monday," said Eliza. "You see, I am to begin the regular nursery work next week, and I shall not have a holiday for a month, so that it will be a pity if she comes another day, when I can't see her."
"Yes, it would; and I think I must send another letter to her mistress, asking her to spare Eliza for Monday afternoon, if she cannot come out for the day."
"Oh yes, mother, do!" said Eliza, clapping her hands, and making almost as much noise as Selina herself.
No one had seen Eliza so noisy and merry before, and mother and father could only look at each other and smile, with satisfied pleasure as they looked at the girl.
Again her father remarked how much she was growing like Fanny, to which Mrs. Brown could only answer by a sigh; for to her it would be bitter indeed if Eliza should show the same wilful, selfish tendency of character that Fanny did.
But at present, every action was like those to which they had been accustomed in the old days, when she was ready to do a kindness to any one who needed her help, and to think of Eliza as anything but the kind, helpful sister seemed impossible.
Now it was Jack and Minnie and Selina who were consulted, and for each she had brought a little present from the seaside; although it had cost every penny she possessed to bring something for each of the dear ones at home.
They were but trifles, perhaps. A shell box for Jack, a similar one for Minnie, some shells she had picked up on the beach for Selina, and a shell pincushion for her mother. Still this trifle was worth its weight in gold to her mother's heart, for it was an assurance to her that, at least for the present, Eliza was unchanged; and all the kind things that had been said to her, and of her, had not spoiled her yet. For her father she had brought a wooden tobacco-pipe; and it seemed to Mrs. Brown that her husband did not value it as he ought.
Fanny had never given him even such a trifle as this, which was, perhaps, why her father did not set such store by it as he might have done, if the gift had come from his darling Fanny.
However, neither said a word to the other as to what they thought of their gifts.
A very happy evening was spent, and then mother and father walked back to the Vicarage with Eliza, who still had another happy day to anticipate, when she should meet her elder sister on Monday.
Husband and wife did not say much beyond the improvement in Eliza's health, and how it had affected her spirits and behaviour. Brown had written a letter to Fanny's mistress, Mrs. Lloyd, asking her to let Fanny come home for at least part of the day on Monday; and he took care to post this before he went home again, that he might be sure it would reach its destination by Monday morning.
Then Mrs. Brown took her basket, and went for her marketing, Polly Collins going with her this time, that Mrs. Brown might make the purchases, and Polly carry them home in her own basket. Jessie hoped to be able to do this for herself soon; but at present she was thankful that her father could give her the money for Polly to go and fetch what they wanted. She did not grudge her little sister this small pleasure, much as she would have liked to go herself.
The Sunday passed in pleasant anticipation of another visit from Eliza on the Monday, and talking over with Jack what he would do for the future, for he could not quite make up his mind that his new work would be worth all the book-knowledge he would have to acquire if he wished to go on learning this branch of electrical engineering.
"Careful, thorough work is wanted everywhere," argued Jack, "and I am not like father. A little hard work, more or less, is nothing to me; but, of course, with father it is different, and he isn't fit for hard work now. But somebody must do it."
"Yes; that is true enough," said his father.
"And the question has to be looked at all round. Hard work there must be for everybody, and the choice you have to make now is whether it shall be hands and muscles that shall be set to work, or brains. If you feel the brains are not ready to take up the task, then let it be hands and muscles. And you can be just as proud of a bit of thoroughly honest work in which the strength of arms has been used as the man who has done a clever bit of work by the nimbleness of his brain."
Mrs. Brown still wished Jack would apply himself to his books, and try to overcome his dislike to study; but she was wise enough to leave her husband to argue it out with him. For the present it would make no difference to him, and they went off to work the next morning, Brown's last words being—
"Now, I hope you will have a very happy day with your two girls, mother; and you must write and tell me all about it afterwards."
His wife nodded and smiled. "Look-out for a long letter on Tuesday," she said. And when they were gone she began at once the work of the day.
The girls went to school at the usual time; but about ten o'clock she saw Minnie running in by the back way. She went at once to open the door, for a feeling of anxiety had seized her, and she was afraid something had happened to Selina.
"What is it, Minnie? What is the matter?" she asked.
"I hardly know, mother; but a lady is coming to see you. It is Fanny's mistress, I think. Teacher sent me with her to show her the way, and I asked her to let me run on and tell you she was coming."
"There! That is her knock, I am sure!" said Minnie; and she ran to the front-door to admit Mrs. Lloyd, and show her into the almost bare sitting-room.
Her mother followed almost immediately, and she guessed at once that the trouble, whatever it might be, concerned Fanny. She had seen Mrs. Lloyd once before, and she said, as she entered the room—
"You have come about my daughter, ma'am? Is she ill? How long has she been ill?"
Mrs. Lloyd looked surprised at the question. "Surely you have heard that your daughter left my service three weeks ago?" she said.
"Fanny left her place!" uttered Mrs. Brown, in amazement.
"I am sorry to say she did. She left me with only a fortnight's notice, that she might 'better herself,' as so many girls do. Before she went, I sent her home to tell you all about it, and where she was going."
"She never came," murmured Mrs. Brown, through her pale lips, for she felt the worst had not been told yet.
"Yes, mother, Fanny came one afternoon. Don't you remember she said they were busy, and she could not have a proper holiday that day?"
"That would be the time," said the lady. "It was about a month ago; and she left me the following week, so that you may be sure I was surprised to receive a letter from your husband this morning asking leave for her to come for a holiday to-day. I was coming to see Miss Martin this morning, for last night one of Fanny's friends called to tell me that she was ill, and had been taken to the fever hospital."
"My Fanny! Oh, ma'am, why didn't you send for me? I would have had her brought home and nursed her myself."
"Poor thing!" said Mrs. Lloyd under her breath, as she saw how greatly the poor woman was upset. "You must not fret," she said. "There is no doubt Fanny will be taken good care of; and very likely they would not have let her come home to be nursed, even if you had known she was ill, and could have sent for her. Certainly the hospital people could move her with more care and less danger to her than you could have had it done yourself," she added.
Mrs. Brown dried her eyes. "I suppose I can go and see my poor girl," she said, feeling that she must do something for Fanny.
"I should think you could," said Mrs. Lloyd, "although I know nothing about the rules of the hospital myself. I dare say Fanny's last mistress would be able to tell you all about it, though. For of course, when they took her away, the messengers would leave word when friends could see and hear about the sick person."
"Do you know where Fanny's new mistress lives?" asked Mrs. Brown.
"Yes. I have not seen her, for she did not trouble to come to me for Fanny's character, and from all I have heard, I should think she is rather a careless woman, but nothing worse, so that you may rest assured that Fanny was taken care of when she was ill. The address is Mrs. Lewis, 16, Mortimer Street—not far from where I live myself," added Mrs. Lloyd, now rising to leave.
Mrs. Brown thanked her for her kindness in calling to give her all the particulars concerning Fanny. When Mrs. Lloyd had gone, she said—
"You had better go back to school, Minnie, and I will go to the Vicarage and see Eliza, and ask if she can put off coming home until we hear more about Fanny. I may be able to see the Vicar, too; and I dare say he can tell me what I want to know about this fever hospital, and when I could go to see her."
Minnie received directions about her own and Selina's dinner, while her mother put on her bonnet; for, as she told Minnie, she did not know when she should get home again.
Her visit to the Vicarage did not take long, and rather depressed the poor woman, for the Vicar told her that, as it was a fever hospital to which Fanny had been taken, he did not think that friends would be allowed to visit the patients, for fear of catching the disease themselves or carrying the infection to other people.
"Oh, sir, but I must see my child," said Mrs. Brown, with tears in her eyes. "If Fanny is dangerously ill, I am sure she will want to see me, for she did not tell me she was going to leave the comfortable place Miss Martin got for her, and I know she will feel better when she has told me all about it."
"Very well. I hope the rules will allow you to see her, Mrs. Brown, for I can understand how anxious you must feel about poor Fanny. But do not forget that, although you may not be able to go to her, God is with her, to direct and comfort her, as He was with the other little woman when she was shut in the cave."
"Oh, sir, but Eliza was doing her duty when she got on those steps she told me about; but I am afraid Fanny has been naughty and wilful;" and there Mrs. Brown stopped.
"But God cares for His wilful children as well as those who try to serve Him in the way of duty. I do not say that they are alike in being happy in His service. The wilful ones may doubt whether God cares for them any longer, and may think themselves forgotten by God, but this does not make any difference in His love and care. You say Fanny has been naughty and wilful, but you are going to look for her the more carefully because you think she needs you the more on account of her wilfulness. Now, try to think that your mother-love is only a shadow of the greater love God has for us, and trust Him to take care of Fanny, although you can do very little for her yourself just now."
Mrs. Brown tried to thank the Vicar for his kindly advice; and having been assured that Eliza should come home some other day for the promised holiday, she hurried away, for she had a long walk before her, and as yet there were no tramcars running between this distant suburb and the neighbourhood of Mortimer Street.
Fortunately for Mrs. Brown, she had little difficulty in finding the address she wanted, and Mrs. Lewis was at home and saw her with very little delay. She also could give the poor woman some little comfort, for she spoke very highly of Fanny as a hard-working girl, and said she hoped she would come back to her when she was able to leave the hospital. But she could give her no information about the rules of the hospital, or whether she would be able to see Fanny if she went there.
THE uncertainty as to whether she would gain admittance to the fever hospital, did not deter Mrs. Brown from going there. Fortunately she found that a tramcar from the neighbourhood of Mortimer Street passed the gates of the hospital, so that she was able to reach it without walking much further. When at last the hospital was reached, and the gate opened to her impatient ringing, it seemed hours that she had to wait, before she could gain any certain news about Fanny. The only thing the porter did seem certain about was that she could not go beyond the porch of the building, where inquiries had to be made. To see Fanny, unless she was dangerously ill, was quite out of the question. So Mrs. Brown had to go back at last with what comfort she could get from the assurance that she was going on very well, and if there was any change for the worse, she would be sent for immediately, as this was the rule of the hospital.
Then the sliding window closed, and Mrs. Brown turned homewards by another road to avoid going through the town. She grew more calm and less anxious about Fanny the longer she considered the matter, for she had heard of this fever hospital before, and knew that the patients received every care, and were as well nursed as if they were at home. She felt sure that Fanny would be taken good care of; but she wanted to see her, and know all that had happened, and why she did not write to tell her she was ill, before she was so bad as to be taken away. There were so many things she wanted to ask her, that it was well for Fanny that her mother could not go to see her just now.
Mrs. Brown had asked about Fanny's clothes, and the lady had told her that, after she had been taken away, the parish authorities had sent to fetch them to be disinfected.
"They had better be sent home when they are ready," said Mrs. Brown. And, at her request, Mrs. Lewis wrote a note to this effect, and this Mrs. Brown left at the office as she passed, telling the clerk that she was the girl's mother, and that Fanny would return home as soon as she was well.
Brown wrote to his wife the next day, when he heard the news from her, saying what he could to comfort her, and that if he had been working at the factory close at hand he could have done no more than she had, and that he was glad she made the necessary inquiries about her clothes, for the poor girl thought so much of her clothes, he knew, and she would want them when she came home.
What a bitter commentary on this the next day brought. A large, blue, official-looking letter came in the middle of the afternoon.
Mrs. Brown's fingers shook as she took it out of the postman's hands, and Jessie Collins, who had been helped to limp over to pay her first visit to her friend, said, in a tone of alarm, "Is there anything the matter, Mrs. Brown?" when she went into the kitchen with the letter in her hand.
"I don't know, I don't know," said Mrs. Brown; and then, with a desperate effort, she tore open the envelope, and took out the large sheet of blue paper and read, "I regret to inform you that your daughter, Fanny Brown, died this morning, and I have to request that her body—"
Mrs. Brown did not read any further. The letter slipped from her fingers, her head drooped, and she would have fallen out of the chair on which she was sitting if Jessie had not saved her.
Jessie was frightened, but managed to reach to the wall, and knock for the next-door neighbour, who was a friend of Mrs. Brown's.
"Whatever is the matter?" she exclaimed, as she rushed in at the back door.
"It was all through reading this blue letter," said Jessie; and when the woman had moved Mrs. Brown to the armchair, she picked up the letter to see what could have caused the fainting-fit.
"Mrs. Poole, Fanny Brown is dead!" exclaimed Jessie.
At the same moment, Selina ran in from school, and was in time to hear Jessie's exclamation.
"I don't believe you, Jessie Collins. What have you done to my mother? Oh, mother, mother, speak to me!" implored the little girl, bursting into tears. "Don't you believe what Jessie Collins says," she went on, as her mother slowly opened her eyes. Selina's cry had done more to restore her than all the water and burnt feathers Mrs. Poole had used. For a minute she looked round the room in a dazed fashion, as though waking from a terrible dream. Then all at once she looked at Jessie, and said—
"The letter! the letter! I thought I had a terrible letter!"
Selina was holding the letter now, and gave it to her. She shuddered as her fingers touched it.
"Yes, yes, it is true then," she said; "and my Fanny is dead."
She did not faint again, but sat and stared at the letter for a minute, and then said—
"I must go to him. I must tell my husband."
Selina had run out and spread the news, and in a few minutes other neighbours had come in. They soon persuaded Mrs. Brown that the best thing she could do was to send a telegram to her husband, bidding him and Jack come home at once, as Fanny was worse.
This would be the best way of telling the sad news, Mrs. Poole thought; so just as he had finished his day's work, the telegram was handed to Brown.
But although he started for home as soon as he could after he received it, he did not reach his wife until nearly ten o'clock, and then it was too late to go to the hospital and ascertain further particulars about Fanny's death.
He went on this sad errand the next morning, leaving his wife in the care of Jessie and Mrs. Poole, for she was now so ill that the doctor had been sent for, and had ordered her to keep her bed for the present. The fatigue of the long walk a day or two before, followed by the shock of the sudden news of Fanny's death, had proved too much for her.
The only person she asked to see was the Vicar, and when he came, she said—
"Where is my Fanny now, sir?"
"In God's keeping," he answered tenderly. "Nothing can take her out of His hands."
"But she is dead," said the poor heart-broken mother; "and I know she had been wilful and selfish, and—"
But there the invalid stopped with a groan.
"And you do not know anything that happened to the poor silly girl after she went to the hospital? But cannot you believe that God was there with your wilful child, as well as in the cave with your brave girl? And could He not lead Fanny to repentance for the past, as well as give courage and endurance to her sister?"
A little something like hope crept into the poor woman's eyes as she listened.
"Do you really think so," she asked.
"I do, indeed. Many a lesson learned at home or at school, and forgotten or neglected, perhaps despised for years and years, often comes back when we are ill. And what is more likely than that your Fanny turned to God and asked His forgiveness for Christ's sake? And though no one may know of this, we are sure that God was ready to forgive all her sins, and receive her to Himself."
Mrs. Brown was too ill to bear much talking; but the Vicar felt sure, from the changed look in her sad eyes, that the few words he had spoken had led her to hope in God's mercy to Fanny. And then he left, promising to help in the business arrangements if his help was needed.
Of these, however, Mrs. Brown heard very little, Fanny's body had been placed in a coffin, and fastened down before her father reached the hospital, and arrangements for the funeral had to be made, and carried out very quickly.
Mrs. Brown was too ill to ask many questions, so she did not know that her husband had not been able to look upon the face of their child. He was careful to keep this to himself as far as he could. By-and-by they might be able to talk the matter over. Now they spoke of the pleasant shady spot where Fanny had been laid in the churchyard, and where several of her old schoolfellows had already placed bunches of choice wildflowers, such as Fanny had often gathered herself in her lifetime.
Jessie Collins insisted upon doing her share of the nursing for her friend, and Minnie allowed her to sit with her mother many an hour, when she would rather have been there herself, because she knew that Jessie longed to show her gratitude by doing what she could for them in their trouble.
Everybody was very kind to the bereaved parents; and when at last Mrs. Brown was able to come downstairs once more, friends and neighbours tried all they could to shield her from any painful reminder of her loss, and tried to interest her in what was going on.
There was one subject that was in the mind of a good many people; although Mrs. Brown herself had apparently forgotten it, and this was Fanny's box of clothes. Brown had sent to the parish authorities asking them not to send them back immediately, as his wife was ill, and his work took him away from home at present.
To this request a polite answer had been returned that the clothes might remain in their charge for a month, if that would suit the convenience of Mr. Brown, and this arrangement being made, Brown thought no more about the matter, and the days and weeks went on, until more than a month had passed since the news of Fanny's death first reached her mother. One morning, after the girls had gone to school, a cart stopped at the door, and when Mrs. Brown went to open it to the man who had knocked, she saw that he had just set down Fanny's box.
"Good morning, ma'am. Will you please look through this, and see that everything is right by this paper?" and he held out a list of what the box had contained when it was taken from Mrs. Lewis's.
For a minute Mrs. Brown felt that she could not open the box; but, after a minute's hesitation, she said—
"If you will lift it into the front room, I will open it."
"All right," answered the man; and he handed the key to Mrs. Brown.
With trembling fingers she unlocked it, and lifted the lid. She did not recognize the first article she lifted out, for it was Fanny's new dress, now limp and tumbled and creased.
Then came articles that Mrs. Brown knew quite well, and these brought the tears to her eyes, and a pang to her heart, but the business had to be gone through, and the articles compared with the list the man had given to her.
At the very bottom, underneath caps and aprons and all the small keepsakes she had treasured, was a cotton bag, and in this was Judds' collecting-card, with its record of what she had paid; and also the watch and chain, which had been the source of all Fanny's trouble, and her mother's sorrow and disappointment.
At the sight of this Mrs. Brown burst into a violent flood of tears.
"I cannot do any more," she said, with a gasp.
The man lifted his cap, and scratched his head.
"It's kind of upset you, missus," he said, in a tone of apology. "But there, we've got to the end now, and if you'll just write your name at the bottom of this paper I shan't want to bother you again."
Mrs. Brown choked back her tears, and wiped her eyes that she might see to write her name where the man told her it was to be written, and having done this, and shut the street door, she could do as she pleased with these memorials of her lost darling. For nearly an hour she sat tearless, but with a bitter pang at her heart; for, try as she would, she was forced to admit that there was conclusive evidence that self, and self-gratification had been the ruling spirit of Fanny's life to the very last. But this should not be known to any one but herself. She would put away the things, lock the box, and keep the key. She replaced the watch and chain in its bag, puzzled a little as she read the rules printed on the collecting-card, but holding to the belief in what Fanny had told her that she had bought the watch for ten shillings. Then, when the well-known articles, which she herself had made, were replaced in the box, the new brown dress was shaken out and examined, and when the quality of the material was noted and the way in which it was made, Mrs. Brown exclaimed—
"Where could the silly girl have bought this? She certainly could not afford it!" And tears filled her eyes once more, for how could she endure to blame Fanny now that the silence of death severed them, and she could not explain how and why she had bought this expensive dress? At any rate, no one else should see it. She would hide her daughter's folly in her own heart, that no word of blame might be spoken or even thought of by any one but herself, and for her she must learn to think kindly and tenderly of poor Fanny, even though bitter thoughts of blame must sometimes mingle with them. She folded the new brown dress carefully, and put it at the top of the other things in the box, then closed the lid and locked it, before either of the girls came home from school.
Selina looked at her mother closely as she came in.
"Is there anything the matter, mother?" she asked.
"No, dear, nothing, only I have a little headache to-day."
"Mother, I met Eliza as I came out of school, and she told me to tell you that she is coming home to tea this afternoon." It was Minnie who spoke, and Selina at once asked when she had seen Eliza.
"As I was coming out of school," repeated her sister. "You always stay behind to the last minute, and so, of course, you missed seeing her, for she could only stay a moment to ask how mother was, and to tell me she was coming home to tea with her to-day."
Selina pouted. "It was all teacher's fault," she grumbled. "She made me go back into the class and sit down because I pushed past Bella Hinton, and the little stupid cried about it."
"Well, it was unkind to push a poor little lame thing like Bella," said Minnie, reproachfully.
"Oh, well, people have to look after themselves if they don't want to be left behind," said Selina.
"My dear, I hope you are not going to make that your rule of life," said her mother. "For I am afraid, if you do, yours will not be a very happy one, nor will your friends have much happiness through you."
Mrs. Brown spoke very seriously, and Minnie looked up at her mother in wondering surprise. "It was only a little thing, mother," she said, by way of excuse for Selina.
"Yes, dear, it is, I know, only a little thing. Straws, too, are little things; but by the way they float on the top of a stream they show which way the tide is running, or the stream flowing; and so a little girl, who will push a lame schoolfellow aside to be able to run past her, will be likely to grow up a selfish girl, considering only her own convenience and pleasure rather than the wishes and wants of other people. Now, I particularly wish my little girls to think of the other people as well as themselves, to try and put themselves in the place of the other, and ask themselves what they would like that other to do to them if they could exchange places. Now, how would Selina like it, if she had a lame foot and could not walk very well, to have a strong girl, who could run anywhere, come and push her out of the way? Would you like to see the strong girl running past you and getting to the playground first?"
Selina shook her head, but did not reply audibly.
"Well, now, I want you in future, for mother's sake, to think of this whenever you are going to do something that is not quite kind. Just wait a moment, and say to yourself, 'Should I like it if I was in her place?'"
Mrs. Brown thought this would be enough for the first lesson; but she was resolved that Selina, who promised to grow up like Fanny, should not be left to follow her own inclinations on these small things, lest by-and-by she too should become a cause of bitter pain and suffering to others, instead of a blessing and comfort, such as every girl should be to her parents.
"I SAY, Minnie, I've got a letter. I'll show it to you as we go to school."
Selina spoke in a mysterious whisper as they were washing their hands in the scullery, and the little girl looked cautiously over her shoulder, lest her mother should hear what she said.
Mrs. Brown was in the adjoining kitchen, and hearing Selina's voice, she told the girls to make haste, or they would be late for school.
Minnie hurried to finish, in obedience to her mother's command.
"What a time you are washing your hands!" she said to her little sister. "I must go," she said the next minute, and with a hasty "Good-bye, mother," she hurried out the back way, but was speedily followed by Selina.
"Wait for me, Minnie! Wait for me!" called the little girl.
Minnie looked back and saw her sister waving a letter in her hand, and she ran back to meet her.
"What have you got there?" she asked, rather sharply.
"The letter I told you about. The postman was at the door when I fetched the milk this morning, and he gave it to me. It's one of those nasty blue letters that come from that hospital where poor Fanny died. Wasn't I lucky to get it before mother saw it?" said the child. "It would be sure to make her ill again if she had it, you know."
"What do you mean, Selina? This letter is for father or mother," she added, taking it out of the little girl's hand and looking at the address.
"What are you going to do with it?" asked Selina, as Minnie turned round to walk home again.
"Why, we must take it to mother, of course," said Minnie, quickly.
"No, no, Minnie; don't do that. You know the last time one of those ugly blue letters came it made mother ill," pleaded Selina.
"That was because it brought the news about poor Fanny," said Minnie.
"Yes; and that will bring some other nasty news, though it can't be about Fanny. Still, it will be sure to make mother cry and be miserable. The sight of the old thing is enough to do that," said Selina. "Tear it up, Minnie," she added.
"Why, Selina, what are you saying? The letter isn't ours to do as we like with it; and even if it should make mother ill again, she must have it, for it wouldn't be right to do anything else with it." Minnie was quite clear in her own mind upon this point.
Selina pouted and tried to snatch the letter away from her sister, and even proposed that they should take it to school and ask their teacher about it.
But Minnie still shook her head. "I know what Miss Martin would say," she answered; "she would tell me to take it home to mother at once. And so you had better tell her I have had to go back; but you run on to school now, or we shall both be late." And as she spoke Minnie turned towards home again, and left Selina still pouting, and exclaiming that she did not love her mother, or she would not want to take the letter to her.
Minnie, however, paid no heed to these upbraidings. She knew that it was the only right thing to do, whatever the consequences might be, and so she went on, though her steps flagged, and she wondered again and again what would happen when this blue envelope was opened.
Mrs. Brown saw Minnie from the bedroom window before she reached the door, and she came down to see what had happened, for she had caught sight of the large official envelope, and she wondered what fresh trouble it could bring to her.
"What is it, Minnie?" she asked, as the little girl reached the doorstep.
"Selina had this letter, mother. She was afraid to give it to you for fear it should make you ill; but I thought you had better have it;" and Minnie handed the letter to her mother.
Mrs. Brown could not repress a shudder as she took it.
"You did quite right, Minnie," she said, in spite of the shiver that went through her. "Come in, dear, and we will see what news this brings."
Minnie watched her mother's face as she tore open the large envelope; but that and a sheet of blue paper fell to the ground unheeded as Mrs. Brown saw another letter, in another handwriting, folded inside the official letter. The writing was weak and shaky, as though the writer was ill, and the colour left Mrs. Brown's face, and Minnie feared her mother was going to fall out of the chair, as she cried out—
"My child, my Fanny, my darling!"
"What is it, mother? What is it?" asked Minnie, putting her arms round her mother's neck, and looking down at the letter in her hand. "Is it from Fanny?" she asked, with a gasp, for the handwriting was strangely like her sister's.
Her mother nodded and smiled, and then the tears came into her eyes, and it was some minutes before either of them could read the letter through, although it was a very short one.
"Dearest Mother," she wrote, "Nurse has just told me that I may try and write a letter to you. I have been ill for a long time, and I dare say you have wondered where I was. I have been a naughty girl, I know now, for I left my place where I was comfortable and went to one where I caught the fever, and had to come to the hospital. I am afraid it has been a great deal of trouble to you, for I know you love me, although I have been so naughty, and do not deserve it. But you will forgive me and send me a letter soon to tell me you have not forgotten me, although I have not heard from you for such a long time."
Mrs. Brown and Minnie read this letter, though it is doubtful whether either of them understood much beyond the wonderful fact that Fanny was not dead, after all.
"Mother, how is it there was such a mistake about Fanny?" said Minnie, at last; and as she spoke she picked up the official letter and envelope from the floor.
In this letter it was explained that two girls of the same name were admitted to the hospital on the same day, and by some mischance the one who had died was supposed to be the one who was surviving; but to make sure that there was now no error, the survivor had been asked to write a few lines to her friends, and give their address, now that she was a little better and in the full possession of her faculties. An answer was asked to be returned, giving the full name, age, and address of the girl whom they claimed as their daughter. A letter might also be sent to the patient, but at present no visitors could be allowed to see her, although she would soon be well enough to be sent to a convalescent home.
It was not until this had been read a second time that Mrs. Brown and Minnie could understand all it meant, and when at last she did comprehend it, Mrs. Brown was all impatience to send the answer required.
"Get me a pen and ink, Minnie. You shall take the letter to the central post-office so that it may go quicker. My poor Fanny! If I had only known this she should not have waited to hear from us."
But Mrs. Brown did not find it so easy to answer the official letter she had received, and she wondered where the parents of the girl they had buried could be found. These people were living in the belief that their daughter was getting better; and what a cruel awakening it would be when they heard she had been buried by strangers in a strange place.
She could not help thinking of these unknown parents as she rejoiced over the news this letter had brought to her.
"It was a good thing we did not tear up the ugly blue letter," said Minnie, as her mother wrote the few lines required as the official reply.
To Fanny she wrote more freely, assuring her of love and forgiveness, and promising to come and see her as soon as visitors were allowed, and that Minnie and Eliza should write to her the next day.
Having sent Minnie with this letter to the central post-office that it might reach its destination the more quickly, she next wrote to her husband, enclosing the letters she had received from the hospital, and telling him what she had done. When this letter was finished, she put on her bonnet and went herself to post it, and send a telegram to him at once, for she could not keep the wonderful news to herself. She wanted to tell everybody she met that it was all a mistake that her Fanny was dead. She did tell several of the neighbours whom she knew, and they, remembering how ill she was when the news of Fanny's death first came, looked at her in wondering surprise, and though they said a few words of congratulation at the time, they shook their heads in a pitying fashion afterwards, and whispered to each other that they feared poor Mrs. Brown had gone out of her mind. This report reached Jessie Collins before Mrs. Brown returned after sending her telegram.
Jessie's foot was better now, and she was waiting at the corner of the street when Mrs. Brown got back from the post-office.
"I have come to see if I can help you do anything this morning," said the girl, looking keenly at her friend.
"Thank you, dear; but Minnie will be back very soon now. She has not gone to school this morning. Have you heard the good news? I told Mrs. Tate when I met her going to the post-office. It is all a mistake about our Fanny being dead. She is getting better. I had a letter from the hospital telling me this morning, and have just sent to let her father know."
Jessie looked puzzled. Certainly her friend did not look like a person out of her mind; but still the news seemed too wonderful to be true.
"Let me come in with you until Minnie comes back," she said, after a pause, for Mrs. Tate had remarked that she ought not to be left alone. "I should like to see the letter they sent to tell you Fanny was getting better," added Jessie.
"Yes, I might have shown it to you before I sent it away; but I have sent it to Brown now. I wish I could go and tell him myself; but he will get a telegram quicker, and the letter will reach him to-night, they say."
Jessie walked home with Mrs. Brown, and very soon Minnie came in, and Jessie at once asked if she had seen the letter from the hospital.
"Oh yes, I saw it. You need not think it is all a dream," answered Minnie.
Jessie had never seen quiet, steady Minnie so excited.
"Now, mother, we have posted the letter to Fanny, and you have sent to let father know about it. Now let me go and tell Eliza up at the Vicarage, for you know how she has grieved about poor Fanny."
"I will stay and help you, or help Minnie," said Jessie, who felt she must do something to help in spreading the joyful news.
Mrs. Brown considered the matter for a minute, and then she said—
"I think I would rather go to the Vicarage myself, Minnie; but you may go to the school and tell Miss Martin and Selina. I dare say the child is wondering what news the letter she was so afraid of has brought to us; and you ought to go at once. Now, Jessie, will you wash up the breakfast things for us? I have stripped the beds, and Minnie can help me make them when I come back from the Vicarage; but I do not feel as though I could stay in the house until I have told all the friends, who were so kind to us in our trouble, that it is all over now, and God has kept our child in life all this time when we thought she was dead."
"Yes, you go to the Vicarage and see Eliza, while I go to school and tell Miss Martin," said Minnie; for she thought it would do her mother good to have a word with the Vicar, as she had talked so fast that Minnie, too, was afraid she might be ill again.
Mrs. Brown was so impatient to reach the Vicarage that she did not notice that Minnie lingered behind to speak to Jessie after she was gone.
"I never saw mother just like this before," she said, as soon as the door closed after her.
"But the news is really true, Minnie?" said Jessie, in a questioning tone.
"What do you mean, Jessie?" asked Minnie.
"Well, I met Mrs. Tate before I came here, and she said your mother had gone out of her mind; and, you see, nobody ever heard of such a thing as this before, and so—"
"Oh, you think the letter never came to tell us such wonderful news!" interrupted Minnie.
"Well, Mrs. Tate seemed to think the trouble about Fanny had turned your mother's brain," said Jessie.
Minnie could afford to laugh at this suggestion. "Oh no; it is quite true about the letter. I saw it and read every word, and mother has sent it on to father, and I hope he will come home as soon as he gets it, for fear the good news should make mother ill. Selina said she knew the nasty letter would make her bad again, and she wanted to tear it up, only I said it would not be right, and mother must have it."
Jessie laughed. "That's just like you Browns. If a thing is right, or you think it is right, then it must be done, no matter what happens through it," said Jessie.
"Why, yes, of course," answered Minnie, as though there could be no two opinions upon this matter. "Selina isn't old enough to think about such things as she ought, or she would not have wanted to tear up a letter that was not her own," said Minnie.
"It would have been a pity if she had torn up this one," said Jessie, "though I am not sure that it won't make your mother ill, after all. There, you go and tell Miss Martin, and get back before your mother comes," she added. For in point of fact Jessie felt half afraid lest her friend was going to lose her senses, and she thought Minnie would know better what to do for her mother than she did.
So Minnie ran off to school, and Selina looked greatly relieved when she saw her sister come in smiling, and looking at her reassuringly, for her long absence had convinced the little girl that the dreadful letter had caused some mischief, and she had informed one or two of her schoolfellows that she knew her mother was ill, as Minnie had not come to school.
But now, instead of going to her own class, Minnie walked straight up to Miss Martin's table, and said—
"If you please, ma'am, mother told me to come and tell you that we have had a letter from the hospital where we thought Fanny had died, and she is not dead, but getting better."
Miss Martin looked so astonished, so incredulous, that Minnie said—
"It is true, ma'am, really."
"But, my dear child, no one ever heard of such a thing before."
"That is what everybody says. And of course we cannot tell how it could have happened; but we have got a letter from Fanny, herself, as well as from the people at the hospital, telling us that a mistake was made, and she is getting better."
"Dear me! How wonderful! But how careless somebody must have been to make such a mistake. Nov, you want to go and tell Selina and one or two of Fanny's friends, I know. Selina does not know the news, or we should all have heard it long ago," added Miss Martin.
Meanwhile Mrs. Brown had reached the Vicarage, and asked to see Eliza. The housemaid looked surprised at such a request being made so early.
"She is not going out to-day, is she, Mrs. Brown?" she asked.
"Oh no. I shall not hinder her more than a few minutes, if she is busy. The Vicar has gone out, I suppose," added the visitor.
"I don't think he has gone yet," replied the servant. "Would you like to see him?" she added, for she knew that Nurse would not be pleased if Eliza was fetched away from her work just now, no matter who might want her.
So she went to see if the Vicar was disengaged, and came back in a minute and took Mrs. Brown to the room where her master received his parishioners.
"Good morn—"
But Mrs. Brown was too eager to tell her news to wait for the usual greeting.
"Oh, sir, I am glad you are at home, for I wanted to tell you. My girl, my Fanny, is not dead. She is not, indeed, sir. It is all a mistake."
The Vicar looked at her in astonishment, and then he said—
"How did you hear this, Mrs. Brown?"
"From the hospital, sir. I had the letter this morning. There was one from Fanny too, and I have sent them both to my husband."
The Vicar hardly knew what to think. Like Mrs. Tate, he feared it must be the effect of her illness from which the poor woman was suffering. He talked to her for several minutes, and tried to persuade her not to tell Eliza until she had some further confirmation of the news.
"Oh, sir; but I cannot wait! Eliza has grieved so about Fanny, that she ought to hear the good news as soon as anybody."
"Yes; and because she has grieved more than is usual for her sister's death, I want to spare her any future disappointment," said the Vicar, kindly. "Will you trust me in this matter? As you know, Eliza has not been well since the news came of her sister's death, and she must be told very gently that she is living, lest the news should do even more harm. Now, leave it to me, and I will go at once and make further inquiries about this report. And if I find it is indeed true, I will bring the news to you at once, and then you shall come and tell Eliza yourself as soon as I get back."
Mrs. Brown found it hard to yield to the Vicar's wish on this point; but she knew it was for her child's sake he asked it, and so, for her sake, she consented, and went home again without seeing Eliza, or telling any one but the Vicar of her wonderful news.
IT was with eager anticipation that Mrs. Brown looked forward to the return of the Vicar, for when she reached home and sat down to rest and think over the matter once more, she gradually came to understand that it was not so strange, after all, that people should doubt if such wonderful news could be true. Indeed, the more calm and quiet she grew the more reasonable this view of the matter became, especially when she considered that none but herself had seen the letter from the hospital.
When, at last, she saw the Vicar walking briskly up the street, she went at once and opened the door, for she felt sure he brought her good news.
"I have seen her, Mrs. Brown! I have seen your Fanny," he said, almost as eagerly as the poor woman herself had spoken that morning at the Vicarage.
She was trembling with excitement now. "Thank God, thank God for me, sir," she exclaimed, as the Vicar stepped in.
When she was seated in the almost bare front room, the Vicar told her more about his visit.
"She has been very ill, indeed, and for some time it seemed likely that if she did not die of scarlet fever, she would succumb to brain fever, for it seems that her brain was more affected than could easily be accounted for," said the Vicar. "The nurses told me all about this complication, and asked me to try and persuade Fanny to tell me what was troubling her. They had failed to do this. They knew from her ravings when she was delirious that it had something to do with a watch, and from what she said she was in evident fear of the police going after her; and, of course, the natural conclusion was that she had stolen a watch from somewhere, but she refused to tell them anything about it."
"Oh, that watch! The misery and trouble it has caused!" said Mrs. Brown, with a groan.
The Vicar looked surprised. "Then you have heard about it," he said: "although Fanny seems to think she has kept the whole matter a secret."
"Yes, sir. I have heard about it; but I cannot say that I understand it clearly. When Fanny came home for her first holiday, she had got a very bright-looking watch, with a chain round her neck, and she told me she had given ten shillings for it. Naturally I was angry that she should spend her money so foolishly—the first wages she had ever earned. I wanted her to tell her father afterwards, and let him see the watch, but she never did tell him, and I never heard any more about it, except what I said myself, until I had her box come home a little while ago, and I had to look through it—for the man brought a list of things that were in it when it was taken away from the place where she caught the fever—and in a bag I found the watch I had seen before, and with it a collecting-card, by which I saw that she had agreed to pay two pounds for the watch, and two or three payments of three shillings had been paid. I will fetch the bag, and let you see it, sir. I have not told her father about it; for how could I let him know how our girl had deceived me as soon as she got away from home?" And poor Mrs. Brown burst into tears as she went out of the room to unlock Fanny's box.
She was away several minutes, and there were still traces of tears on her face when she came back with the little print-bag in her hand.
"There, sir," she said, "that bag made the news of her death doubly hard to bear; and I made up my mind that my husband should not have that sorrow to endure, if I could help it. So I have kept the box locked ever since it came back, and I put the key where I knew none but myself would find it."
The Vicar took out the watch and looked at it. "This is worth about fifteen shillings, I should think," he remarked, as he turned it about in his hand.
"How could they sell it for ten, then?" said Mrs. Brown. "I am sure Fanny told me she gave ten shillings for it," added her mother.
"Yes, I believe she told you the truth about the ten shillings," said the Vicar. "But as you were cross with her for giving even that small sum for it, she kept it a secret that she had so much more to pay. What seems to have upset her so much was that these people claimed the whole two pounds she had agreed to pay, without any abatement for the ten shillings she gave the woman when she bought the watch; and she had had the watch nearly six weeks before they called for the first instalment of the two pounds. Then, if you look at this card you will see that they carefully ignore having received anything on account of the payment to be made;" and the Vicar pointed with his finger to the columns where Fanny's payments had been acknowledged and the amount set down as that still owing.
Mrs. Brown heaved a sigh of relief. "Then she really did tell the truth about the ten shillings? Poor silly Fanny? Why didn't she tell us the whole story, and then we might have helped her somehow," said Mrs. Brown.
She did not enter into further particulars with the Vicar; but she could understand how it was that Fanny could not lend her any money, for there was the bitter knowledge of this debt hanging over her always present to her mind, her mother thought.
"My poor foolish girl! If she could only have trusted her mother and father," she exclaimed, tears of pity filling her eyes as she thought of all the needless suffering Fanny had endured.
"Ah," said the Vicar, "I am afraid there are a good many like Fanny among us. If we would only trust the love and care of the great Father of us all, what different men and women we should be. How much happier. How much more ready to help one another." The Vicar talked a little while to Mrs. Brown, and then he told her what was indeed glad news; for he had obtained permission for her and her husband to go and see Fanny the next day. "You will have to obey orders, and wear a wrap that will cover you and keep you from infection. You will also have to wash your face and hands, and rinse your mouth both before you go into the ward and when you come out," said the Vicar. "I had to submit, and I am sure you will be willing for the sake of seeing your child," he added.
"Yes, indeed, sir, I would do anything to see my Fanny again; and I can never be sufficiently grateful to you for all the trouble you have taken for us."
"Well, Mrs. Brown, I think, from all I have heard, that you would have done the same for me or a poorer neighbour. The poor family you have been helping lately would not have accepted help from me—not, at least, such help as I could give, but you have managed to overcome the man's pride and prejudice. You and Miss Martin between you have helped the girl to begin a new life, so that there is more hope for them all now than there ever was before, and it may be we shall see Collins himself coming to church if we are only patient enough to work and wait without trying to hurry things. I met him as I was coming here, on his way back to his work, I expect, and when I lifted my hat, and wished him good afternoon, he positively returned the greeting, and looked pleasantly at me when he did it."
Mrs. Brown smiled. "Ah, the black frock and bits of mourning Mrs. Parsons sent to Jessie pleased her father quite as much as it pleased the girl!" she said. "They had no money they could spend for black things; but with what Miss Martin and Mrs. Parsons and another friend gave them they were able to go into comfortable mourning for their mother, and this respect paid to the memory of his wife has done more to touch Collins than anything else could. And now he has begun to give up the drink again, Jessie hopes to make the home more comfortable for all of them. Do you know, sir, she has gone to work at the blacking factory three days a week? They need extra help there, and Jessie has gone that she may be able to do something towards paying off the debts that have grown to be such a burden to them lately."
"Brave girl!" said the Vicar. "Tell her that we shall all be proud of her yet, and I shall try to get her father to join our men's club when it is open. I can say a good word to him about his daughter, and that will help me to open the subject as soon as things are forward enough."
The Vicar talked thus, thinking it would be good to draw Mrs. Brown's mind away from her own trouble and joy for a little while. But as he was leaving, he said—
"Now, if Eliza can be spared for an hour, she shall come home for you to tell her the good news yourself. Brown, I expect, will be home to-night, for I sent him a telegram to say he had better come and have matters cleared up."
As Mrs. Brown anticipated, when she thanked the Vicar for his promise that Eliza should come home for an hour or two, it was not long before the girl appeared, and then all the wonderful tale had to be told over again. When Selina and Minnie came home from school, they had a fresh item of news. A friend of Fanny's, not having heard the story taken to school in the morning, had brought a bunch of flowers to put on her grave, and then, hearing what had happened, Miss Martin had suggested that the flowers should still be placed on the grave, but with the inscription, "For the stranger who lies here instead of Fanny Brown."
By the last train Brown himself came home, having obtained leave to come and do what he could towards clearing up the mystery that led to the report of his daughter's death.
Like everybody else, he was disposed to think the present information might prove false, until his wife told him that the Vicar had been to the hospital and actually seen and talked with Fanny.
"We are both going to see her to-morrow," she added. "But we shall have to obey the rules and regulations, the Vicar told me, although they may seem strange to us."
"All right, we will do as we are told, for the sake of seeing our girl," said Brown; "but I shall want to know afterwards how they came to send us that blundering message."
But before they went to bed that night they were destined to hear something more about the matter. Just as they were going upstairs there came a knock at the door, and when it was opened Brown saw a well-dressed man, whom he took to be a clerk, standing on the doorstep.
"Is this Mr. Brown's?" he asked.
"Yes, sir, my name is Brown."
"And you have a daughter ill in the fever hospital?" said the stranger.
"Yes, sir. I heard she was there to-day, though we thought we had laid her under the trees in our churchyard. Is that the business you have come about?" asked Brown.
"Yes. I have come to know where the true Fanny Brown is buried, for it is Mary Brown that is still living in the hospital."
Mrs. Brown heard the words, and her heart almost died within her.
"My child's name is Fanny, not Mary," she said, going to the door.
"Will you come inside, sir, and let us see what this other mistake may mean?" said Brown.
The man stepped in. "My daughter's name was Frances Florence Brown, and she was about sixteen. I had sent her to boarding-school since her mother's death, two years ago. The fever, it seems, broke out in the school, and they were obliged to send my poor girl away before I could have any choice in the matter. She was called Fanny by her schoolfellows, and that was how the name of 'Fanny' came to be entered in the books of the hospital. I have written again and again to the authorities, and was told each time that my child was seriously ill, until yesterday I insisted upon seeing her for myself; and then, judge what my feelings were to see that it was altogether another Fanny Brown, and not my daughter at all. The Nurse told me then that this girl said her name was Fanny, but she had been entered in the books as Mary Brown. She had been admitted on the same day, and about the same time as my daughter, and that was how the two names had been confused. You received notice of your daughter's death, when my daughter died."
"May I ask, sir, what sort of a girl your child was?" said Brown.
"Rather small for her age, and very delicate," said the grieved father, with tears in his eyes. "The girl I saw to-day is not the least like her."
"No, sir, I think there cannot be any mistake this time, for our Vicar went to see our Fanny this morning, and he would be sure to know her. Besides, she talked to him for a little while, though they would not let him stay very long," said Mrs. Brown.
It was agreed before the stranger left that he should come early the next day to see where his child was buried; and he did this before the Browns went to the hospital. The Vicar had been informed of this, and met them at the grave; and the bunch of flowers left there for "the stranger" touched the father's heart very deeply.
When Brown and his wife reached the hospital, they found Fanny anxiously looking out for them.
"You won't be able to stay long, mother," she said, "and I want to tell you something while I can. I told the Vicar all about the watch; but in my box you will find a new brown frock, and I have not paid for it. I got a new place, where I was to have ten pounds a year, that I might pay for this and the watch. Oh, you don't know what a foolish, wicked girl I have been!" said Fanny, bursting into tears.
"Hush! hush! You must not cry, or I shall have to send your mother away, and then you will not be able to tell her what you want her to do," said Nurse, speaking very firmly.
The tears were in her father's eyes as well as in Fanny's; but he managed to say—
"You want me to pay for this dress, dear?"
"Oh yes, if you can. I want you to lend me the money, and when I get well, and can go to service again, I will pay you back, daddy."
"Yes, yes," said her mother; "we will do just what you wish. We have saved some money, you know, to buy new furniture for the parlour, but your new frock shall be paid for out of it directly."
"Oh, thank you, thank you, mother," said Fanny, gratefully. "Now I shall be able to go to sleep, Nurse," she added; "for my father and mother will pay what I owe, I am sure. Give my love to Miriam when you see her. And if Mrs. Lloyd's servant leaves, ask Mrs. Lloyd to wait till I get well, and let me come back to her."
"There, no more," said Nurse; "you must go now," she said, speaking to Mrs. Brown; and the next minute they were hurried out of the ward, and Fanny was swallowing some medicine that should help her to go to sleep.
The rest of my story is soon told. Mrs. Brown went home and once more unlocked Fanny's box. As the girl had told her, she found Mrs. Scott's bill in the pocket, with a few words added that the writer could not afford to give long credit, and that she hoped half the price of the dress would be paid the following week. She showed this to her husband, and he agreed that the whole twenty-five shillings must be paid at once. It seemed an extravagant amount to Mrs. Brown, who had been used to get a frock for Fanny at the cost of a few shillings, even when she had to pay for it herself; and when she looked again at this brown dress she could only say that it was not worth half the money now, it was so tumbled.
But she took the bill and the money to Mrs. Scott that same afternoon, while Brown and a friend, who understood the value of watches, went to see Judd. The man began talking to Brown at first very much as he had talked to Fanny; but he soon learned that the police would be called in, and the whole case taken before a magistrate, if he did not do as Brown wished. Sorely against his will, he had to give a receipt for the ten shillings Fanny had first paid, and acknowledge this as part payment for the watch. Then followed a wrangle with Brown's friend, whom Judd learned was as well acquainted with the value of these watches as himself. The storm raged round the sum of four shillings, which Brown's friend declared had already been paid in excess of the value of the watch. Fifteen shillings was a fair retail price; and, as Fanny had paid nineteen shillings, he demanded that four shillings should be returned to her father; for even at this reduced price, Judd would receive a fair profit, and more than this he had no right to demand.
After a good deal of haggling the four shillings were returned, and the collecting-card receipted in such a way, that although fifteen shillings only were paid, Fanny received a full discharge for the whole amount she had contracted to pay, and no further claim could be made upon her in the future.
This settled, Brown went to hear what the people had to say who had sent to tell him that Fanny was dead. Their explanation was very much like what he had heard from the other Mr. Brown, as to the similarity of the girls' names, but he also added that the violence of the epidemic for a short time had taxed their resources, and compelled their officials to work long beyond their usual hours. Mr. Brown was asked to take these circumstances into his consideration in making complaint about the mistake that had arisen.
With regard to the expense he had incurred, in paying for the funeral of a stranger, ample compensation would be made at once; so that when he left, Brown felt he had very little to grumble about.
A few weeks later, Fanny was sent to a convalescent home at the seaside, and when she returned she was allowed to go direct home to her friends. She was looking very different then from what she did when the Vicar saw her in the hospital. She looked older and graver too, for the bitter experience she had passed through she was never likely to forget. She was wiser too, and more diffident; less eager to receive high wages than to secure a comfortable home, when she would be able once more to take up the threads of life, and learn to be useful.
She had said she would like to go back to Mrs. Lloyd's, but she had small hope of being able to do so, until one day Miss Martin sent to tell her that Mrs. Lloyd's servant had been obliged to go home, because her mother was ill, and Mrs. Lloyd would be glad if Fanny could go to her for a few weeks.
The girl needed no second invitation. She went the same day, and the few weeks extended to months and even years; for the thought of going to a new place was one of horror to Fanny, and though she had to dress plainly, and be careful and economical, there was not a more happy, healthy, winsome lassie than Fanny Brown, who had once been so wilful and selfish as to well-nigh break her mother's heart.
THE END
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.