“I’m glad they are gone, and yet I’m sorry. Em seemed sorry to go, and she cried when I kissed her good-by. I really think Em loves me after all; and if it wasn’t for that ugly Charlie, she would be a nice girl. But that Charlie! Oh dear! I don’t think there is another such boy anywhere. I don’t wonder my uncle compares him to a burr, a sting-nettle, and a hedgehog. I’m sure he’s been nothing but a plague to everybody, ever since he came here. I’m glad he’s gone, anyhow. And yet, poor fellow, I pity him. He must be miserable himself, or he wouldn’t torment everybody else so—but I must go to work, I s’pose.”
Thus did Jessie talk to herself, after seeing her cousins off. She had returned to the parlor, and seated herself in her small rocking-chair. She now drew the two pieces of cloth for her uncle’s slippers, from her work-basket, and after handling them awhile with a languid air, put them in her lap, sighed, and said—
“Oh dear! I do wish these slippers were done. This is a hard pattern, and it will take me ever so many days to finish it. Heigho! I ’most wish I hadn’t begun them. Let me see if I have worsted enough to finish them.”
Here Jessie leaned over and began to explore the tangled depths of her work-basket. It was a complete olio. Old letters, pieces of silk, velvet, linen, and woollen, scraps of paper, leaves of books, old cords and rusty tassels, spools of cotton, skeins of thread and knots,—in short, almost every thing that could by any sort of chance, or mischance, get into a young lady’s work-basket, was there in rare confusion. Jessie’s love of order was not very large. Her temper was often sorely tried by the trouble which her careless habit caused her when seeking a pair of scissors, or a spool of cotton. It was so to-day. She plunged her hand deep into the basket, in search of the colored worsteds required for her uncle’s slippers. After feeling round awhile, she drew forth a tangled mess, which she placed on her lap.
“Oh dear!” she said, in a complaining tone; “how these worsteds are tangled!”
Nimbly her fingers wrought, however, and very soon the skeins were all laid out on her knee.
“Let me see,” said she, looking at her pattern; “there are one, two, three, four—five—six colors, and I have only one, two, three, four, five. Which is missing? Ah, I see: there is no brown. Must I hunt that basket again? It’s a regular jungle—no, not a jungle—a jungle is a forest, mostly covered with reeds and bushes. This is a, a—a jumble. Uncle, would call it a basket of confusion. Ha! ha!”
Vainly did Jessie explore her “basket of confusion.” In vain did she upset its contents upon the floor, and replace them by handfuls. The missing skein of brown worsted could not be found. At last, with wearied neck, and aching head, she threw herself back in her chair, and said—
“It’s no use, there is no brown worsted there. But what’s that?”
In leaning back, Jessie’s eyes were arrested by a new book which was on the mantle. Starting from her chair, she took down the book. It was a story-book that Guy had borrowed of his friend Richard Duncan. The pictures were beautiful, and Jessie, charmed by the promise of its opening pages, gave herself up to the leadings of her excited curiosity, and soon forgot all about worsted, slippers, cousins, and uncle. Little Impulse the wizard had baited his trap with a choice book, and Jessie was in his power again.
“Why, Guy! what brought you home so early?” asked Jessie, more than two hours later, when her brother’s entrance broke her attention from the book.
“Early!” exclaimed Guy, looking at his watch; “do you call fifteen minutes past twelve early?”
“Fifteen minutes past twelve!” cried Jessie, in great surprise; “it can’t be so late: your watch must be wrong, Guy.”
“Then the village clock is wrong, for I timed my watch by it as I came past,” said Guy. “I guess you have been asleep, Sis, and didn’t notice how time passed.”
“Asleep, indeed! do you think I go to sleep in the morning? not I. But I’ve been reading your book, and was just finishing it when you came in. It’s real interesting,” said Jessie.
“Yes, it’s a nice book,” replied Guy, as he left the room in response to a call from Hugh, who was in the hall.
Jessie replaced the book, and sighed as she picked up the worsteds from the floor, to think that she had done nothing to the slippers that morning. However, as there was yet over half an hour to spare before dinner, and as she could go on with her work for the present, without the brown worsted, she began plying her needle with right good will.
Presently Uncle Morris came in. He had been out all the morning. Seeing his niece so busy, he smiled, and said:
“Busy as the bee, eh, Jessie? Well, it’s the working bee that makes the honey. Guess the little wizard has lost heart now he has found out that my little puss has a strong will to do right, and a strong Friend to help her.”
Jessie blushed and sighed. She was in what young Duncan would call a “tight place.” She knew that her uncle was mistaken; that she did not deserve his praise, that by being silent she should, of her own accord, confirm his mistake and thereby deceive him. And yet, it was hard to confess her fault, under the circumstances. “What could Jessie do?”
At first she was silent. Her uncle perceiving by her manner that something puzzled and pained her, turned to his chair, and without saying another word took up the morning’s newspaper and began reading.
The longer Jessie kept up his false impression, the worse she felt. Very soon, however, the voice of the Good Spirit within her gained the victory, and throwing the slipper into the basket, she rose, saying to herself, “I will tell him all about it.”
Going to her uncle’s side, she threw an arm round his neck, gently drew his head towards her and kissed him. Then she smiled through a mist of tears, and said:
“Uncle, the little wizard hasn’t left Glen Morris, yet.”
“Hasn’t he?” replied her uncle. “Why, I thought you pricked him so sorely with your quilt needle that he had run off to Greenland, or to some other distant land to escape your little ladyship’s anger, or to woo Miss Perseverance to be his bride.”
“I wish he had,” sighed Jessie; “but I fear he never will go. I wish he didn’t like Glen Morris so well.”
Then the little girl told her uncle how Guy’s book had lured her into the wizard’s power.
“Never mind, my child,” said Uncle Morris, patting her head as he spoke, “never mind. Never give up. Attack him again with your tiny spear. Resolve that you will yet conquer him, as little David did big Goliath, in the name of the Lord. A little girl can be what she wills to be, if she only wills in the name of Him who is the teacher and the friend of children.”
“I’ll try, Uncle,” said Jessie, with the fire of resolution kindling in her eyes.
“Heaven bless you, my child!” said the old man solemnly, as he placed his hands softly upon her head. “May you always be as frank and truthful as you have now been in confessing a fault to me which you must have been very strongly tempted to conceal. May Heaven bless you!”
Didn’t Jessie feel glad then! She was glad she had resisted the temptation to receive praise she did not merit; glad she had done right; glad her uncle was pleased with her. Happy Jessie! Had she by silence deceived her uncle, she would have felt guilty and ashamed. Now she was as peaceful and hopeful as love and duty could make her.
After dinner, seeing Guy take his cap as if in great haste, Jessie followed him to the door and said: “What makes you in such a hurry, every day, Guy? You have not stayed to talk to me for ever so long.”
“You have had company, you know, Jessie, and haven’t wanted me,” replied Guy, evasively.
“But I have no company to-day,” said Jessie. “Come, don’t go yet, there’s a dear, good Guy. Come into the parlor and tell me a story.”
“Not now,” replied Guy, opening the door. Then after a moment or two of silent thought, he shut the door and said, “If you will put on your cloak and hood I’ll take you with me.”
“Oh, good, good!” exclaimed the little girl; and after running to her mother for consent, she soon returned fitly equipped for a walk on that breezy November afternoon.
It being Wednesday and no school, Guy had the afternoon before him. He led his sister towards the village, telling her he was going to take her to see a good old lady of whom, he said, he was very fond.
“Who is she? How did you find her out? Does Uncle Morris know her?” were among the many questions which Jessie put to her brother. He did not see fit to satisfy her, however, except to say, “Her name is Mrs. Moneypenny.”
“Mrs. Moneypenny! What a funny name?” exclaimed Jessie, laughing and repeating the name.
“Yes, it is odd; but the lady who bears it, is a noble woman.”
“Is she rich?”
“No, she is very poor, very poor indeed.”
“Very poor, eh? But how came you to know her?”
“That’s my secret.”
“A secret! Please tell me about it, Guy?”
“Can’t do it, Jessie. You know girls can’t keep secrets,” replied Guy, laughing and looking archly at his sister.
“I can, Guy. Do tell me. I won’t tell Hugh, nor Carrie Sherwood, no, nor even Uncle Morris, though I can’t see why you should keep a secret from him.”
Just then Guy and his sister were passing some open lots in the village street. Several rough boys were standing round a small bonfire which they had made out of the dead branches and leaves of trees, which the fall winds had scattered over the streets and open lots. As soon as they saw Guy, one of them cried in a jeering tone:
“There goes Mrs. Moneypenny’s cow-boy!”
“Wonder how much he gets a week,” shouted another boy.
“Perhaps he’s gwine to be the old lady’s heir,” said the first.
“Guess he ’spects young Jack Moneypenny’s gwine to die, down in the Brooklyn hospital, and he wants the old ooman to adopt him. He! he!” said a third speaker.
Loud peals of derisive laughter followed these remarks. Guy made no reply, but grasping his sister’s hand more tightly, he hurried past at a rapid walk, and was soon out of hearing.
“Oh! I am so glad we are past those wicked boys,” said Jessie, slightly shivering with fear. “But what did they call you a cow-boy for, Guy?”
“I suppose I must tell you my secret now,” said Guy. “Those boys have partly let my cat out of the bag.”
Guy then told his sister, that Mrs. Moneypenny was a poor widow, with a son named Jack. She rented a cottage and a little piece of land. A cow, a few hens, and Jack’s labor, were all she had to depend upon. Jack, being a steady boy, earned enough to keep them comfortable in their simple way of living. But a great misfortune had overtaken them. Jack, while in Brooklyn, with a lot of eggs and chickens, which he had taken in to sell, had been knocked down and run over by a horse and wagon. His leg was broken, and he was carried to the hospital.
This sad news was quickly sent to Jack’s mother. Poor old lady! It seemed as if her only stay was broken by this disaster. Being lame, she could not go to her son, neither could she take care of her cow at home. She was in deep distress, and wept many tears over poor Jack’s sufferings, and her own hard fate.
Guy happened to hear her case talked over at the post-office, the very day the news of Jack’s misfortune arrived. He heard a gentleman say, that she must be sent to the alms-house, though, being a woman of spirit, he feared she would break her heart and die, if she was. Full of pity for the old lady, Guy went to her, and offered to take care of her cow and hens, as long as Jack might be sick.
“It would have melted your heart,” said Guy, as he finished his story, “had you seen the old lady cry for joy at my offer. She looked so thankful, and seemed so much relieved, that I felt as happy as an angel, to think that by doing such a little thing as milking and feeding a cow for a few weeks, I could shed so much light in the dwelling of a poor, but noble woman.”
Jessie’s eyes swam with tears. She pressed Guy’s hand, but spoke not. He understood the meaning of that pressure. He knew that in her heart she was saying, “My brother did right, and those boys were very wicked for calling after him. I love my dear brother better than ever.”
While such thoughts as these were passing in Jessie’s mind, and Guy was feeling the gladness which welled up within him like living water, they reached the cottage. Mrs. Moneypenny received them with smiles of welcome. She kissed Jessie, and said:
“You look as if you had a heart as kind as your brother’s. May Heaven bless you both!”
Then the old lady began to talk about her “dear Jack.” After telling them he was “getting along nicely,” she read a letter which he made out to write in pencil, as he lay bolstered up in his bed. Having finished it, the good mother sighed, and said:
“Dear Jack! How I do wish he could be brought home, so that I could take care of him myself! There is no nurse like a mother. The poor fellow says he wants some more shirts sent him, but I haven’t another to send him, nor any thing to make him one with. Ah, my children, poverty is not a pleasant heritage; but never mind; life is short, and I and my poor Jack will have mansions, robes, and riches in the better land. May you, my children, be blessed with such treasures both here and hereafter!”
After Guy had “looked to the cow,” in the hovel which answered for a barn, he and his sister took their leave of the widow.
Jessie walked quietly home, looking very grave, and scarcely speaking a word by the way. Once she turned to Guy and asked:
“About my size,” replied Guy.
Jessie had a big thought in her head—I mean a big thought for a little girl. If you wish to know what it was, you must consult the next chapter.
When Jessie reached home she threw her hood and cloak carelessly on to the floor. The cloak-stand was pretty well filled up, and she was in too much haste, to take the pains needed to find a place on the hooks for her garments. This was one of her faults. A new impulse had seized her, and she thought of nothing else. Bounding into her mother’s room, she said:
“Mother, will you let me make two shirts for poor Jack Moneypenny?”
Mrs. Carlton looked up from her work, and after a moment’s glance at the eager face of her daughter, asked:
“Who is Jack Moneypenny, my dear?”
Jessie, in her eagerness to carry her point, had forgotten to ask if her mother knew any thing of the widow, or her son, Jack. This question checked her ardor a little, and she told the story of the widow’s misfortune. Just as she was finishing her tale, however, she thought of Guy’s wish to keep his part in the affair a secret. So blushing deeply, she added:
“Oh dear! what will Guy say? I promised to keep it all secret, and now I have told all about it. He said girls couldn’t keep a secret, and I believe he is right. What shall I do, Mother?”
“Why tell him that you have told me, to be sure. Guy has no secrets with his mother, and I am sure he does not wish his sister to have any.”
“Has Guy told you about it, then?”
“Yes, he told me all his plans from the first. Guy never conceals any thing from his mother.”
“What made you ask me who Jack Moneypenny was, then, Ma, if you knew before?”
“Only to teach my Jessie, that she ought to be less abrupt in her manners. You should have stated your case first, and then have asked me your question.”
“So I should, Ma,” said Jessie, musing a few moments, and gazing on her foot, as she traced the outline of the carpet-pattern with it. Then smiling, she looked up, and added, “but you know, Mamma, it is my way, to speak first, and think afterwards.”
“Not a very wise way, either,” said Mrs. Carlton; “but about those shirts, why do you wish to make them?”
Jessie told her mother about Jack’s letter, and what the widow had said.
“Well,” replied Mrs. Carlton; “I will give you the cloth, and cut out the shirts, if you really wish to make them.”
“I do, Mother, very much wish to do it. Only think how glad the widow will be, and how comfortable the shirts will make the poor sick boy, in that horrid hospital.”
“Very true, my dear, but how about your uncle’s slippers, and cushion, and watch-pocket?”
A blush tinged Jessie’s cheek again. The little wizard had once more hurried her into a new plan before her old ones had been worked out. Plainly she could not help poor Jack and keep her former resolution, not to be turned aside from finishing her gifts for Uncle Morris. She was fairly puzzled. It was right to make shirts for a poor boy. It was right to keep her purposes too. Yet she could not do both. But did not the boy need the shirts, more than Uncle Morris did his slippers? Would not her uncle be willing to wait? No doubt he would, but then her promise to finish the slippers before beginning any thing else, was part of a plan for conquering a bad habit. Would it be right to depart from that plan?
Such were the questions which floated like unpleasant dreams through Jessie’s mind as she sat with her hands on the back of a chair-seat, knocking her heels against the floor. Her mother, though she allowed her to think awhile in silence, read her thoughts in the workings of her face. When Jessie seemed to be lost in the fog of her own thoughts, Mrs. Carlton came to her aid, and said:
“Jessie.”
“I have been thinking that poor Jack needs those shirts directly, and that you could not make him a pair in less than two, perhaps in not less than three weeks. So I don’t see how you can help him out of his present trouble.”
Jessie sighed, and said, “I didn’t think of that.”
“Well, I have a plan to propose. I will send him two of Guy’s shirts to-morrow, and you shall make two new ones for Guy, at your leisure.”
“What a dear, good, nice mother you are,” cried Jessie, running to Mrs. Carlton, and giving her more kisses than I am able to count.
Thus did a mother’s love find a key with which to unlock Jessie’s puzzle, and to enable her to help poor Jack, without breaking her purpose to finish Uncle Morris’s things, and thereby drive that plague of her life, the little wizard, away from Glen Morris.
“I will work ever so hard, see if I don’t, Ma,” said she, as she patted her mother’s cheek. “I will finish the slippers, and get the shirts done, too, before Christmas. Don’t you think I can?”
“You can, I have no doubt, if you try my dear.”
“Well, I’ll try then. I’ll join Guy’s famous Try Company, and will try and try, and try again, until I fairly succeed.”
Mrs. Carlton kissed her daughter affectionately; after which the now light-hearted girl bounded out of the room, singing—
|
“If you find your case is hard, Try, try, try again. Time will bring you your reward, Try, try, try again. All that other people do, Why with patience should not you? Only keep this rule in view, Try, try, try again.” |
“That’s it! That’s it, my little puss,” said Uncle Morris, who was in the parlor which Jessie entered singing her joyous roundelay. “Corporal Try is a little fellow, but he has helped do all the great things that have ever been done. There is nothing good or great which he cannot do. He will help a little girl learn to darn her own stocking, or make a quilt for her old uncle; and he will help men build big steamships, construct railroads over the desert, or lay a telegraph wire under the waters of the ocean. Oh, a great little man is Corporal Try!”
“I know it,” replied Jessie, “and I’ve joined his company; so if you meet little Impulse the wizard, please tell him not to come here again unless he wishes to be beaten with a big club called good resolution.”
“Bravely spoken, Lady Jessie! May you never desert the Corporal’s colors! Above all, may you always obtain grace from above whereby to conquer yourself, which is the grandest deed you can possibly perform.”
Jessie sat down to her work-basket, and took up one of the pieces of cloth for her uncle’s slippers. But as it was now late in the afternoon of a dull November day, she could not see to embroider very well. So she thought she would go out again and buy the brown worsted which was needed in working out the figure on the slippers. Going to the window first, she noticed that the sky looked cold and bleak. The wind, too, was whistling mournfully among the branches of the trees, and round the corners of the house. It was evidently going to be a cold night. Turning from the window again, she said to her brother Hugh, who was sitting very cosily in a large arm-chair before the glowing fire in the grate:
“Please, Hugh, will you run down to the village with me? I want to get some worsted at Mrs. Horton’s.”
“Why didn’t you get it this afternoon?” asked Hugh in his usual grumpy way when asked to do any thing.
“I didn’t think of it.”
“Didn’t think of it, eh? Well, I don’t think I shall be your lackey this cold afternoon. I’d rather sit here and keep my toes warm.”
“Do go, dear Hugh, please do!” said Jessie in her mellowest tones. “I shall want the worsted to-morrow morning.”
“Oh, go to Greenwich! You are always wanting something. Girls want a mighty sight of waiting on. I won’t go.”
Jessie turned away from her ungracious brother wishing, as she had so often done, that he “was more like Guy.” Had it been a little earlier in the afternoon, she would have gone alone; but as it was nearly dark she preferred company.
“Oh dear!” sighed she, “what shall I do? I wish Guy was in.”
“Perhaps you would accept an old man’s company,” said her uncle, rising and buttoning up his coat.
“I should be very, very glad to have it, but I don’t want to trouble you, Uncle,” she replied.
“It’s no trouble to go out with my little puss. Besides, by going, I can give this drone-like brother of yours a practical lesson in that love and politeness which he so much despises. I shall certainly be happier going with you, than he will be in the indulgence of his selfishness before the fire.”
Hugh said something in a grumbling tone which neither his uncle nor sister understood.
In a few minutes the good old man, having firm hold of Jessie’s hand, was breasting the cold wind as they walked smartly along the frozen road leading to the village.
“You will have a chance to try your new skates to-morrow if it is as cold as this all night,” said Mr. Morris, as they crossed the bridge over the brook.
“Won’t that be nice?” replied Jessie; “Carrie Sherwood has a pair too, and we will both try together. I guess I shall get some bumps though before I learn to skate well. I wish we had some one to teach us how to use them.”
“What will you give me, if I consent to be your teacher?”
“Oh, Uncle Morris! You don’t mean it, do you?”
“To be sure I do. When I was young they called me the best skater in town. I could go through all kinds of movements, and even cut my name on the ice with my skates. I guess I haven’t quite forgotten how I used to do it. But what will you give me if I consent to teach you?”
“I will love you ever so much, and so will Carrie.”
“But I thought you loved me ever so much already?”
“Well, so I do, Uncle. I love you better than I love anybody in the world, except ma and pa. But I will love you better and better.”
“That’s pay enough,” said Mr. Morris, warmly pressing the hand of his niece. “The pure fresh love of a child’s heart is worth more to an old man like me than much gold. It makes my heart grow young again—but what have we here?”
They had now reached a stone wall which fronted the estate of Esquire Duncan. An angle in the fence had made a corner, in which was seated a girl of about Jessie’s age and size. She was clothed in rags; her feet were bare. She had no covering on her head save her tangled hair. Her face and arms were brown and dirty. She shivered in the piercing wind, and traces of recent tears were visible in the dirt which covered her woe-worn face.
“Poor little girl! I wonder where she lives?” exclaimed Jessie.
“Where do you live, my dear?” asked Mr. Morris, addressing the child.
“New York,” replied the outcast curtly.
“How came you here?”
“Mother left me down yonder,” said the girl, pointing to the four cross-roads just beyond.
“Where is your mother now?”
“Don’t know.”
“What did she say when she left you?”
“She told me to sit on the trough of the pump while she went to buy some bread. But she didn’t come back, and I came over here out of the wind.”
“How long since she left you?”
“Ever so long.”
“Poor little girl! I’m afraid your mother brought you out here to cast you off, and so get rid of you,” said Uncle Morris.
“Guess not! Guess she got drunk somewhere,” said the girl, in a manner so cold and dogged that Mr. Morris shuddered.
Here, Jessie, whose eyes were swimming with tears, pulled her uncle’s hand. Taking him a little aside, she said—
“Please, Uncle, take her home, and let me give her something to eat.”
“Better take her to the alms-house, I’m thinking,” replied her uncle. “She may be a wicked girl.”
“Then we can teach her to be good,” said Jessie.
This was a home thrust that went right to the good old man’s heart. “The alms-house,” he thought, “is not a very likely place to grow goodness in. It is too chilly and heartless. There will be little sympathy there with the struggles and sorrows of a child like this; Jessie shall have her way this time. She shall go with us.”
After forming this purpose, he looked at his niece, and said—
“Perhaps you are right, Jessie. The poor creature shall go home with us, at least, for to-night.”
“Oh, I am so glad, I’m so glad,” cried Jessie, clapping her hands, then running to the shivering child, who had been watching them during this conversation with a puzzled air, she said—
“Come, little girl, you are to go home with me. Uncle says so.”
“I don’t want to. I’ll wait here for mother,” replied the girl, shrinking back into her corner, against the rough stone wall.
“My child,” said Mr. Morris, “I fear your mother has left you here on purpose, and that she will never come back. If she is in the place, you shall go to her as soon as we can find her. If you stay here you will freeze. Come with us and we will give you a supper, and let you warm yourself before a rousing fire, while we search for your mother.”
The idea of supper and a rousing fire took hold of the little outcast’s feelings. Gathering her rags close to her chilled body she stepped forward, and said—
“I’ll go with you.”
“What is your name?” inquired Jessie.
“Madge!” said the child, curtly.
“Madge what?” asked Uncle Morris.
“Madge Clifton!” said the child.
“Which means, I suppose, Margaret Clifton,” said the old gentleman. “A pretty name enough, and I wish its owner was in a prettier condition. But come, let us hasten out of this cold biting wind.”
Poor little, shivering Madge! Waiting so long for her mother, alone and in a strange place, had made her heart heavy and sad. Her limbs were so stiff with cold she could scarcely walk, at first. But the kind looks of the good old gentleman, and the loving words of Jessie, cheered her on; and in a few minutes they entered the back door of Glen Morris Cottage.
“What have you here, my brother?” asked Mrs. Carlton, as, in response to a message from Mr. Morris, she entered the kitchen, where poor Madge sat on a cricket before the range, looking, as Jessie afterwards said, “like a cat in a strange garret.”
“She’s a heap o’ rags and dirt, mem,” interposed the servant, who did not fancy the introduction of such an unsightly object into her prim-looking dominions.
“She is a poor, starving, and half-frozen girl, without any kind mother to take care of her and love her,” said Jessie, who feared, from her mother’s looks, that poor Madge was as unwelcome a guest to her, as she was to the kitchen-maid.
“She is a poor, little human waif, which has floated to our door on a sea of trouble and misfortune, sister,” observed Mr. Morris. “If opportunity is the gate of duty, then we owe it to this little girl, and to the Great Father who sent her to our doors, to relieve her wants, and if needs be, provide for her in future.”
This view of her relation to poor little Madge, somewhat softened Mrs. Carlton’s feelings. She was a very kind woman—in fact, she was nearly all heart—but she was fastidiously neat. Madge’s dirt and rags had repelled her at first sight; had shut out from her thoughts, for the moment, the recollection, that within that covering of filthy rags, there sat a human creature, which, had it been loved, and taught, and trained as her own child had been, might have been as loving, and as attractive as she. Her brother’s remark brought this view of Madge’s case before her, but did not wholly divest her of her first feelings. Jessie’s instincts led her to see that her mother was not quite prepared to take the outcast girl to her affections, and trembling for the result, she followed up her uncle’s plea, by saying:
“We found her cold and hungry, sitting under a stone wall, waiting for her mother, who has run away from her. If we had not brought her home, she would have frozen to death before morning. Wouldn’t that have been terrible, Ma?”
“Poor thing!” exclaimed Mrs. Carlton, her sympathy being now fully aroused, “but, Brother, why did you not take her to the alms-house, where they have the means of cleansing and clothing such unhappy outcasts?”
“Perhaps it would have been more prudent, my sister, to have done so; but I took counsel of your child’s heart, and not of my own prudence. This is Jessie’s protégé. When she pleaded in her behalf, I thought I would do for Madge, what I and you would wish another to do for Jessie, should she ever, by any sad reverse of fortune, become an outcast child.”
“Halloo, what little dolly mop have you got here?” cried Hugh, who, at this juncture, bounded into the kitchen to see what was going on.
“Poor little creature! She has had a hard road to travel, thus far, I guess,” said Guy, who accompanied his brother. Hugh looked at the child’s appearance only. Guy, like his uncle and Jessie, viewed her as a human being in distress.
All this time, the object of these comments, stared strangely about, looking, now at the things around her, and then into the faces of the different persons in the group. At first, she seemed indifferent to their remarks. But when Hugh called her a little dollymop, her large, black eyes flashed angrily upon him. Guy’s kind words and tones disarmed her, however, and a pearl-like tear rolled down her cheeks.
“Well,” said Mrs. Carlton, with a sigh of resignation to circumstances, “the poor thing is here, and must be cared for.” Then turning to the servant, she added, “Take the poor child into the bath-room. Give her a thorough cleansing and combing, while I look out some of Jessie’s clothes for her. Take those rags she has on, and throw them on the dirt heap!”
The party in the kitchen now broke up. Uncle Morris, the boys, and Jessie, went into the parlor, where they found Mr. Carlton, who had just returned from the city. He approved of what Uncle Morris had done, but thought it best to inquire, at once, for Madge’s mother at the village tavern. As there was yet an hour to spare before tea, he took Guy, and started in pursuit of the heartless mother.
Where was she? After leaving Madge at the pump, she had gone to the tavern, and purchased some gin. After drinking a large glass of the fiery liquor, she put down the glass and the money, looking so ravenously at the sparkling decanter, that the landlord feared she was going crazy. Reaching her skinny fingers out towards the bottle, she said, in a screeching voice: “Give me another glass!”
Hardly knowing what he was about, the landlord filled her glass a second time. She swallowed its contents at a single gulp, and demanded more. Alarmed at her manner the man refused. Then her anger awoke. She poured forth a volley of strange and fearful words. The passers-by came in to see what was the matter. To be rid of her tongue and to save the reputation of his house, as he said, the landlord called in his stable-boys, and they hurled her into the street.
There she drew upon herself the attention of Jem Townsend and the crew of idle boys which usually accompanied him. They gathered round the unhappy woman, as she sat on the edge of the curb-stone cursing the tavern-keeper, and began to tease her.
“Fuddled, eh?” said Jem Townsend, laughing. Then he added, “What do you do here, Lady Ginswiller? Rather a cold seat this for a lady, eh? Better walk into old Bottlenose’s best parlor, hadn’t ye?”
Upon this the poor maudlin creature cursed louder than ever. The wicked urchins laughed and hooted in turn, until she rose in a fit of passion and pursued them.
The boys ran down the village street, pausing now and then to quicken her rage by some biting words. And thus they led her at last to the vicinity of a low grocery. Drawn by the scent of rum, like the vulture to its quarry, she staggered into the grocery, laid down her last sixpence on the bar, and muttered, “Give me a drink of rum.”
It was given her. She drank the wretched stuff, and reeling to the door-step, fell down insensibly drunk. What a spectacle of pity! And yet that poor, pitiable creature had once been a fair and lovely girl, as full of life and hope as she was of health and beauty. But now, alas, how fallen! What had done it? The wine cup, used in circles of fashion, began the work of ruin. Rum and gin were doing their best to finish it.
Finding they could not rouse her, the boys ran off to Mr. Tipstaff, the constable, and told him about her. That worthy repaired to the spot. Aided by one or two others he dragged her to a magistrate’s office; and he sent her to jail as a common vagrant.
These facts were all told to Mr. Carlton and Guy by the landlord of the hotel, who painted the poor woman in very dark colors. After calling on the magistrate and requesting that the prisoner might be detained the next day until it was ascertained certainly that she was Madge’s mother, he and Guy returned home with sad hearts. They talked the matter over as they walked. Among other questions, Guy asked:
“Do many women become drunkards, Pa?”
“Yes, a great many; though drunken women are not so common as drunken men, by far.”
“It always makes me feel bad to see a tipsy man; but when I once saw a tipsy woman in New York, it made me shudder. How do women learn to drink, Pa? They don’t go to the tavern like men, do they?”
“Not at first, Guy. Usually they begin at home, or at parties, or when stopping at the great hotels, where wine is drunk at the dinner-table. In many families, also, wine is used at the table, and fathers and mothers teach their daughters to drink it as a daily beverage. But generally, I believe, ladies begin their habit of drinking wine at parties, taking it, at first, not from choice, but because they don’t like to be thought singular.”
“But I don’t see how drinking a little wine at a party can teach a lady to be a drunkard, Pa,” remarked Guy.
“It does not do so, my son, in every case. But too often a lady will acquire an appetite for wine, which gradually grows stronger and stronger until she cannot control it. This appetite is not awakened in all who drink, but it may be. Hence, it is better for all, boys, girls, men, and women, not to touch the drink that is in the drunkard’s bowl.”
“So I think, Pa,” said Guy, “and therefore, I mean to be a tee-totaler as long as I live.”
“That’s right, my son. It is always best to keep as far from a dangerous place as possible.”
When Mr. Carlton and Guy reached home, tea was ready, and they went at once to the cheerful table. Jessie could scarcely wait while the blessing was asked, so impatient was she to know if Madge’s mother had been found. As soon, therefore, as Uncle Morris ceased speaking, she broke forth and said:
“O Pa! you don’t know how nice Madge will look when she is washed and dressed. Please tell me if you have seen her mother?”
“No, I have not seen her,” replied her father, smiling.
Jessie’s face brightened. She had been fearing that Madge would have to go away if her mother was found. Looking archly at her father, she said—
“I’m so glad. Now poor Madge can stay here!”
“Why, Jessie, you surprise me,” said Mrs. Carlton. “Is it any thing to be glad about, that a little girl has lost her mother?”
With a blush mantling her cheek: the little girl exclaimed—
“Her mother is a wicked woman, Ma, and don’t make her happy, nor teach her to be good. If Madge has lost her, and you let her live with us and be a mother to her, she will be a good deal better off, and much happier than she could be with her own mother.”
“Spoken like a philosopher!” exclaimed Uncle Morris. “The loss of a drunken mother is not, indeed, a thing to mourn over, especially if that loss brings with it the gain of a home in which Love is the perpetual President—but I suspect from your pa’s looks that Madge’s mother is not wholly lost, yet.”
“Why! didn’t pa say he couldn’t find her?” said Jessie, looking with a puzzled air at her father.
“Not exactly, my dear,” replied Mr. Carlton. “I said I had not seen her, which is true; but I have heard of her, as I suppose; for a strange woman did go to the tavern about the time Madge was left, and is now in jail as a drunken vagrant.”
“Oh, how shocking!” exclaimed Jessie.
Mr. Carlton now told all he had heard about the supposed Mrs. Clifton, and it was agreed that Uncle Morris should see her in the morning and learn if she was, indeed, the poor child’s mother.
After tea, Jessie hurried to the kitchen to look after her protégé. She found her so changed by her washing and new dress, that notwithstanding her high expectations, she could hardly believe her to be the same Madge she had seen sitting there an hour before. But Madge it was, as bright and good-looking a girl as could be found anywhere, in or out of Duncanville.
“Have you had enough to eat, Madge?” inquired Jessie, scarcely knowing how to act the part of an agreeable hostess.
“Indade, miss, but she has eaten more like a hungry pig than a gal,” said Mary, before Madge had time to reply.
Jessie could not keep from laughing at Mary’s not very complimentary comparison. Hence, she turned her head so as not to hurt the little girl’s feelings. As soon as she could make her face straight and sober again, she sat down beside Madge, and taking her hand, said—
“Would you like to see my doll?”
But Madge had other and higher thoughts than of dolls or playthings. She was in a sort of wonder-world. She could not satisfy herself with regard to the meaning of the change brought about in her during the last hour or two. That pleasant kitchen, the neat dress she wore, the bath by which she had been cleansed from the filth of poverty, the pleasant faces she had seen, and the kind voices she had heard, all seemed to her like a gay dream, and she was expecting, ay, and fearing too, that the next minute she should awake and find herself sitting and shivering in the cold wind, under the stone wall, waiting for her ungentle mother. But when Jessie touched her hand and spoke so kindly to her, every thing seemed real, and her heart sent up gushes of gratitude to the little friend who, like some good fairy, had conjured away her rags, and pain, and cold, and hunger. After gazing silently into Jessie’s eyes a few moments, as if she was trying to look into her soul, she said—
“Little girl, will you let me love you?”
“To be sure I will, and I will love you too,” replied Jessie, in tones that seemed like angel’s music to the little outcast, whose ears had long been unfamiliar with loving words.
Then Jessie threw an arm round Madge and pressing her to her bosom, gave her a kiss. Oh, how warmly did the outcast girl return it! She clung to Jessie as the wild vine does to the supporting branch, and embraced her with an ardor which told more eloquently than words could utter it, how grateful she was for the love which Jessie had offered her.
When Madge withdrew her arms from Jessie, she sat back in her chair and gazed at her long and silently. After a time the tears filled her eyes, and in broken accents she asked—
“Does any one know where my mother is?”
Jessie told her she was probably in the village, and that she would, most likely, see her in the morning. Madge begged hard to be taken to her that night, but was finally persuaded to wait until the morrow.
“That child has a great deal of heart,” said Uncle Morris, after hearing Jessie’s account of her interview with Madge. “We must do what we can to rescue her from the influence of her drunken mother.”