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But lying awake and shivering did not do Nettie's little body any good; she looked so very white the next day that it caught even Mr. Mathieson's attention. He reached out his arm and drew Nettie toward him, as she was passing between the cupboard and the table. Then he looked at her, but he did not say how she looked.
"Do you know the day after to-morrow is Christmas Day?" said he.
"Yes, I know. It's the day when Christ was born," said Nettie.
"Well, I don't know anything about that," said her father; "but what I mean is, that a week after is New Year. What would you like me to give you, Nettie,—hey?"
Nettie stood still for a moment, then her eyes lighted up.
"Will you give it to me, father, if I tell you?"
"I don't know. If it is not extravagant, perhaps I will."
"It will not cost much," said Nettie, earnestly. "Will you give me what I choose, father, if it does not cost too much?"
"I suppose I will. What is it?"
"Father, you won't be displeased?"
"Not I!" said Mr. Mathieson, drawing Nettie's little form tighter in his grasp: he thought he had never felt it so slight and thin before.
"Father, I am going to ask you a great thing!—to go to church with me New Year's Day."
"To church!" said her father, frowning; but he remembered his promise, and he felt Nettie in his arms yet. "What on earth good will that do you?"
"A great deal of good. It would please me so much, father."
"What do you want me to go to church for?" said Mr. Mathieson, not sure yet what humour he was going to be in.
"To thank God, father, that there was a Christmas, when Jesus came, that we might have a New Year."
"What—what!" said Mr. Mathieson. "What are you talking about?"
"Because, father," said Nettie, trembling, and seizing her chance, "since Jesus loved us, and came and died for us, we all may have a New Year of glory. I shall, father; and I want you too. Oh do, father!" and Nettie burst into tears.
Mr. Mathieson held her fast, and his face showed a succession of changes for a minute or so. But she presently raised her head and kissed him, and said,
"May I have what I want, father?"
"Yes—go along," said Mr. Mathieson. "I should like to know how to refuse you, though. But, Nettie, don't you want me to give you anything else?"
"Nothing else!" she told him, with her face all shining with joy.
Mr. Mathieson looked at her, and seemed very thoughtful all supper-time.
"Can't you strengthen that child up a bit?" he said to his wife afterwards. "She does too much."
"She does as little as I can help," said Mrs. Mathieson, "but she is always at something. I am afraid her room is too cold o' nights. She ain't fit to bear it. It's bitter up there."
"Give her another blanket or quilt, then," said her husband. "I should think you would see to that. Does she say she is cold?"
"No,—never, except sometimes when I see her looking blue, and ask her."
"And what does she say then?"
"She says sometimes she is a little cold," said Mrs. Mathieson.
"Well, do put something more over her, and have no more of it!" said her husband, violently. "Sit still and let the child be cold, when another covering would make it all right!"—and he ended with swearing at her.
Mrs. Mathieson did not dare to tell him that Nettie's food was not of a sufficiently nourishing kind: she knew what the answer to that would be; and she feared that a word more about Nettie's sleeping-room would be thought an attack upon Mr. Lumber's being in the house. So she was silent.
But there came home something for Nettie in the course of the Christmas week, which comforted her a little, and perhaps quieted Mr. Mathieson too. He brought with him, on coming home to supper one evening, a great thick roll of a bundle, and put it in Nettie's arms, telling her that was for her New Year.
"For me?" said Nettie, the colour starting a little into her cheeks.
"Yes, for you. Open it, and see."
So Nettie did, with some trouble, and there tumbled out upon the floor a great heavy warm blanket, new from the shop. Mr. Mathieson thought the pink in her cheeks was the prettiest thing he had seen in a long while.
"Is this for me, father?"
"I mean it to be so. See if it will go on that bed of yours, and keep you warm."
Nettie gave her father some very hearty thanks, which he took in a silent, pleased way; and then she hastened off with her blanket upstairs. How thick and warm it was! and how nicely it would keep her comfortable when she knelt all wrapped up in it on that cold floor! For a little while it would; not even a warm blanket would keep her from the cold more than a little while at a time up there. But Nettie tried its powers the first thing she did.
Did Mr. Mathieson mean the blanket to take the place of his promise? Nettie thought of that, but like a wise child she said nothing at all till the Sunday morning came. Then, before she set off for Sunday school, she came to her father's elbow.
"Father, I'll be home at a quarter after ten; will you be ready then?"
"Ready for what?" said Mr. Mathieson.
"For my New Year's gift," said Nettie. "You know you promised I should go to church with you."
"Did I? And ain't you going to take the blanket for your New Year's gift, and let me off, Nettie?"
"No, father, to be sure not. I'll be home at a quarter past; please don't forget." And Nettie went off to school very thankful and happy, for her father's tone was not unkind. How glad she was New Year's Day had come on Sunday!
Mr. Mathieson was as good as his word. He was ready at the time, and they walked to the church together. That was a great day to Nettie. Her father and mother going to church in company with her and with each other! And when they got to church, it seemed as if every word of the prayers, and of the reading, and of the hymns, and of the sermon, struck on all Nettie's nerves of hearing and feeling. Would her father understand any of those sweet words? would he feel them? would they reach him? Nettie little thought that what he felt most, what did reach him, though he did not thoroughly understand it, was the look of her own face, though she never but once dared turn it toward him. There was a little colour in it more than usual; her eye was deep in its earnestness; and the grave set of her little mouth was broken up now and then in a way that Mr. Mathieson wanted to watch better than the straight sides of her sun-bonnet would let him. Once he thought he saw something more.
He walked home very soberly, and was a good deal on the silent order during the rest of the day. He did not go to church in the afternoon. But in the evening, as her mother was busy in and out getting supper ready, and Mr. Lumber had not come in, Mr. Mathieson called Nettie to his side.
"What were you crying for in church this forenoon?" he said low.
"Crying!" said Nettie, surprised. "Was I crying?"
"If it wasn't tears I saw dropping from under your hands on to the floor, it must have been some drops of rain that had got there, and I don't see how they could very well. There warn't no rain outside. What was it for, hey?"
There came a great flush all over Nettie's face, and she did not at once speak.
"Hey?—what was it for?"—repeated Mr. Mathieson.
The flush passed away. Nettie spoke very low, and with lips all of a quiver. "I remember. I was thinking, father, how 'all things are ready'—and I couldn't help wishing that you were ready too."
"Ready for what?" said Mr. Mathieson, somewhat roughly. "All things ready for what?"
"Ready for you," said Nettie. "Jesus is ready to love you, and calls you—and the angels are ready to rejoice for you—and I–"
"Go on. What of you?"
Nettie lifted her eyes to him. "I am ready to rejoice too, father."
But the time of rejoicing was not yet. Nettie burst into tears.
Mr. Mathieson was not angry, yet he flung away from her with a rude "Pshaw!" and that was all the answer she got. But the truth was, that there was something in Nettie's look of tenderness, and purity, and trembling hope, that her father's heart could not bear to meet; and, what is more, that he was never able to forget.
Nettie went about her evening business, helping her mother, and keeping back the tears which were very near again; and Mr. Mathieson began to talk with Mr. Lumber, and everything was to all appearance just as it had been hitherto. And so it went on after that.
"Well I know thy troubles,O My servant true!Thou art very weary—I was weary too:But that toil shall make theeSome day all Mine own;And the end of sorrowShall be near My throne!"
CHAPTER VI.
THE HOUSE-RAISING. 1
"In your patience possess ye your souls."—Luke xxi. 19."
It grew colder and colder in Nettie's garret—or else she grew thinner and felt it more. She certainly thought it was colder. The snow came, and piled a thick covering on the roof, and stopped up some of the chinks in the clapboarding with its white caulking; and that made the place a little better: then the winds from off the snow-covered country were keen and bitter.
One morning Nettie went to Barry secretly in his room, and asked him to bring the pail of water from the spring for her. Barry had no mind to the job.
"Why can't mother do it," he said, "if you can't?"
"Mother is busy and hasn't a minute. I always do it for her."
"Well, why can't you go on doing it? You're accustomed to it, you see, and I don't like going out so early," said Barry, stretching himself.
"I would, and I wouldn't ask you, only, Barry, somehow I don't think I'm quite strong lately, and I can hardly bring the pail—it's so heavy to me. I have to stop and rest ever so many times before I can get to the house with it."
"Well, if you stop and rest, I suppose it won't hurt you," said Barry. "I should want to stop and rest too, myself."
His little sister was turning away, giving it up, when she was met by her father, who stepped in from the entry. He looked red with anger.
"You take the pail, and go get the water!" said he to his son; "and you hear me! Don't you let Nettie bring in another pailful when you're at home, or I'll turn you out of the house. You lazy scoundrel! You don't deserve the bread you eat. Would you let her work for you, when you are as strong as sixty?"
Barry's grumbled words in answer were so very unsatisfactory, that Mr. Mathieson in a rage advanced towards him with uplifted fist; but Nettie sprang in between, and very nearly caught the blow that was meant for her brother.
"Please, father, don't!" she cried;—"please, father, don't be angry! Barry didn't think—he didn't–"
"Why didn't he?" said Mr. Mathieson. "Great lazy rascal! He wants to be flogged."
"Oh, don't!" said Nettie: "he didn't know why I asked him, or he wouldn't have refused me."
"Why did you, then?"
"Because it made my back ache so to bring it—I couldn't help asking him."
"Did you ever ask him before?"
"Never mind, please, father!" said Nettie, sweetly. "Just don't think about me, and don't be angry with Barry. It's no matter now."
"Who does think about you? Your mother don't, or she would have seen to this before."
"Mother didn't know my back ached. Father, you know she hasn't a minute: she is so busy getting breakfast in time; and she didn't know I wasn't strong enough. Father, don't tell her, please, I asked Barry. It would worry her so. Please don't, father."
"You think of folks, anyhow. You're a regular peacemaker!" exclaimed Mr. Mathieson, as he turned away and left her. Nettie stood still, the flush paling on her cheek, her hand pressed to her side.
"Am I that?" she thought. "Shall I be that? O Lord, my Saviour, my dear Redeemer, send Thy peace here!" She was still in the same place and position when Barry came in again.
"It's wretched work!" he exclaimed, under his breath, for his father was in the next room. "It's as slippery as the plague going down that path to the water: it's no use to have legs, for you can't hold up. I'm all froze stiff with the water I've spilt on me!"
"I know it's very slippery," said Nettie.
"And then you can't get at the water when you're there, without stepping into it—it's filled chuck full of snow and ice all over the edge. It's the most wretched work!"
"I know it, Barry," said Nettie. "I am sorry you have to do it."
"Why did you make me do it, then?" said he angrily. "You got it your own way this time. But never mind; I'll be even with you for it."
"Barry," said his sister, "please do it just a little while for me, till I get stronger and don't mind; and as soon as ever I can I'll do it again. But you don't know how it made me ache all through, bringing the pail up that path."
"Stuff!" said Barry. And from that time, though he did not fail to bring the water in the morning, yet Nettie saw he owed her a grudge for it all the day afterward. He was almost always away with his father, and she had little chance to win him to better feeling.
So the winter slowly passed and the spring came. Spring months came, at least; and now and then, to be sure, a sweet spring day, when all nature softened; the sun shone mildly, the birds sang, the air smelt sweet with the opening buds.
"There's that house-raising to-morrow, Nettie," said Mrs. Mathieson; "it's been on my mind this fortnight past, and it kills me."
"Why, mother?"
"I know how it will be," said Mrs. Mathieson: "they'll have a grand set-to after they get it up, and your father'll be in the first of it; and I somehow feel as if it would be the finishing of him. I wish almost he'd get ill—or anything to keep him away. They make such a time after a house-raising."
"Oh, mother, don't wish that," said Nettie; but she began to think how it would be possible to withdraw her father from the frolic with which the day's business would be ended. Mr. Mathieson was a carpenter, and a fine workman, and always had plenty of work, and was much looked up to among his fellows.
Nettie began to think whether she could make any effort to keep her father from the dangers into which he was so fond of plunging. Hitherto she had done nothing but pray for him: could she do anything more, with any chance of good coming of it? She thought and thought, and resolved that she must try. It did not look hopeful; there was little she could urge to lure Mr. Mathieson from his drinking companions; nothing except her own timid affection and the one other thing it was possible to offer him—a good supper. How to get that was not so easy; but she consulted with her mother.
Mrs. Mathieson said she used in her younger days to know how to make waffles2, and Mr. Mathieson used to think they were the best things that ever were made: now, if Mrs. Moss, a neighbour, would lend her waffle-iron, and she could get a few eggs, she believed she could manage it still.
"But we haven't the eggs, child," she said; "and I don't believe any power under heaven can get him to come away from that raising frolic."
Nor did Nettie. It was to no power under heaven that she trusted. But she must use her means. She easily got the iron from Mrs. Moss. Then she borrowed the eggs from Madame Auguste, who in Lent-time always had them; then she watched with grave eyes, and many a heart-prayer the while, the mixing and making of the waffles.
"How do you manage the iron, mother?"
"Why, it is made hot," said Mrs. Mathieson, "very hot, and buttered; and then, when the batter is light, you pour it in and clap it together, and put it in the stove."
"But how can you pour it in, mother? I don't see how you can fill the iron."
"Why, you can't, child; you fill one half, and shut it together: and when it bakes it rises up and fills the other half. You'll see."
The first thing Nettie asked when she came home from school in the afternoon was, if the waffles were light?
She never saw any look better, Mrs. Mathieson said. "But I forgot, child, we ought to have cinnamon and white sugar to eat on them. It was so that your father used to admire them; they won't be waffles without sugar and cinnamon. I'm afraid he'll think–but I don't believe you'll get him home to think anything about them."
Mrs. Mathieson ended with a sigh. Nettie said nothing; she went round the room, putting it in particularly nice order, then set the table. When all that was right, she went up to her garret, and knelt down and prayed that God would take care of her and bless her errand. She put the whole matter in the Lord's hands; then she dressed herself in her hood and cloak, and went down to her mother. Mr. Mathieson had not come home to dinner, being busy with the house-raising; so they had had no opportunity to invite him, and Nettie was now on her way to do it.
"It's turned a bad afternoon; I'm afraid it ain't fit for you to go, Nettie."
"I don't mind," said Nettie. "Maybe I'll get some sugar and cinnamon, mother, before I come back."
"Well, you know where the raising is; it's out on the Shallonway road, on beyond Mrs. August's a good bit."
Nettie nodded and went out; and as the door closed on her grave, sweet little face, her mother felt a great strain on her heart. She would have been glad to relieve herself by tears, but it was a dry pain that would not be relieved so. She went to the window and looked out at the weather.
"Lord, Thy children guide and keep,As with feeble steps they pressOn the pathway rough and steep,Through this weary wilderness.Holy Jesu, day by dayLead us in the narrow way."There are stony ways to tread;Give the strength we sorely lack.There are tangled paths to thread;Light us, lest we miss the track.Holy Jesu, day by dayLead us in the narrow way."
CHAPTER VII.
THE WAFFLES
"My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways," saith the Lord.—Isaiah lv. 8.
The early part of the day had been brilliant and beautiful; then, March-like, it had changed about, gathered up a whole skyful of clouds, and turned at last to snowing. The large feathery flakes were falling now fast; melting as fast as they fell; making everything wet and chill, in the air and under the foot. Nettie had no overshoes: she was accustomed to get her feet wet very often, so that was nothing new. She hugged herself in her brown cloak, on which the beautiful snow-flakes rested white a moment and then melted away, gradually wetting the covering of her arms and shoulders in a way that would reach through by-and-bye. Nettie thought little of it. What was she thinking of? She was comforting herself with the thought of that strong and blessed Friend who has promised to be always with His servants, and remembering His promise, "They shall not be ashamed that wait for me." What did the snow and the wet matter to Nettie? Yet she looked too much like a snow-flake herself when she reached Mr. Jackson's store and went in. The white frost had lodged all round her old black silk hood, and even edged the shoulders of her brown cloak; and the white little face within looked just as pure.
Mr. Jackson looked at her with more than usual attention; and when Nettie asked him if he would let her have a shilling's-worth of fine white sugar and cinnamon, and trust her till the next week for the money, he made not the slightest difficulty, but measured or weighed it out for her directly, and even said he would trust her for more than that. So Nettie thanked him, and went on to the less easy part of her errand. Her heart began to beat a little bit now.
The feathery snowflakes fell thicker, and made everything wetter than ever; it was very raw and chill, and few people were abroad. Nettie went on, past the little bake-woman's house, and past all the thickly built part of the village. Then came houses more scattered—large handsome houses, with beautiful gardens and grounds, and handsome palings along the road-side. Past one or two of these, and then there was a space of wild ground; and here Mr. Jackson was putting up a new house for himself, and meant to have a fine place. The wild bushes grew in a thick hedge along by the fence, but over the tops of them Nettie could see the new timbers of the frame that the carpenters had been raising that day. She went on till she came to an opening in the hedge and fence as well, and then the new building was close before her. The men were at work yet, finishing their day's business; the sound of hammering rang sharp on all sides of the frame; some were up on the ladders, some were below. Nettie walked slowly up and then round the place, searching for her father. At last she found him. He and Barry, who was learning his father's trade, were on the ground at one side of the frame, busy as bees. Talking was going on roundly too, as well as hammering, and Nettie drew near and stood a few minutes without any one noticing her. She was not in a hurry to interrupt the work nor to tell her errand: she waited.
Barry saw her first, but ungraciously would not speak to her nor for her. If she was there for anything, he said to himself, it was for some spoil-sport; and one pail of water a day was enough for him. Mr. Mathieson was looking the other way.
"I say, Mathieson," called one of the men from the inside of the frame, "I s'pose 'tain't worth carrying any of this stuff—Jackson'll have enough without it?"
The words were explained, to Nettie's horror, by a jug in the man's hands, which he lifted to his lips.
"Jackson will do something handsome in that way to-night," said Nettie's father; "or he'll not do as he's done by, such a wet evening. But I've stood to my word, and I expect he'll stand to his'n."
"He gave his word there was to be oysters, warn't it?" called another man, from the top of the ladder.
"Punch and oysters," said Mathieson, hammering away, "or I've raised the last frame I ever will raise for him. I expect he'll stand it."
"Oysters ain't much 'count," said another speaker. "I'd rather have a slice of good sweet pork any day."
"Father," said Nettie. She had come close up to him, but she trembled. What possible chance could she have?
"Holloa!" said Mr. Mathieson, turning suddenly. "Nettie!—what's the matter, girl?"
He spoke roughly, and Nettie saw that his face was red. She trembled all over, but spoke as bravely as she could.
"Father, I am come to invite you home to supper to-night. Mother and I have a particular reason to want to see you. Will you come?"
"Come where?" said Mr. Mathieson, but half understanding her.
"Come home to tea, father. I came to ask you. Mother has made something you like."
"I'm busy, child. Go home. I'm going to supper at Jackson's. Go home."
He turned to his hammering again. But Nettie stood still in the snow and waited.
"Father," she said, after a minute, coming yet closer and speaking more low.
"What! ain't you gone?" exclaimed Mr. Mathieson.
"Father," said Nettie, softly, "mother has made waffles for you; and you used to like them so much, she says; and they are light and beautiful, and just ready to bake. Won't you come and have them with us? Mother says they'll be very nice."
"Why didn't she make 'em another time," grumbled Barry, "when we weren't going to punch and oysters? That's a better game."
If Mathieson had not been drinking, he might have been touched by the sight of Nettie; so very white and delicate her little face looked, trembling and eager, within that border of her black hood, on which the snow crystals lay, a very doubtful and unwholesome embroidery. She looked as if she was going to melt and disappear like one of them; and perhaps Mr. Mathieson did feel the effect of her presence, but he felt it only to be vexed and irritated; and Barry's suggestion fell into ready ground.
"I tell you, go home!" he said, roughly. "What are you doing here? I tell you I'm not coming home—I'm engaged to supper to-night, and I'm not going to miss it for any fool's nonsense. Go home!"