7. Day By Day
For the first time in her life Betty is glad to be at home. The rooms seem more comfortable and airy than they have ever done before.
"Oh, how thankful I am that I don't live in that horrid, narrow street, like those poor wretched-looking women and children!" she thinks. Even one morning's work among people so much worse off than herself has opened her eyes a little to the blessings she possesses in her home.
Why, if father were only coming home as usual to-night, she could feel almost happy--if--ah! but father is not coming home; yet he will come some day, his life is in no danger. Oh, she will be brave for his sake, she will be true to the trust he has left in her hands!
No dinner ready again; mother still quite incapable of attending to anything, and poor Betty thoroughly tired out with her anxious morning's work. Yet she is not even cross.
No, the more trying and difficult things are, the greater the victory; and just now she feels braced up, heart and soul, for the fight.
It is sometimes easier to be brave and unselfish in a time of real trouble, than to bear with patience and sweetness the little worries of everyday life.
But Betty is on the right road now, she is doing great things; she is marching straight on; she is opening her heart to the Lord, and allowing His light to shine into its dark places, and there is hope that before the little, wearing everyday worries come back again, she may be strong enough to resist even them, and prove herself a true Soldier at last.
She may fail though, and darken the light that God sends her! Well, we will hope for better things.
So Betty bustles about, and has dinner ready as usual when the children come in. Not until they are all off to school again has she time to tell her mother of the morning's work.
Mrs. Langdale is not at all encouraging.
"Nice place to send a girl like you to. What is he going to pay you?"
"I don't know yet, mother."
"And you never thought of asking? You silly child! He'll take your work and give you nothing."
"Oh, I'm sure he wouldn't do that, mother." But she looks rather blank at the idea.
"Well, you'll see; and don't say I didn't warn you. When are you going to see Mr. Duncan again?"
"To-morrow. I'm to make out an account of the rents to-night, and take it with me."
Betty finds that this last is easier said than done. She pores over the books until her head aches. Presently Bob comes in.
"Here, Betty, look sharp. I want a button sewn on my coat, and I can't find that new pair of boot-laces, and--why, just fancy sitting there reading like that! No wonder a fellow can never get anything done in this house--it's too bad!"
"I'm not reading, I'm doing Mr. Duncan's accounts," says Betty quietly. The knowledge that she is working unselfishly for the good of her family is a grand help towards keeping her temper!
Bob stares. "Rubbish!" he says.
"Come and see, Bob. I'm to do part of father's work, and Oh, I do wish you could help me. I feel so stupid to-night, and there is so much to do."
Bob melts at once. "Why, Bet, who would have thought of your doing such a thing? There, let me see--Ah, here we are! Now then----"
But, alas! just as Bob is beginning to bring his brand-new ideas of correct book-keeping to bear on the problem before them, a violent outcry arises from Pollie, who, until now, has been playing fairly quietly with Jennie in the corner.
"Harry, you bad, wicked boy!" she screams, "I'll pull all your hair out, that I will!" and she rushes at Harry like a little fury. Harry defends himself savagely, and Jennie, curled up on the floor, howls her loudest.
"Be quiet, Jennie! Pollie and Harry, if you don't leave off fighting at once, I'll box your ears all round!" cries Bob, looking up angrily from his work.
"Harry's sawn the leg off one of our dollies!" shrieks Pollie, "and he's a bad, bad, wicked boy!"
Harry defends himself savagely."She asked me to," roars Harry; "her dollie had smashed its leg like father, and I was the doctor, and had to take it off."
"He hadn't! He was to cure its bad leg, and now he's made it worse, and I'll pull his hair out for that, I will!"
"I don't care about your old dolls and rubbish; but if you're not quiet this minute I'll knock all your heads together and give you something to cry for!" cries Bob, still more angrily, and he starts from his chair as though to execute his threat.
But Betty lays her hand entreatingly on his arm. "Oh, Bob, don't; father wouldn't like it. He can't bear you to strike the children. Pollie, perhaps the doll can be mended; Harry didn't mean any harm. Harry, be quiet, you must not beat your little sister. Pollie, leave go, you naughty girl----"
But Betty is powerless to stop the storm. Bob tries to separate Harry and Pollie, who are fighting desperately. Harry kicks at Bob, whereat the elder brother loses his temper altogether, and cuffs Harry vigorously on both sides of his head. Harry roars; Jennie and Pollie continue to shriek. Bob, his face flaming with wrath, drags each screaming, kicking child to the door, and flings it into the passage. Then he locks the door, and with flushed face and tumbled hair, though pretending to look quite unconcerned, goes on with the books, in spite of the yells from the passage outside.
Betty is in despair.
"Oh, Bob, how could you be so violent? If father had been at home you would not have behaved so----"
"Look here, Betty, if you're going to begin that, you may take the books yourself and do them; I'm sick of the whole thing!"
Betty is wise enough to make no answer to Bob's outburst. She leaves the room quietly, and, after some trouble, pacifies the children, and sees them all safely in bed.
She feels thoroughly humiliated and miserable. The whole thing is such a keen disgrace; that her brothers and sisters should behave so roughly and rudely!
How untrained they all are--how badly brought up! No wonder father has grown so sad and old-looking of late. His old home--when he lived with Grannie--must have been very different.
She returns to the accounts. Bob is still poring over them, but looks so savage that she is almost afraid to speak. He finishes the work in silence, answers her thanks with a grunt, and goes off with his head in the air, and both hands deep in his pockets.
And Betty goes to bed herself, depressed indeed.
But the next morning there is a short pencil-note from father. His knee is more comfortable, but the doctor fears it will be a long business. He is most anxious to hear what Mr. Duncan will do.
Reading the note to mother, who is not up yet, makes Betty rather later than usual, and she runs straight to the kitchen to hurry on the breakfast.
"Oh, Clara, the kettle not boiling yet, nor the porridge on--why, this is too bad! You are more behindhand than ever. Pray, how does this happen?"
"Don't know," mutters Clara, sulkily.
"But you ought to know. Come, make haste--a bundle of wood, quick! The children must leave in half an hour."
Betty bustles about, and manages to get some sort of meal ready in time.
Breakfast over, and the children gone to school, she returns to the kitchen.
Things cannot be allowed to go on like this. She must talk to Clara.
But what can she say? Clara is so used to scolding, that she cares nothing for it. No, she must try to reason with her; she must teach her to think.
Wise Betty! Perplexed and troubled, she turns into the now deserted sitting-room for a few moments, and asks the Lord to help her. Then she goes back.
"Clara," she begins, "I have to go out this morning to look after some of father's business. I shall have to go out a good deal, for the work must be done, and is not easy to do; indeed, I can't do it at all unless you help me."
Clara opens her eyes very wide at this.
"I see you wonder what I mean. You must help me by getting all your work nicely forward, and the dinner prepared before I get back. Now, just look at this kitchen; I don't believe it's been swept since the day before yesterday; has it, Clara?"
Clara is silent; and begins biting the corner of her apron sulkily.
"Why are you neglecting everything in this way? Come, answer me, Clara."
"Don't know; I'm upset, I s'pose."
"Well, what has upset you?"
"Master's accident, of course. I wouldn't care a bit if it was some folks--serve them right! But master, who never speaks a cross word to anyone, and always asks after mother--that it should happen to him! It isn't fair! I don't see what is to prevent any of us getting our legs broken if he is to be smashed up in this way; and I'm that upset, I can't seem to settle to anything."
"But that is just what we've all got to learn to do--for father's sake. And, Clara, I think God has sent us this trouble because we have all been so careless and thankless in the past. You've never really cared to do your work properly, I'm afraid; you've never felt any real responsibility about it----"
"Oh, how can you say that? I'm always at work, and never, never done!"
"That's just because you never think about your work; you don't ever take the trouble to arrange it; and you don't care a bit about neatness or cleanliness."
Clara raises the corner of the dirty apron from her mouth to her eyes.
"What's the good?" she whimpers. "I should get in a muddle again directly; my work isn't anything but muddle!"
"But that's what it shouldn't be. You do your work as though you thought it wasn't worth doing at all."
"Don't think about it at all," mutters Clara.
"That's just it. My Grannie, she keeps her house as clean and tidy as a new pin, and yet always has time for everything. My Grannie says that all work is really beautiful if it is done for God. Did you never hear of the little servant who used to say she swept the floor for God, and cleaned the pots for God, too? God sees everything, you know.
"Then, again, you're sorry for father's accident; but why don't you show you're sorry by doing your work in the way father would like? Untidy rooms and careless, slipshod ways worry him dreadfully. Now, wouldn't it be nice if we could get all the house in apple-pie order, and ourselves into nice, tidy ways, before he comes out of the hospital? What a smile of thanks he would give us all round! Come, isn't that something worth trying for?"
"Hum! Don't see how it's going to be done," mutters Clara, looking round the untidy kitchen hopelessly. "We're just in a muddle everywhere."
"We can't get straight all of a minute, of course. But what I want us to do is to make a beginning. Ah, there's ten o'clock striking! I must go to Mr. Duncan with the books. Now, you will try--won't you, Clara? You'll work for God, and to please father, and to help me; and, Clara," adds Betty, in a hurried whisper, "do run upstairs and put your cap straight, and wash that great black smut from your face--it's right across your nose."