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 press
On the pathway rough and steep,
Through this weary wilderness.
Holy Jesu, day by day
Lead 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 day
Lead 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!"
Nettie's lip trembled, but that was all the outward show of the agitation within. She would not have delayed to obey if her father had been quite himself; but in his present condition she thought perhaps the next word might undo the last; she could not go without another trial. She waited an instant, and again said softly and pleadingly, "Father, I've been and got cinnamon and sugar for you,—all ready."
"Cinnamon and sugar—" he cursed with a great oath; and turning, gave Nettie a violent push from him, which was half a blow. "Go home!" he repeated—"go home and mind your own business, and don't take it upon you to mind mine."
Nettie reeled, staggered, and coming blindly against one or two timbers that lay on the ground, she fell heavily over them. Nobody saw her; but that her father should have laid a rough hand on her hurt her sorely; it hurt her bitterly. He had never done so before; and the cause why he came to do it now rather made it more sorrowful than less so to Nettie's mind.
She could not help a few salt tears from falling; and for a moment Nettie's faith trembled. Feeling weak, and broken, and miserable, the thought came coldly across her mind, would the Lord not hear her, after all? It was but a moment of faith-trembling, but it made her ill. There was more to do that: the push and fall over the timbers had jarred her more than she knew at the moment. Nettie walked slowly back on her road till she neared the shop of Madame Auguste, then she felt herself growing very ill, and just reached the Frenchwoman's door to faint away on her steps.
She did not remain there two seconds. Madame Auguste had seen her go by an hour before, and now sat at her window looking out to amuse herself, but with a special intent to see and waylay that pale child on her repassing the house. She saw the little black hood reappear, and started to open the door, just in time to see Nettie fall down at her threshold. As instantly, two willing arms were put under her, and lifted up the child and bore her into the house. Then Madame took off her hood, touched her lips with brandy, and her brow with Cologne water, and chafed her hands. She had laid Nettie on the floor of the inner room, and put a pillow under her head; the strength which had brought her so far having failed there, and proved unequal to lift her again and put her on the bed. Nettie presently came to, opened her eyes, and looked at her nurse.
"Why, my Nettie," said the little woman, "what is this, my child? what is the matter with you?"
"I don't know. But I must go home!" said Nettie, trying to raise herself. "Mother will want me—she'll want me."
"You will lie still, like a good child," said her friend, gently putting her back on her pillow; "and I will find some person to carry you home—or some person what will bring your mother here. I will go see if I can find some one now. You lie still, Nettie."
Nettie lay still, feeling weak after that exertion of trying to raise herself. She was quite restored now, and her first thoughts were of grief that she had for a moment failed to trust fully the Lord's promises. She fully trusted them now. Let her father do what he would, let things look as dark as they might, Nettie felt sure that "the rewarder of them that diligently seek Him" had a blessing in store for her. Bible words, sweet and long loved and rested on, came to her mind, and Nettie rested on them with perfect rest. "For He hath not despised nor abhorred the affliction of the afflicted; neither hath He hid His face from him; but when he cried unto Him, He heard." "Our heart shall rejoice in Him, because we have trusted in His holy name." Prayer for forgiveness, and a thanksgiving of great peace, filled Nettie's heart all the while the Frenchwoman was gone.
Meanwhile Madame Auguste had been looking into the street, and seeing nobody out in the wet snow, she rushed back to Nettie. Nettie was like herself now, only very pale.
"I must have cut my lip somehow," she said; "there's blood on my handkerchief. How did I come in here?"
"Blood!" said the Frenchwoman; "where did you cut yourself, Nettie? Let me look!"
Which she did, with a face so anxious and eager that Nettie smiled at her. Her own brow was as quiet and placid as ever it was.
"How did I get in here, Mrs. August?"
The Frenchwoman, however, did not answer her. Instead of which she went to her cupboard and got a cup and spoon, and then from a little saucepan on the stove dipped out some riz-au-gras again.
"What did you have for dinner, Nettie? you did not tell me."
"Not much—I wasn't hungry," said Nettie. "Oh, I must get up and go home to mother."
"You shall eat something first," said her friend; and she raised Nettie's head upon another pillow, and began to feed her with the spoon. "It is good for you. You must take it. Where is your father? Don't talk, but tell me. I will do everything right."
"He is at work on Mr. Jackson's new house."
"Is he there to-day?"
"Yes."
Madame Auguste gave her all the "broth" in the cup, then bade her keep still, and went to the shop window. It was time for the men to be quitting work, she knew; she watched for the carpenters to come,—if they were not gone by already!—how should she know? Even as she thought this, a sound of rude steps and men's voices came from down the road; and the Frenchwoman went to her door and opened it. The men came along, a scattered group of four or five.
"Is Mr. Mat'ieson there?" she said. Madame Auguste hardly knew him by sight. "Men, I say! is Mr. Mat'ieson there?"
"George, that's you; you're wanted," said one of the group, looking back; and a fine-looking tall man paused at Madame's threshold.
"Are you Mr. Mat'ieson?" said the Frenchwoman.
"Yes, ma'am. That's my name."
"Will you come in? I have something to speak to you. Your little daughter Nettie is very ill."
"Ill!" exclaimed the man. "Nettie!—Where is she?"
"She is here. Hush! you must not say nothing to her, but she is very ill. She is come fainting at my door, and I have got her in here; but she wants to go home, and I think you had better tell her she will not go home, but she will stay here with me to-night."
"Where is she?" said Mr. Mathieson; and he stepped in with so little ceremony that the mistress of the house gave way before him. He looked round the shop.
"She is not here—you shall see her—but you must not tell her she is ill," said the Frenchwoman, anxiously.
"Where is she?" repeated Mr. Mathieson, with a tone and look which made Madame Auguste afraid he would burst the doors if she did not open them. She opened the inner door without further preparation, and Mr. Mathieson walked in. By the fading light he saw Nettie lying on the floor at his feet. He was thoroughly himself now; sobered in more ways than one. He stood still when he had got there, and spoke not a word.
"Father," said Nettie, softly.
He stooped down over her. "What do you want, Nettie?"
"Can't I go home?"
"She must better not go home to-night," began Madame Auguste, earnestly, "it is so wet and cold! She will stay here with me to-night, Mr. Mat'ieson. You will tell her that it is best."
But Nettie said, "Please let me go home! mother will be so troubled." She spoke little, for she felt weak; but her father saw her very eager in the request. He stooped and put his strong arms under her, and lifted her up.
"Have you got anything to put over her?" he said, looking round the room. "I'll fetch it back."
Seeing that the matter was quite taken out of her hands, the kind little Frenchwoman was very quick in her arrangements. She put on Nettie's head a warm hood of her own; then round her and over her she wrapped a thick woollen counterpane, that to be sure would have let no snow through if the distance to be travelled had been twice as far. As she folded and arranged the thick stuff round Nettie's head, so as to shield even her face from the outer air, she said, half whispering,