Mabel Quiller Couch - The Story of Jessie

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"Don't go yet, mother, wait a minute, I want Miss Patch to sing.
Miss Patch, you will sing to us, just once, won't you?" he pleaded.
"That one you used to sing to me. Oh, do! please! please!"

"But, my dear, my dinner is on cooking, and--and"--Miss Patch's
cheeks flushed a delicate pink, she was very shy--"I--I ain't
accustomed to singing, except to myself, and--well, I used to sing to
you sometimes when you were very little and didn't know what good
singing was."

"It was lovely," said Charlie earnestly, "and nobody ever sings to me
now," he added wistfully.

Miss Patch's tender heart was touched, and her shyness overcome.
"Very well, dear, I will," she agreed bravely, and it was really
brave of her, for to do so cost her a great effort. "Perhaps we
could choose a hymn we all know, and we could all join in. I am sure
we all know 'Safe in the arms of Jesus,' or 'There's a home for
little children.' You know them, don't you, Jessamine May?"

"Yes," said Jessie, "granp and I used to sing them on Sunday
afternoons."

But when they had begun "There's a home for little children," Miss
Patch was soon left to sing it through alone, for Charlie was too
exhausted, and after the first line or so Mrs. Lang could not get out
another word for the pain at her heart and the lump in her throat,
and taking Charlie in her arms she sat with bowed head looking down
at him.

"Would it be better--for him," she thought heart-brokenly, "would not
that home be better than this--the only one she could give him--and
what was to become of him if he lost her?" But she forced the
thought away. "And what is to become of me--if I lose him?" she
asked herself fiercely--and found no answer.

The last verse was reached, and she felt almost glad, the pain and
the pathos were more than she could bear.

"Now, one more," pleaded Charlie's weak voice from the shelter of his
mother's arms, and Miss Patch in her thin, sweet voice sang to a
plaintive chanting air of her own the beautiful hymn written by Miss
M. Betham-Edwards--

"God make my life a little light
Within the world to glow;
A little flame that burneth bright
Wherever I may go."

"God made my life a little flower,
That giveth joy to all,
Content to bloom in native bower
Although its place be small."

"God make my life a little staff,
Whereon the weak may rest,
That so what health and strength I have
May serve my neighbours best."

"It isn't a real tune," she explained shyly, when she had reached the
end. "I liked the words so much that I learnt them by heart, and
they ran in my head until I found myself singing them to any sort of
drone that would fit them."

"I think it is all lovely," said Charlie; "don't you, Jessie?"

"Oh, _lovely_," breathed Jessie softly. She was too deeply impressed
to be able to talk much. "God make my life a little flower," the
words repeated themselves again in her brain. "Miss Patch called me
a piece of sweet garden. I wonder--" But what Jessie wondered she
could not put into words.

In a vague way, that she scarcely as yet understood, it had suddenly
come home to her that, perhaps, after all it was for some good
purpose that she had been called upon to bear all that she had to
bear. Without those sweet, happy years at Springbrook she could
never have come as a little piece of sweet garden to this sad corner
of the world. Perhaps God had something for her--even a little girl
like herself--to do for Him. And she would try her utmost, she
determined--yes, her utmost; to do her best in the new life she had
been called to, and to make others happier by her presence.

CHAPTER X.

CHARLIE REACHES HOME.

After that exciting morning, Jessie saw Miss Patch always once a day,
at least, for she never failed to go up to her room to ask her if she
could do any errands, or anything else for her, and very, very glad
Miss Patch was, many a time, to be saved the long drag down all the
stairs and up again, and the walk through the cold wet streets during
the bitter winter months.

Being saved this much exertion, she was able to get down oftener to
see Charlie, and both he and Jessie loved these visits of hers.
More than once, too, when her husband was away, Mrs. Lang came for a
brief spell, and they had tea together again in Charlie's room.

It was on one of the occasions when she was alone with Miss Patch
that Jessie told of her Sunday-school in the garden, or by the
fireside, with her grandfather. Her tears fell as she told of it,
and her deep grief broke out uncontrollably, but Miss Patch did not
try to check her story, she let her tell it all, thinking it would be
better for her.

"And I've never been to Sunday-school, or to church since," she
sobbed. "Father won't let me."

It was to Miss Patch, too, that she sobbed out the story of that
dreadful day, and her grief for her grandparents and their suspense.
"It would not be so bad," she moaned, "if father would Let me write
to them and tell them I am well and--and safe, and--and not so very
unhappy; and I wouldn't mind so much if I knew how they were, but
granny was ill, and I know granp would feel it dreadfully losing me
like that and never knowing what had become of me. They don't know
where I am, or if I am alive or dead, and--and it has nearly killed
them, I expect!" and her tears choked her.

"Will not your father let you write?" asked Miss Patch in a husky
voice. The cruelty of it all made her kind heart ache with pain and
indignation.

Jessie shook her pretty head mournfully. "No. He says it would
unsettle me, and they would be always worrying round, and he wants
peace and quietness--but, oh, Miss Patch, they loved me so, it must
have nearly broken their hearts! And--and I love them so, I feel
sometimes I can't bear it, I can't, I can't. I feel I _must_ run
away and find my way back to them. I am sure "--hopefully--"
I could."

Miss Patch laid her thin hand very kindly on Jessie's bowed head.
"Don't ever do that, dear! Don't ever set yourself against God's
will. You are told in the Bible to obey your God and your earthly
father, and God must have sent you here for some good purpose, dear.
Perhaps to teach you something we cannot understand yet, perhaps to
bring help and happiness to--to others, to your mother, and dear
little Charlie there, and--and me.

"God make my life a little staff,
Whereon the weak may rest,
That so what health and strength I have
May serve my neighbours best.

"I think that is what God wants you for, little flower, to help us
and bring joy to us in this gloomy corner of the world; and, oh, my
dear, you have such chances here. And if you go on trusting and
hoping, little Jessamine, trying to hold the faith that never
faileth, all will come right. I know it will, I am sure."

Jessie lifted a very eager face to her old friend. "Do you really
think so?" she asked anxiously.

"I am sure of it, dear; quite sure."

Silence fell on them both for a few moments, then Jessie looked up
with a face alight with eagerness. "Miss Patch, couldn't I have a
little Sunday-school for Charlie, just like granp had for me?
I couldn't teach him, but I could read to him, and learn hymns with
him, couldn't I? Don't you think it would be nice?"

"I think it is a beautiful idea," agreed Miss Patch warmly.
Then, after a moment, she added, "How would you like it if I had the
school, and you both came to me? I could go down to Charlie's room,
as a rule, but I do believe that sometimes you might both come up to
me. If he were carried up very carefully and laid on my bed I feel
sure it would not hurt him, and I think the change of surroundings
might even do him good. What do you think of that plan?" and Miss
Patch looked nearly as eager as Jessie by the time she had finished
speaking.

Jessie had sprung to her feet with excitement. "I think it is
perfectly lovely," she cried, "perfectly lovely! Shall we begin next
Sunday? Oh, do, please! and may I go down and tell Charlie? He will
be _so_ glad. Thank you ever and ever so much," and putting up her
hands she drew Miss Patch's thin face down to her own and kissed it
warmly.

Charlie was as delighted as Jessie, and the prospect of going up to
Miss Patch's room for an hour or so filled him with joyful
excitement. Mrs. Lang was pleased, too. Anything that gave Charlie
pleasure was sure to give her pleasure, and she was thankful for any
means of teaching him and giving him new interests.

No one told Harry Lang about it, for he took no interest in anything
they did, and they knew too well that his crooked temper would find
delight in putting a stop to any little scheme they made. Tom Salter
knew, though, for having met Mrs. Lang one day struggling up the
stairs with Charlie in her arms, wrapped in blankets, he insisted on
carrying him up for her, every time he went, after that, and when he
was asked to stay, he did stay, and listened to Miss Patch reading,
and joined in the hymns, and after the first time he came quite
often.

Jessie was delighted, she liked Tom Salter, for though he spoke but
little, he had often done her a kindness, helping her carry a heavy
scuttle of coal up the stairs, or a pail of water; and many a time,
of a Saturday night, he cleaned several pairs of the lodgers' boots
for her in readiness for Sunday; and many other kindly acts he had
done, that meant much to the little over-burthened worker, for
Jessie's life was a hard one in those days.

Miss Patch took care of her own room, and required no attention, but
there were two lodgers in the front rooms on each landing, and all
required meals cooked and carried to their rooms mornings and
evenings, their rooms swept and dusted, their boots cleaned, and a
hundred little attentions, and to Jessie it seemed as though she
spent most of her life on the stairs, on her way up or down,
generally carrying heavy trays or a load of some sort.

Then there were the beds to help to make, windows to clean, rooms and
stairs to sweep, and numberless other duties. Fortunately, Jessie
liked housework, and Mrs. Dawson might well have been proud of her
pupil, could she have seen the difference that by degrees crept over
the look of the house, both inside and out, as time went on.

The windows were kept bright now, and the sills whitened; the
doorsteps, which used to be so dirty and neglected, were now kept
swept and whitened, too; and the lodgers appreciated the change, and
said so more than once.

So the days and weeks passed by, and the weeks became months, and
soon the months had become a whole year. Jessie could not believe it
when Charlie first drew her attention to the fact. A whole year!

What could have become of poor granny and granp all this time!
She wondered if they ever wept and wept, and longed for her as she
did for them. Sometimes, when the wind howled, or some one played
sad music in the streets, she felt as though her heart would break
with its weight of sad longing.

Fortunately for her, her days were too full and busy to allow of
constant repining; and at night she was too weary to lie awake long
grieving. Miss Patch had said, "Have faith and trust and all will
come right some day," and Jessie did try to have faith, and to trust
hopefully, though she worked hard and the fond poor, though her
father was neglectful and cruel, and her mother gloomy and reserved.

"God make my life a little flower,
That giveth joy to all,
Content to bloom in native bower,
Although its place be small."

She sang, and she did try hard to be content, and to do what she
could, and the result was that in many ways she was happy in spite of
all.

She loved Miss Patch, and the lonely little old woman loved her, and
helped her over many a stony bit of road. Charlie loved her, and
clung to her, too, and her mother, she fancied, was fond of her in
her own quiet, cold way. At any rate, she never beat her, as her
father did, or scolded and bullied her. But soon after her second
year in London had begun a new trouble, and a very heavy one, came to
Jessie. Charlie, she was sure, was getting worse.

He was growing thinner, and paler, and feebler, week by week.
The first time the truth dawned on her was one Sunday, when he said
languidly that he thought he would not go up to Miss Patch's room
that afternoon, he was too tired.

Jessie was so astounded that for a second or so she could only stand
and stare at him. Then, with a sudden sharp fear at her heart, she
flew to his side.

"Aren't you feeling very well?" she asked anxiously, and Charlie
shook his head, but with tears in his eyes, tears of weakness and
disappointment.

"Shall I ask Miss Patch to come down here?" she asked presently,
longing to rouse and cheer him. But he only shook his head again.

"No, thank you, it would be too much trouble for her, and--don't you
think it would be nice to stay quiet, just by ourselves, this
afternoon?" he asked. "Will you read to me, or tell me about
Springbrook?"

"Of course I will, dear," she answered warmly; "but--but I had better
go up and tell Miss Patch, hadn't I, or she would think it unkind?"

This, though, was not her only reason for going. She wanted to be
alone, away from him for a moment, to try and recover herself, and
face this new shock.

"Miss Patch," she cried in a tone of agony, "I believe Charlie is
worse, he seems so quiet, and so tired, and--and--Oh, Miss Patch,
what shall I do! He _must_ get better, he must, he must."

But the tears came into Miss Patch's eyes too, and she had little
comfort to offer. She had long had grave fears, and though she had
tried to put them aside, she had never quite succeeded.

But Jessie had to control herself, for Charlie was waiting for her.
"When these fogs are gone, and the spring comes, and the sunshine,"
she said, trying to pluck up hope, "he will be better, I am sure."

"This weather certainly tries the strongest," said Miss Patch, with a
sigh. "We will hope for the best, dear. We all of us have our bad
days, don't we? Charlie may be much better to-morrow; we must try to
keep his spirits up, and make him as cheerful and happy as we can."
But Jessie, as she went down the stairs again, wondered how that
would be possible when she herself felt so far from being either.

Christmas came and went, and the spring came, but without bringing to
Charlie the strength and health that Jessie prayed for so earnestly
for him. He never again went up to Miss Patch's room to
Sunday-school, so Miss Patch came down to him, and read or sang to
him, just as he wished. They had no lessons now, for he could not
bear even that slight strain, and, as Miss Patch said, with tears
trickling down her worn cheeks--

"What good is my teaching now? He will soon know more than any of
us. We can only help and strengthen him for the last hard steps of
his journey." And Tom Salter, to whom she spoke, said huskily--

"You'd be a help to anybody, miss; don't 'ee give way now, don't 'ee
give way," and all the time he was wiping the back of his hand across
his own wet eyes. "'Tisn't _his_ journey that'll be the hardest and
stormiest, I'm thinking," added Tom, "'tis those he'll leave behind.
Who is going to break it to his mother? She doesn't seem to see it
for herself--though how she can help it is past my understanding."

Poor Miss Patch's hands shook, and her tears fell faster. "I can't,
I can't," she murmured, "but yet--I suppose I ought--there's nobody
else to do it."

It was Charlie himself, though, who saved her that pain. "Mother,"
he said one evening, when she came to get him ready for the night,
"would you be very unhappy if I went away from you?"

"What do you mean?" she cried, in sudden fear. "You--you--"

"Would you, mother?" he persisted.

"Be unhappy! Why, I should break my heart--you are all I have to
care for, or live for, or--"

He put his little wasted arm about her neck, and drew her frightened
face down to his. "Mother, when I go away you will know I am happy--
but Jessie has gone away from her poor old granp and granny, and they
don't know--they think she is very unhappy and badly treated, and--
and, mother, I want you to try and get father to let Jessie go back
to them again, they must be so dreadfully sad about her. I often
think about them--I can't help it--and it makes me feel so sad."
He was silent for a moment. "I wish I could see them," he added
dreamily, "that I could tell them how I love her, and how kind she
has been to me, and--and that she isn't so _very_ unhappy."

Mrs. Lang had stood staring down at him speechless, stricken suddenly
numb and dumb with an awful overwhelming terror.

"Charlie--you--you ain't feeling ill--worse--are you? What's the
matter, dear? Why do you talk so? What do you mean by 'when you go
away'?" Her lips could scarcely form the last words, for she knew as
well as he could tell her. It had come suddenly to her understanding
that he was going a long, long journey--and soon; the last journey,
from which there was no returning.

With a heart-broken cry she fell on her knees by the bed. "You ain't
going, you shan't! Charlie, you shan't go away from me--you must
stay with me till I go too--"

"You will come to me, mother, but I shall go first, and I'll tell God
all about how you have had to work, and how hard it has been for you,
and He will understand--"

"You can't--you mustn't go! Oh, my dear, my dear, don't leave me."

"Oh, mother, I am _so_ tired, and I--I think I want to go, but I want
you to come too. You will, won't you, mother?" and he tried again to
draw her face down to his.

"I will try," she promised faintly, and then burst into a passion of
heart-broken sobs.

A month later, when in the country the hedges were full of primroses
and violets, and pure little daisies, Charlie took the last steps of
his painful journey, and reached the "rest" for which he craved.

It was on a Saturday that his brief journey through this life ended,
and on the Sunday those whom he had loved--his mother, and Jessie,
Miss Patch and Tom Salter--gathered in the little bare, quiet
bedroom, with him in the midst of them once more, but so silent now,
so very quiet and still.

"I am sure he is with us in spirit, the darling," said Miss Patch
softly, as she looked at the worn little face, so peaceful now, and
free from the drawn lines of pain they had worn hitherto; and, while
they all knelt around his bed, she said a few simple prayers, such as
went straight to their sad hearts, and sowed the germs, at least, of
comfort there; and while they still knelt, thinking their own sad
thoughts, her sweet voice broke softly into song.

"Sleep on, beloved, sleep and take thy rest.
Lay down thy head upon thy Saviour's breast,
We love thee well, but Jesus loves thee best--
Good-night!"

The others knelt, rapt, breathless, afraid to move lest they should
break the spell and the sweet singing, or lose one of the beautiful
words. Through the whole exquisite hymn she continued until the last
verse was reached--

"Until we meet again before His throne,
Clothed in the spotless robes He gives His own,
Until we know, even as we are known;--
Good-night!"

Voice and words died away together. Then one by one they rose and,
bending over him, kissed him fondly.

"Good-night, little Charlie, 'good-night,' not 'good-bye.'"

CHAPTER XI.

TOO LATE.

When Harry Lang was told that Charlie was dead, he looked shocked for
the moment, then, having remarked glibly that "it was all for the
best," and "at any rate he wouldn't suffer any more," he told Jessie
to make haste and get him some food, and became absorbed in making
his own plans for his own comfort.

He hated trouble, and sadness, and discomfort of others' making, and
he made up his mind at once to go away out of it for a time, and not
return until the funeral, at any rate, was over. So at the end of
his meal he announced to Jessie that he had to go away for a week on
business. He wouldn't bother her mother by telling her about it now,
while she was worn out and trying to rest, but Jessie could tell her
by and by.

What he should have done, of course, was to remain at home and
relieve his poor stricken wife of all the painful details that
necessarily followed the seeing about the little coffin, the grave,
and the funeral. But Harry Lang had trained people well for his own
purposes. No one ever expected assistance of any kind from him; so,
instead of missing him, most people felt his absence as only a great
relief. Mrs. Lang and Jessie did so now.

At the end of ten days he came back again, expecting to find not only
the funeral a thing of the past, but all feelings of loss and sorrow
to be put away out of sight and memory.

"You'll be able to take in another lodger now," he remarked abruptly
to his wife as he ate his supper on the night of his return.
"There's a friend of mine that'll be glad to take the room, and he'll
have his breakfast and supper here with me, just as Tom Salter does."

Mrs. Lang did not speak until he had finished; then, without looking
at him, she answered curtly, "I am not taking any more lodgers."

Her husband looked up in sudden rage and astonishment. He had never
heard his wife speak like that before, and it gave him quite a shock.

"Not--not--" he gasped; "and whose house is this, I'd like to know;
and who, may I ask, is master here?"

"The house belongs to the one that pays the rent. This house is
mine, and I am master here, and mistress too," she answered coldly
but firmly; "and if I did want another lodger, I shouldn't take a
friend of yours; I am going to keep my house respectable, as far as I
can--or give it up."

Harry Lang's voice completely failed him, and he sat silently staring
at his wife in wide-eyed amazement. He had thought he had long ago
killed all the spirit in her, and here she was declaring her
independence in the calmest manner possible, and actually defying
him--and he could find nothing to say or do! Her tone to him, and
the opinion, it was only too evident, she held of him, hurt and
mortified him more than he had ever thought possible; for in his own
opinion he had always been a tremendously fine fellow, very superior
indeed to those poor creatures who went tamely to work, day after
day, and handed their money over to their wives; and he thought every
one else was of the same opinion.

"I--I think trouble or something has turned your brain!" he stuttered
at last, "and you had better look sharp and get it right again, I can
tell you, or I'll know the reason why."

"My brain is all right," said Mary Lang quietly; "trouble has turned
my heart, perhaps, and that isn't likely ever to get right again; but
I don't see that that can matter to you. You never cared for me or
my heart, or how I felt, or how anybody else felt, but yourself."

"I care about Bert Snow coming here to lodge, and he's coming, too!
Do you hear? I told him he could, and I ain't going to be made to
look small--"

"You won't look any smaller," said his wife reassuringly, and he
wondered stupidly exactly what she meant, or if she meant anything.
"You must tell your friend he cannot come here, I haven't got a room
for him. I am not going to have such as he in Charlie's room.
Jessie is to have it, and it's about time, I think, that your
daughter had a bed and a room fit for her to sleep in," she added
scathingly.

Harry Lang did not care in the least whether Jessie had or had not a
bed, or if she slept on the doorstep; but he cared very much about
his friend, and he meant to have his own way. But though he stormed,
and bullied, and even struck his wife, he found her, for the first
time, as firm as adamant, and quite as indifferent to him.
His orders meant nothing to her, and the change in her impressed him
very much.

So Jessie, for the first time since she left Springbrook, had a real
bedroom again, and a place she could call her own. She did not quite
like using it, but she felt that her mother wished it. Mrs. Lang
would have liked to keep the little room always sacred to the memory
of him who had spent most of his little life in it, but rather Jessie
should have it than that it should be desecrated by a betting,
drinking, gambling stranger, who would pollute it, she felt, by his
presence!

So Jessie and her possessions were installed. It was not a long
business, for her belongings were very few. She had not had a penny
or a gift of any kind since she came to London, except a little book
of hymns that Miss Patch had given her, and one of Charlie's
favourite books which he had wished her to have. Her little stock of
clothing had never been added to since she came, until now, when her
stepmother seemed to find pleasure in providing her with a very
thorough outfit of mourning.

Now that she had lost her boy, the one and only joy that was hers,
Mrs. Lang seemed to turn to Jessie with more real affection than she
had ever shown before. Jessie had loved her dead darling, and any
one who had loved him or been good to him had all the grateful
devotion of the poor mother's aching heart.

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