Chapter Second
Ethel’s mind was restored to its equanimity by this conversation with her mother. But it suffered something of a relapse, when Abby called next day according to promise, for her cousin to go out shopping, and she was obliged to say that she had no money, and was not to have any.
“It is too bad,” said Abby, sympathizing with her cousin’s disappointment. “I am glad we are not poor. I should not like to work as you do, and to go without every thing that I wanted.”
Ethel felt a little vexed at this speech and answered hastily: “I would rather be as poor as we are, Abby, and wash dishes to the end of my days, than to be as rich as some folks and to be dishonest.”
“Of course!” rejoined Abby, who fortunately was not very apt at taking a hint. “But, Ethel, all rich people are not dishonest.”
“No, of course not,” said Ethel, remembering her mother’s caution, and blushing to think how near she had come to revealing a secret. “But I have no money, Abby, and I cannot get any, that is the long and the short of it.”
“You might go with me, at any rate, and help me pick out my things,” urged Abby. “Come do, Ethel, you know I always like your taste better than mine.”
Ethel hesitated. She did not feel as though it would be very pleasant going round to the shops where she was accustomed to deal, and purchasing nothing, while her cousin was spending her money freely; but on the other hand she did not wish to disoblige Abby, of whom she was really very fond, notwithstanding a jar now and then. Finally she resolved to consult her mother.
“I think you had better go, my dear,” said Mrs. Fletcher. “Abby is always ready to do any thing for you, and you may as well learn first as last to say boldly, ‘I cannot afford it.’ That little lesson once learned, will save you worlds of trouble.”
With all her resolution, fortified by the recollection of the cause of her father’s poverty, Ethel did not find the day a very pleasant one. Abby’s ten dollars seemed to buy more and prettier things than any ten dollars had ever done before, and when it was gone, she did not scruple to run into debt for several articles she wanted to complete her gifts.
To Ethel’s remonstrances, she answered gayly: “Oh, my father won’t care. He don’t mind our making a bill now and then.”
“No wonder, since he never means to pay them,” thought Ethel.
She had always been a little in the habit of looking down upon her cousin in her secret soul, and the feeling had grown a good many degrees stronger before they parted. She walked home, feeling considerably uplifted in her own esteem, as though it were a great merit in herself that her father was an honest man, while, at the same time, she could not help wishing that honesty had been made rather more compatible with convenience.
As Ethel turned towards home, she ran against a girl of her own age, who was coming round the corner, walking very fast. “Why, Bessy, what makes you in such a hurry?” she exclaimed, recognizing a favorite schoolmate. “You are fairly out of breath.”
“O Ethel, I beg your pardon,” replied Bessy, “but I was in such a hurry to get home, because Rose is waiting for me. Do come in for a minute, and see what we are doing. It is such pretty work!”
Ethel had not quite got over the habit of feeling for her little watch, and she now put her hand to the place where she had worn it, to see if she had any time to spare. She withdrew it with a sigh, remembering that the watch was hers no longer, and glancing at the church clock not far off, saw that she had nearly an hour to spare.
“Have you been buying things for Christmas, Bessy?” she asked, as she quickened her step to keep pace with those of her companion.
“Yes, that is, not exactly, but things to get things with. I will show you.”
Accordingly, on arriving at the house of Mr. Beckford, she ushered Ethel into the back parlor, where at a table covered with pictures and painting materials, sat Rosa Beckford, busily engaged in coloring prints in water-colors.
“How quick you have been!” she said to her sister, after she had kissed Ethel.
“Yes, I almost ran. Is it not pretty work, Ethel?”
“Very pretty, and how nicely you do it!” said Ethel, examining the colored prints. “But what is it for?”
“I will tell you all about it,” replied Bessy, seating herself at the table, after she had drawn up a chair for Ethel.
“You know, my uncle publishes a great many children’s books with colored pictures. He has always employed a woman to paint them; but she is dead now, and he did not know what to do at first; but finally he asked us if we did not want to earn some Christmas money. He brought two or three for us to learn on, and showed us how, and we have worked upon them all our spare time this week. But there are a great many more than we shall be able to finish, and he wants to find some one else to take part of them. You see it does not answer to employ every one, because some would be careless and spoil them.”
While Bessy was speaking, there flashed across Ethel’s mind the remark her mother had made the night before: “If you want any Christmas money, you must earn it.”
“Do you think your uncle would let me try some of them?” she asked. “I want to earn some money very much.”
“If you could do it nicely—” said Bessy doubtfully.
“Of course she could,” interrupted Rosa. “She knows more about painting than either of us. Don’t you remember that she took lessons last summer?”
“Of course,” assented Bessy, “I did not think of that. I am pretty sure he would, Ethel; but you can ask him, for he will be here presently.”
“Let Ethel try on one of these easy ones,” said Rosa, “and then she can show it to uncle when he comes.”
Ethel drew off her gloves and set herself about the task with much interest. She was accustomed to the use of water-colors, and her work proceeded rapidly, so that when warned by the clock that it was time for her to hasten home, she had finished a very pretty picture. She did not like to stay longer, knowing that her mother would need her help, so she left her work with the girls, who promised to show it to their uncle when he came in.
Ethel walked rapidly homeward, building various castles in the air, and anxious to impart her scheme to her mother.
When she came in sight of the house, she saw to her vexation a carriage standing at the door.
“That is always the way,” she said to herself. “I don’t see why people must always come at the wrong time.”
She felt a little better satisfied when, upon drawing nearer, she perceived that the carriage which had excited her displeasure was her Uncle George’s rockaway. Uncle George lived in the country, and was a great favorite with the children, partly, perhaps, because his long pockets were inexhaustible store-houses of apples, pears, and chestnuts.
As she entered the house, she heard his round hearty voice saying to her mother: “I thought I would bring the turkey along, because, though not large, it is a very nice young one.”
“It is quite large enough, I assure you, brother, and I am very much obliged to you,” replied Mrs. Fletcher. “I only wish we had some way of repaying your kindness.”
“Fiddle de dee!” said Uncle George. “Don’t be talking about obligations, sister-in-law. You have done more for us than we shall ever do for you. I am going to send the young ones some apples and nuts before Christmas, and as soon as good sleighing comes, I shall come in and carry you all out to spend the day.”
Uncle George stayed to dinner, but Ethel did not enjoy his visit as much as usual, for she was in a great hurry to talk to her mother about her scheme for making money. But just as she had shut the door upon Uncle George, and was returning to the dining room full of her secret, the bell rang again.
“What a bother!” said Ethel mentally, as she turned once more to the door.
Her heart beat fast when she opened it, for there stood Mr. Beckford himself, with a roll in his hand, which Ethel knew at once to be the picture she had painted. To her surprise and disappointment, however, he said nothing to her upon the subject, but asked to see her mother. Could he be displeased at what she had done? We shall see.
Mr. Beckford was a tall thin man, slow of speech, and so wonderfully cautious that he never said or did any thing, without looking at both sides of it a great many times over. Consequently, Mrs. Fletcher had time to form more than one conjecture as to what could have brought the publisher to see her, before he finally arrived at saying—
“Your little daughter, madam, has been talking to my nieces with regard to executing some work for me, and they have shown me a specimen of her capacity.”
Here Mr. Beckford made a full stop, and Mrs. Fletcher, much surprised, wondered what was to be coming next.
“I am much pleased with the specimen of her work which I hold in my hand,” he resumed, after a pause of a minute; “and with your approval should be glad to give her full employment for a week or two.”
Mrs. Fletcher was not entirely without false pride more than other people, and her face flushed a little.
But she had time to conquer the feeling, while Mr. Beckford slowly rolled up the paper and continued:
“I would not of course make any bargain with her without the approval of her parents.”
“I will speak to my daughter, if you please,” said Mrs. Fletcher.
And she went into the kitchen where sat Ethel, looking very anxious, and wondering what the conference could be about.
To her mother’s question, she related what had taken place, adding: “It is such pretty work, mother, and I should like to earn some money so much. I hope you will not have any objection.”
“Are you willing to have it known that you work for money, Ethel? Suppose that Abby or some other schoolmate should come in, and find you engaged in this business?”
“They need not know that I work for money,” said Ethel, a little taken aback by this consideration.
Mrs. Fletcher shook her head. “That will never do, my daughter. You must not do any thing that you are ashamed of having people know. It leads to evils and mortifications without end.”
“Would you be mortified to have them know it, mother?” asked Ethel.
“No, my dear. There is nothing disgraceful in earning money when we stand in need of it.”
“Then I am sure I don’t care,” said Ethel. “I would rather earn money than run in debt as Abby does, for every little thing she wants.”
“Don’t be always drawing comparisons between yourself and Abby, Ethel,” said her mother. “I would rather see you more humble in your own eyes. ‘Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.’”
“But about the pictures,” said Ethel, too much occupied with her scheme to give much heed to her mother’s reproof, “Will you tell Mr. Beckford that you are willing?”
“I must consult your father, my dear. I shall make no objections if he has none.”
Ethel looked a little disappointed. She wanted the bargain closed at once, and was very much afraid Mr. Beckford would employ some one else. But she knew there was no appeal from her mother’s decision, and summoned what patience she could to await her father’s return.
To her great joy, Mr. Fletcher heartily approved of the scheme.
“You will know something of the value of money if you earn it yourself,” he said, “and you never will, till you do. I am going down town this evening, and will call at Mr. Beckford’s store, and talk the matter over with him. You can go with me, if you like.”
Of course Ethel wished to do so. She passed without a pang the lighted and glittering shops, which had caused her so much discomfort in the morning, though she would have liked to stop before some of the lighted windows, and speculate on what she should buy with her money.
Her father laughingly compared her to the milkmaid who counted her chickens before they were hatched.
“I hope I shall not be as unlucky as she was,” said Ethel, laughing in her turn, and blushing a little. “But here we are at Mr. Beckford’s. I do hope he is in!”
Mr. Beckford was in, and invited them into his private office. Ethel thought him the slowest man she had ever seen in her life, and wondered what was the use of considering so long before every word. But as all things come to an end, so did Mr. Beckford’s cogitations, and the bargain was concluded.
The pictures were of two sorts, one of which required to be colored very delicately, while the others did not need so much care. For the first she was to have ten cents apiece, and for the others five cents and three cents, according to the amount of work upon them; and she was to supply her own colors.
Very happy she was when she departed with her large roll of prints securely tied in brown paper. She thought her father’s marketing had never lasted so long, even when he had bought four times as much, and she could hardly spend time to admire her favorite spectacle of the lighted picture-dealer’s window, so anxious was she to get home with her treasures.
The moment she had disposed of her bonnet and cloak, she got out her paint-box and set to work on one of the cheaper prints, and she had finished that and part of another, before her mother announced that it was past nine o’clock, and quite time for her to go to bed.
“Just let me finish this old woman’s red petticoat, mother,” she pleaded. “I do so much want to see how she will look.”
“No, my dear! As soon as you have finished that, you will want to do something else just as much. Remember morrow is Sunday, and we have our necessary work to do before Church, so it will not answer to be late in the morning.”
Ethel almost wished it were any other day, but she was accustomed to implicit obedience, so she picked up her papers, and put away her colors with a very good grace. She tried hard to prevent the thought of her new employment from intruding on her prayers, and succeeded pretty well; but her dreams were haunted by pictures, and she thought of them the first thing in the morning. She could not resist the temptation to take a peep at her work of the night before, and had even taken her brush is hand to alter the shading of the old woman’s cap, when she recollected herself, and put the pencil away with a blush.
“It would be as bad as Abby doing her arithmetic on Sunday, for fear she should not finish it before Holidays.”
As her mother said, Ethel had too much the habit of drawing comparisons between Abby and herself. She was given to nourish a Pharisaic spirit of thanking God that she was not as others.
For once, Sunday seemed a long day to Ethel. She could not interest herself in her favorite pursuits—her Sunday-school book seemed dull, and she was tempted to speak harshly to the children several times in the course of the afternoon.
Her father remarked her impatience, and took an opportunity of saying gently, “Ethel, if your employment is going to spoil your Sundays, it would be better to give it up at once. Your earnings will cost more than they come to, if they lead you into sin.”
Ethel acknowledged her fault, and made an effort to do better. She called the children to her, and began to tell them Bible stories. And when they were tired of that, she interested herself in her lessons for next Sunday, so that the afternoon passed more quickly than she had supposed possible.
Monday being washing day, Ethel had more work to do than usual, so that she had no time to touch her pictures before school. When she arrived at the school-house, she found Rosa and Bessy waiting for her, anxious to know the result of her conference with their uncle. Ethel told them of the bargain she had made.
“That is more than he gives us,” remarked Bessy, rather inclined to be hurt at first.
“Ethel does them better than we,” said sweet-tempered little Rosa. “You know uncle would not trust those flower paintings with us, for fear we should spoil them.”
“And besides, Bessy,” said Ethel, “you can do a good many more of the cheap ones than I can do of the nice ones, so it will come to just the same in the end.”
Bessy, who cared rather more for the honor than for the money, was not quite satisfied with this argument, but she was contented when Ethel promised to give her lessons, that she might improve.
All this conversation was carried on in a low tone in a recess of the window apart from the other girls. And Abby, coming in while it was in progress, naturally approached the group to see what they were talking of.
Ethel, who was chatting very eagerly, checked herself at her cousin’s approach: the other girls stopped because she did, and the whole party looked embarrassed.
“Talking secrets!” said Abby, carelessly, though she felt rather hurt at the sudden silence. “If you are, I won’t intrude.”
“We are through now, at any rate,” said Ethel, laughing rather awkwardly.
“Oh, I don’t want to creep in where I am not wanted,” returned Abby, walking away. “I dare say I can find companions.”
“Don’t be silly, Abby,” said Ethel, following her. “You know very well I am not fond of secrets. I will tell you all about it after school,” she added, in a lower tone. “There is no privacy about it that I know of, only one don’t want to be talking of every thing before the whole world.”
Abby, always good-natured, allowed herself to be easily pacified, though she was very curious to learn what it was which was not to be talked of before the whole world.
Great was her wonderment when Ethel opened the matter to her as they were walking home. And when her cousin concluded with “Isn’t it nice?” she answered—
“It may suit you, Ethel, but I would not do it for the world. What would Aunt Sally Bertie say, if she knew that you worked for money? Or suppose any ladies should come in and catch you at it, how ashamed you would be!”
“I don’t see why,” said Ethel. “Why should I be ashamed of working for money, any more than my father?”
“That is different, and besides, I don’t believe your father likes it very well. Mother says she should think your father would be mortified enough to be only a book-keeper in an establishment where he has been head so long.”
“I don’t believe he cares,” said Ethel, her face flushing with a feeling which she could not easily have defined.
“I don’t know what mother will say, Ethel,” Abby continued, without heeding her cousin’s remark. “I know she would be very much mortified at the thought of my working for money. When Cousin Eliza stayed at our house, she used to give music lessons to the two Parkins girls, and mother always made her go round the back way, so that no one should see her. But I won’t tell her about this, Ethel, if you don’t want me to.”
“You can do as you like about it, Abby,” replied Ethel, with spirit. “I never intend to do any thing that I am ashamed of. But perhaps you would rather not be seen walking with any one that works for money.”
“Now, Ethel, you know I did not mean any such thing. I don’t care about it for myself. It is only what people will say, and I know they will think it strange.”
“They may as well wonder at that as any thing else,” said Ethel. “But good-bye, Abby. Come and see me, and I will show you what pretty work it is.”
Abby promised, and walked home faster than usual, anxious to tell her mother all she had heard.
Mrs. Coles exclaimed, and wondered, and lamented, and being, though weak, rather an amiable woman, felt a sincere regret that her cousin should have fallen so low. Mr. Coles thought it just of a piece with their other conduct, and opined that Fletcher would not be ashamed to be seen driving a cart through the streets, if he could not find any thing else to do; in which opinion he came nearer to the truth than was always the case with him.
Poor Mrs. Coles was really distressed, and took the first opportunity of seeing Mrs. Bertie, to consult with her as to what could be done to awaken Mrs. Fletcher’s sense of propriety, and save the family from any further degradation.
As she had expected, Mrs. Bertie flew into a passion, declared that her nephews and nieces were all fools together, and finally told Mrs. Coles to hold her tongue if she could, and leave the matter to her.
Mr. Coles was very well satisfied with the result of the conference, when his wife reported it to him. He had his own reasons for wishing the old lady to be not too well pleased with his cousin Fletcher. Whether he was as well satisfied in the end, may be discovered in the course of these pages.
Meantime Ethel spent all the time she could spare from her lessons and her house-work upon her pictures, laboring with more and more satisfaction as she perceived herself to improve. When she had finished a dozen of the common and one of the fine engravings, she took them down to Mr. Beckford’s store to show them. Mr. Beckford approved of them, but told her that she took too much pains. “You might as well do them twice as fast, my dear young lady. I fear the price I named will not remunerate you for the labor you bestow upon them.”
Ethel could not think for a moment what was the meaning of the long word Mr. Beckford had used, but when she had remembered that it meant pay, she answered gayly: “I like to make them look as pretty as I can, Mr. Beckford. It is much pleasanter.”
“Well, well, my dear, that is the right spirit,” replied Mr. Beckford, evidently much pleased. “I am quite satisfied with the pictures, and shall be able to give you as much employment as you desire from now till Christmas. Would you prefer to be paid by the piece, or have your money all together?”
After some consideration, Ethel decided that she would rather be paid by the piece. She felt as though it would be pleasant to see her hoard grow before her eyes; and there arose before her the image of a certain ivory box with a lock and key in which she meant to store her treasure.
Mr. Beckford went to his drawer and counted out six five-cent pieces and five three-cent pieces, besides a dime for the flower painting.
No money Ethel had ever possessed seemed in her eyes so valuable as this. She put it carefully into her purse, and taking her way homewards, she looked up at the shop windows, calculating what she could get for her mother and the boys; and she even went into a store to ask the price of a pretty little stained willow sewing chair, the same shape as a favorite one of her mother’s which had been sold with the rest. It was marked two dollars, but the man said he would sell it for ten shillings.
“If I can only get enough to buy that for mother, how glad she will be,” said she to herself; “but then I must get something for father and the boys, and for Abby, if I can.”
And she plunged at once into a deep calculation as to the probable amount of her means—so deep that she did not notice how far she had gone, till she heard her name sharply called. And looking up, saw her aunt’s face at the open window of her own house.
“Come in, Ethel,” repeated her aunt more sharply than before. “I want to speak to you.”
It was with no very pleasant feelings that Ethel mounted the steps. She divined at once that Aunt Sally had heard of her employment, and meant to call her to account for it. She entered the parlor with her bundle under her arm, and found herself face to face with her aunt, before she had exactly made up her mind what to say.
“Good afternoon to you, Miss Fletcher,” said her aunt, making her grandest courtesy. “What is that bundle you have under your arm?”
“Pictures, Aunt Sally,” said Ethel, her eyes sparkling rather mischievously. “Would you like to look at them? They are very pretty.”
And before Mrs. Bertie, who was somewhat taken aback, could reply, she had opened her bundle and displayed her treasures, descanting upon their beauties, and calling her aunt’s attention to the fact that the dog in old Mother Hubbard exactly resembled Mrs. Bertie’s dog Fido.
Mrs. Bertie did not exactly know what to do next, for like a skilful general, Ethel had foiled her tactics by marching out of her intrenchments, and attacking, instead of waiting to be assaulted. However, she did not mean to give it up so easily, so she tried another way.
“What are you going to do with all these pictures?” she asked.
“I am going to paint them, aunt. Then Y shall give them back to Mr. Beckford, and he will pay me the money for them. I have earned fifty-five cents already.”
“Umph!” said her aunt, drily. “What are you going to do with so much money?”
“I am going to buy Christmas presents with it, if I get enough.”
“I should think your father might let you have money for such a purpose, without your degrading yourself by working for a bookseller,” said Mrs. Bertie.
“Why is it degrading, aunt?” asked Ethel.
“Because it is!” was the short reply.
“Father cannot afford to give me money now,” pursued Ethel, “and mother said I might earn some if I could. So I got these pictures to paint, and really, Aunt Sally, I like it very much. It is pretty work, in the first place, and then there is all the time a pleasure in thinking you are going to be paid for it!”
“The long and the short of the matter is, Ethel, that you must leave off this business at once—at once, do you hear?” said Mrs. Bertie, growing angry as usual on finding herself opposed. “If you don’t, you need never expect any thing from me. Perhaps you think, because you are my relative, that I am bound to leave my fortune to you, whether or no; but I can tell you, you will find yourself mistaken. I will never leave you one penny, unless you do as I tell you in this matter.”
“You must do as you like about that, Aunt Sally,” said Ethel, modestly but firmly. “If you think I shall take any more pains to please you because you are rich, you are very much mistaken. I should do it just as much if you were as poor as old Mammy Rachel.”
“And pray, who taught you such fine sentiments, Miss Fletcher?”
“My mother taught me, aunt. She said—” and here Ethel stopped, for she was not quite sure that she ought to repeat what her mother had said.
“Well, what did she say? Come, don’t be afraid.”
“I am afraid you won’t like it, Aunt Sally; but mother said we children ought to take pains to come and see you, and to please you when we could, because you are an old lady, and not very strong, and have no children of your own to wait on you and be company for you.”
“Umph!” said Mrs. Sally again. “And so you come here out of pity, I suppose, and not because you find it pleasant?”
“No, aunt, I like to come, only—”
“Only when I am cross, I suppose.”
“I don’t mind any thing you say to me, aunt, but I don’t like it when you talk about my father and mother as you do sometimes, and I do not think it is right. If it were not for that, I should always like to come here, for you have been very kind to me ever since I can remember.”
Mrs. Bertie was silent for a few moments, and Ethel could not tell whether she was angry or not.
Presently she said: “Suppose I should give you the money to buy your presents with,—would not that do as well?”
“No, aunt, because they would be your presents and not mine.”
“Well, then, I will make a bargain with you. You shall come and read to me two hours a day, and I will pay you as much for that as you can earn by painting. We will read something you like—say Miss Yonge’s stories—and when they are finished you shall have them for your own.”
Ethel hesitated. The offer was certainly a tempting one, for she was fond of reading aloud, and she had been very anxious to read the books in question.
Mrs. Bertie thought she had gained the day, when all at once Ethel’s face changed.
“Auntie, I don’t see how I can do it, though I should like it very much. You see I have made a bargain with Mr. Beckford, so that he depends upon me for the work, and I know he could not easily find any one else to do it, if I should give it up. I don’t think it would be honorable for me to creep out of my agreement, and break my word, because I find something to do that I like better, do you?”
Quite unconsciously, Ethel had touched the old lady upon her most assailable side. She had, as we have said, a high sense of honor, and her ideas of integrity were very strict.
“You are quite right, Ethel,” she replied, after a little thought. “If you have made an agreement with this person, you must not break it on any account. But, my dear, you must consult me another time, before you make a bargain.”
Ethel smiled, but she did not promise to do so, though she was glad to see that her aunt’s ill-humor was fast passing away. “I will come and read to you any day when I have time, aunt, if you like to hear me. I love to read aloud.”
“Very good,” replied Mrs. Bertie. “Come when you please, I shall always be glad to see you. And, my dear, you must not think I am angry with you or your mother for your plain speaking. I believe you always tell the truth, and that is more than I can think of some folks. Now run home, for the old woman is tired with so much talking.”
Ethel kissed her aunt and went her way, much pleased with the result of the dreaded conference, and not a little satisfied with herself for the part she had played in it.
Mrs. Bertie sat alone for some time, apparently thinking deeply. At last she rang the bell, and sent the man-servant to summon her lawyer, with whom she had a long conference, and of whom she made some particular inquiries respecting her nephew, George Fletcher.
Mr. Simonton, the lawyer, being an honest man himself, had a great admiration of the same quality in others, and he gave Mrs. Bertie such an account of Mr. Fletcher as greatly raised him in his aunt’s estimation: one consequence of which was, that the next time Mr. Coles ventured in his aunt’s presence to lament over the obstinacy and folly of his cousins, he was politely informed by his relative that George Fletcher was an honest man, and an honorable man, which was more than could be said of all the family.