Thompson did not answer, but a soft feeling crept into her heart.
"Look at her kindly, Jane; speak to her kindly," said Joe. "Think of her dead mother, and the loneliness, the pain, the sorrow that must be on all her coming life." The softness of his heart gave unwonted eloquence to his lips.
Mrs. Thompson did not reply, but presently turned towards the little chamber where her husband had deposited Maggie; and, pushing open the door, went quietly in. Joe did not follow; he saw that, her state had changed, and felt that it would be best to leave her alone with the child. So he went to his shop, which stood near the house, and worked until dusky evening released him from labor. A light shining through the little chamber windows was the first object that attracted Joe"s attention on turning towards the house: it was a good omen. The path led him by this windows and, when opposite, he could not help pausing to look in. It was now dark enough outside to screen him from observation. Maggie lay, a little raised on the pillow with the lamp shining full upon her face. Mrs. Thompson was sitting by the bed, talking to the child; but her back was towards the window, so that her countenance was not seen. From Maggie"s face, therefore, Joe must read the character of their intercourse.
He saw that her eyes were intently fixed upon his wife; that now and then a few words came, as if in answers from her lips; that her expression was sad and tender; but he saw nothing of bitterness or pain. A deep-drawn breath was followed by one of relief, as a weight lifted itself from his heart.
On entering, Joe did not go immediately to the little chamber. His heavy tread about the kitchen brought his wife somewhat hurriedly from the room where she had been with Maggie. Joe thought it best not to refer to the child, nor to manifest any concern in regard to her.
"How soon will supper be ready?" he asked.
"Right soon," answered Mrs. Thompson, beginning to bustle about.
There was no asperity in her voice.
After washing from his hands and face the dust and soil of work, Joe left the kitchen, and went to the little bedroom. A pair of large bright eyes looked up at him from the snowy bed; looked at him tenderly, gratefully, pleadingly. How his heart swelled in his bosom! With what a quicker motion came the heart-beats! Joe sat down, and now, for the first time, examining the thin free carefully under the lamp light, saw that it was an attractive face, and full of a childish sweetness which suffering had not been able to obliterate.
"Your name is Maggie?" he said, as he sat down and took her soft little hand in his.
"Yes, sir." Her voice struck a chord that quivered in a low strain of music.
"Have you been sick long?"
"Yes, sir." What a sweet patience was in her tone!
"Has the doctor been to see you?"
"He used to come."
"But not lately?"
"No, sir."
"Have you any pain?"
"Sometimes, but not now."
"When had you pain?"
"This morning my side ached, and my back hurt when you carried me."
"It hurts you to be lifted or moved about?"
"Yes, sir."
"Your side doesn"t ache now?"
"No, sir."
"Does it ache a great deal?"
"Yes, sir; but it hasn"t ached any since I"ve been on this soft bed."
"The soft bed feels good."
"O, yes, sir--so good!" What a satisfaction, mingled with grat.i.tude, was in her voice!
"Supper is ready," said Mrs. Thompson, looking into the room a little while afterwards.
Joe glanced from his wife"s face to that of Maggie; she understood him, and answered,--
"She can wait until we are done; then I will bring her somethings to eat." There was an effort at indifference on the part of Mrs.
Thompson, but her husband had seen her through the window, and understood that the coldness was a.s.sumed. Joe waited, after sitting down to the table, for his wife to introduce the subject uppermost in both of their thoughts; but she kept silent on that theme, for many minutes, and he maintained a like reserve. At last she said, abruptly,--
"What are you going to do with that child?"
"I thought you understood me that she was to go to the poorhouse,"
replied Joe, as if surprised at her question.
Mrs. Thompson looked rather strangely at her husband for sonic moments, and then dropped her eyes. The subject was not again referred to during the meal. At its close, Mrs. Thompson toasted a slice of bread, and softened, it with milk and b.u.t.ter; adding to this a cup of tea, she took them into Maggie, and held the small waiter, on which she had placed them, while the hungry child ate with every sign of pleasure.
"Is it good?" asked Mrs. Thompson, seeing with what a keen relish the food was taken.
The child paused with the cup in her hand, and answered with a look of grat.i.tude that awoke to new life old human feelings which had been slumbering in her heart for half a score of years.
"We"ll keep her a day or two longer; she is so weak and helpless,"
said Mrs. Joe Thompson, in answer to her husband"s remark, at breakfast-time on the next morning, that he must step down and see the Guardians of the Poor about Maggie.
"She"ll be so much in your way," said Joe.
"I sha"n"t mind that for a day or two. Poor thing!"
Joe did not see the Guardians of the Poor on that day, on the next, nor on the day following. In fact, he never saw them at all on Maggie"s account, for in less than a week Mrs. Joe Thompson would as soon leave thought of taking up her own abode in the almshouse as sending Maggie there.
What light and blessing did that sick and helpless child bring to the home of Joe Thompson, the poor wheelwright! It had been dark, and cold, and miserable there for a long time just because his wife had nothing to love and care for out of herself, and so became soar, irritable, ill-tempered, and self-afflicting in the desolation of her woman"s nature. Now the sweetness of that sick child, looking ever to her in love, patience, and grat.i.tude, was as honey to her soul, and she carried her in her heart as well as in her arms, a precious burden. As for Joe Thompson, there was not a man in all the neighborhood who drank daily of a more precious wine of life than he. An angel had come into his house, disguised as a sick, helpless, and miserable child, and filled all its dreary chambers with the sunshine of love.
XVI.
WHICH WAS MOST THE LADY?
"DID you ever see such a queer looking figure?" exclaimed a young lady, speaking loud enough to be heard by the object of her remark.
She was riding slowly along in an open carriage, a short distance from the city, accompanied by a relative. The young man, her companion, looked across the road at a woman, whose attire was certainly not in any way very near approach to the fashion of the day. She had on a faded calico dress, short in the waist; stout leather shoes; the remains of what had once been a red merino long shawl, and a dingy old Leghorn bonnet of the style of eighteen hundred and twenty.
As the young man turned to look at the woman, the latter raised her eyes and fixed them steadily upon the young lady who had so rudely directed towards her the attention of her companion. Her face, was not old nor faded, as the dress she wore. It was youthful, but plain almost to homeliness; and the smallness of her eyes, which were close together and placed at the Mongolian angle, gave to her countenance a singular aspect.
"How do you do, aunty?" said the young man gently drawing on the rein of his horse so as still further to diminish his speed.