Chapter VIII: Cousin Becky Finds a Home

"Polly, do you know I have been here a month to-day?"

It was about four o'clock on a fine March afternoon, and Cousin Becky sat on a chair near the sitting-room window, her busy fingers employed in sewing, whilst occasionally her sharp dark eyes strayed from her work to the only other occupant of the room—Polly—who was reading a story-book.

"Yes, Cousin Becky," Polly answered, closing her book, in which she was not very interested, and coming to the window, where she stood examining a pot of crocuses, just opening into flower, which she had cherished through the winter and which now graced the window sill. "How the time has flown, to be sure! It doesn't seem nearly so long—at least, not to me."

"Nor to me either. I have never thanked you for giving up your room to me, my dear; in fact, I did not know you had done so until a few days ago when Roger—"

"Oh, Roger should not have told you!" Polly broke in, looking vexed.

"I am very glad he did. I feel very grateful to you, Polly."

"I have been quite comfortable in the attic; it is really a nice big room, only of course it has a sloping roof and the window is rather small and high in the wall! I have grown to like it, indeed I have."

"Still, you will be glad to get back to your own little room, I expect?"

"No; because then you will be gone, and I shan't like that."

There was a ring of sincerity in the little girl's voice which brought an exceedingly tender expression into her companion's eyes.

"I was speaking to your parents about my departure this morning," Cousin Becky said after a brief silence, "and they asked me to extend my visit."

"Oh, I do hope you will!" Polly cried, her countenance brightening.

"Then you have not found your old cousin much in the way, my dear?"

"In the way? No, indeed! We have simply loved to have you with us, and we shall miss you dreadfully when you go; I heard mother say so to father yesterday."

"Perhaps I may not go just yet. I am very fond of you all, Polly; and I like your home, and I have accounted it a privilege to be here. You know, I have no home of my own, and I thought of making one at Beaworthy; but I am doubtful still what my plans for the future will be. I am naturally a sociable person, and I dread the thought of living alone. Your mother and father have asked me to remain here, at any rate for the present, and I have gladly consented to do so. I am going to pay a small sum weekly for my board, so that I shall not be a burden on my kind relations; but, on the other hand, the sum will not be sufficiently large for them to get any profit by me. So you see, child, you are not going to get rid of me so soon as you thought."

"I am very glad," Polly asserted heartily. "Do you mean you are going to live with us altogether, Cousin Becky?"

"I mean that your dear parents have told me that I may always look upon their house as my home—as one spot in the world where I shall be welcome."

"How pleased Roger will be!" the little girl cried earnestly.

"The only thing is, Polly, I do not like taking your room—"

"Oh, please don't trouble about that, Cousin Becky! Indeed, you need not. I don't feel a bit lonely in my attic, for I'm next door to Louisa, and I can look out of the window if I stand on a box. Really, I quite like my attic, now. Oh!" she exclaimed with sudden excitement in her tone, "I do believe that's mother coming—at last!"

Earlier in the afternoon news had been brought to Mrs. Trent that there had been an accident to a labourer in the clay pits. The man—Caleb Glubb by name—had married a servant of the Trents some years before, and Mrs. Trent had gone to ascertain the true facts of the case. As Polly spoke, her mother appeared in sight, and a few minutes later she entered the house and came immediately into the sitting-room.

"Is Caleb much hurt?" Polly inquired, glancing anxiously at her mother's face, which wore an expression of grave concern.

"Yes, Polly, I am afraid he is," was the reply. "I found poor Sarah Glubb in terrible grief, for they had taken her husband to the hospital, and she had no one to leave with the children whilst she went to make inquiries about him. Four little ones she has," Mrs. Trent explained to Cousin Becky, who was listening attentively, "the youngest not two months old. So I remained with the children whilst Sarah went to the hospital. Poor soul, she returned almost heart-broken, for her husband has been very badly injured—a quantity of clay fell on him and crushed him badly—and the doctors say, even if he recovers, he will be unable to work for many weeks, or perhaps months; and, meanwhile, there are four little mouths for Sarah to find food for. Oh dear, oh dear!" and the tears swam in Mrs. Trent's eyes as she spoke, "what I would give if I were only rich!"

"Then perhaps you wouldn't give much," Cousin Becky remarked a little dryly.

"Oh, Cousin Becky," cried Polly reproachfully, "I am sure mother would!"

"It is generally poor people who help each other," the old lady said, nodding her head sagely. "Does the injured man work for Mr. Marsh?" she inquired.

"Yes," Mrs. Trent assented, "and I suppose he will get compensation for his injuries under the Workmen's Compensation Act; but, meanwhile—"

"Meanwhile, of course, Mr. Marsh will see his family is provided with necessaries?"

"I don't know that he will. Men frequently meet with accidents in the clay pits, but I don't think John interests himself in them individually. Ah, here's Roger!" she exclaimed, as her little son burst into the room.

"Mother, have you heard what's happened to Sarah's husband?" he cried excitedly.

"Yes, my dear," she answered, "I have been to see Sarah and know all about the accident. The Glubbs have been unable to lay aside anything against a rainy day," she continued, again addressing Cousin Becky, "for they have had to contend against sickness; and last winter, owing to the wet season, the men were often unable to work in the clay pits. I do not know how poor Sarah will manage to feed her children or keep a roof above their heads now."

"There is One who will not forget them," Cousin Becky said softly.

"Can't we help them, mother?" Roger asked. Then as Mrs. Trent looked dubious, he proceeded eagerly, "Oh, surely we can do something? I'll go without sugar in my tea and eat bread and butter only for tea without any cake or jam, and then you'll be able to save that out of your house-keeping money, won't you? And I'll give up my pocket-money too."

"That's only twopence a week, Roger," Polly reminded him.

"Still, that would be a little help, wouldn't it?" he asked, appealing to his mother.

"Certainly it would," she replied, "if you desire to help poor Sarah you most certainly shall."

"And I too!" Polly cried eagerly.

"Both of you," agreed Mrs. Trent; "we will all see what we can do. I am glad my children desire to bear other people's burdens. But I wish we had more to give."

"Do you remember what the Pilgrims saw on Mount Charity?" asked Cousin Becky, regarding her young cousins with her bright smile. "I heard your father reading that part of 'The Pilgrim's Progress' to you on Sunday."

"Of course we remember," Roger answered quickly; "the pilgrims saw a man with a bundle of cloth lying before him, out of which he kept on cutting garments for the poor, but his bundle of cloth was never the less."

"And the pilgrims were told that he who has a heart to give shall never want himself," Cousin Becky said; "I think if people oftener remembered that they would be more open-hearted—and open-handed."

"Oh, Roger." cried Polly, with sudden recollection, "do you know Cousin Becky isn't going to leave us after all? She's going to live with us."

"Really?" he exclaimed, his face expressive of mingled pleasure and surprise. "Well, I am glad!" and he impulsively flung his arms around the old lady and gave her a hearty kiss.

"You are all so kind to me, and have made me so happy," Cousin Becky murmured, in a slightly tremulous tone, much touched by the little boy's spontaneous act of affection; "I felt such a lonely old woman that night I arrived here a month ago your welcome warmed and cheered my heart as nothing else could have done."

"This will be your home too, now," Roger remarked reflectively; "you see, mother, father was right: Cousin Becky is satisfied with our ways."

When Mr. Trent returned at six o'clock, he brought the news that Caleb Glubb had rallied somewhat, and it was now hoped his life would be spared. "I called at the hospital on my way home from the office," he explained, "and made inquiries. I am glad you have been to see Sarah," he said to his wife. "We must try to help her in any little way we can."

And during the days which followed, the Trents found various ways of assisting their old servant out of their slender means, by small acts of self-sacrifice ungrudgingly rendered; and Cousin Becky busied herself in mending some garments of Polly's which the little girl had outgrown, for the use of poor Sarah's children.

"Do you know, Sarah tells me that on each Saturday morning since her husband's accident, she has received a postal order for a sovereign," Mrs. Trent informed the others one evening, a few weeks later. "It has always come by post, from Beaworthy, anonymously, and she cannot imagine who it is that sends it. It flashed through my mind it might be Janie; but, if so, why should she send it anonymously?"

"Oh, it isn't Aunt Janie, because she didn't even know about the accident till this afternoon," rejoined Roger. "I met her in the town, and she spoke to me, and asked for you all, and especially for Cousin Becky. I told her Cousin Becky was making up some clothing for Sarah's children—she remembered Sarah when she lived with us as cook, but she hadn't heard of the accident to Caleb. I wonder Uncle John hadn't told her. So, you see, it isn't Aunt Janie who sends the postal orders."

"Perhaps it's Uncle John," suggested Polly.

"He would not send them anonymously. No, it is some good fairy," said Mrs. Trent with a smile, "who does not wish to be known. Well, the money is proving a great blessing and is going where it is really required."

"I told Aunt Janie that Cousin Becky is going to stay on with us," Roger remarked. "She was awfully astonished."

"Why? What did she say?" asked Polly, her curiosity aroused.

"She said, 'I am utterly amazed!' and she looked it," the little boy answered, with emphasis in his tone.

Cousin Becky gave a soft involuntary laugh, which made everyone glance at her with surprise. She was apparently intensely amused, for her eyes were dancing with merriment. She had improved both in health and spirits during the few weeks she had been at Beaworthy, and was evidently quite contented and happy. A cheerful soul was Cousin Becky, one of those who are like a gleam of sunshine in the house, one whose very presence was invigorating. Mrs. Trent had discovered already that Cousin Becky knew a great deal more about the management of a small income than she did herself, and was always ready with advice or help, if either was wanted; and the children had found out that the old lady could, and was willing to, assist them in the preparation of their lessons.

"Why, how clever she is!" Roger had exclaimed on one occasion, after Cousin Becky had helped him with his Latin. "She knows about everything, it seems to me, and yet she's not a bit stuck up."

Even Louisa had her word of praise for the new inmate of the household. "She's the most helpful body I ever knew," she confided to her mistress. "She gives no trouble at all, and I'm really glad she's going to stay."