Chapter VIII: Away From Home

MINNIE and Maud were a good deal touched, and somewhat ashamed of themselves when they heard of little Margerie's self-sacrificing proposal, but neither they nor their mother supposed it likely that "grandma" (as they were accustoming themselves to call their newly-found relative) would agree to taking her. "She is too young to be of any use," they said.

However, to everybody's surprise, the old lady on being consulted seemed quite pleased at the idea of having the child. "If she is quiet and 'biddable,'" she observed—the girls had never heard that old-fashioned word before, and it struck them as very funny—"I shall soon get her into the way of being handy. I suppose she has been brought up to mind what is said to her, and do as she's told?"

Mrs. Grace, junior, "hoped so," but Maud pulled down the corners of her mouth at Minnie behind a book, and Margerie's gray eyes grew solemn and round. She could not persuade herself by any device that she "liked" the prospect of going off with this singular old person, grandmother though she be, to live in that "eerie" old house all alone. Sometimes she felt almost as if she should run away and hide somewhere when the last moment came; even Jamie's admiring remark that she was "a Trojan" suggested a possible necessity for extraordinary courage that was far from reassuring. But Minnie and Maud had so positively declared that they wouldn't go, and poor grandma with her crippled arm and lame hip must need someone to do things for her, and so—and so—it must be Margerie.

"You will come and see us every Sunday, you know, my darling, and we shall come and see you in the week besides," said Mrs. Grace, when, after accompanying the child to grandma's queer old house, and inspecting the little bed-room which she was to call her own, she bade her a final good-bye. "And if you are not happy, we will have you home directly."

"I feel like a little servant going out to a situation," said Margerie, with a rather tremulous smile.

One circumstance that made this parting harder than she had at first anticipated, was the fact that she would no longer go to the same school as her sisters. It was too far, being quite as long a distance from Briar Cottage in the one direction as grandma's house was in the opposite. But Mrs. Grace, senior, undertook that Margerie should at once commence attending another school as good, and her mother did not object.

"But I sha'n't be so very, very far-away from you all, shall I?" she added wistfully.

"Why, no—home is close by," her mother cheerfully responded. "And you know, Margie dear, the Lord Jesus will be nearer still. His Spirit comes so close to yours that every thought, every sigh, every throb of your little heart is felt by His. His power of sympathy is so infinite and wonderful! I, with my arms clasped round you cannot come anything like so near to you as He is every moment of your life, because He can come inside your very soul. And He loves you, Margie, and is pleased with what you are doing in leaving your dear home. He knows it is to please father and help grandmother, and because you want to be some use and comfort in the world. I'm sure His tenderness and love are all round you, my precious child, so you need never feel lonely, and never be afraid."

"That's nice!" said Margie, with her face against her mother's breast. "I like being very near to Him."

But she could not repress a sob when the dear familiar figure of her mother passed out of the rusty iron gate and disappeared. Mrs. Grace did not shut the gate behind her, she was too much a mother for that.

Bravely did Margie keep swallowing down the big lump that would rise in her throat, as she wound worsted for grandma's knitting, and fetched and carried, and ate her supper of thick bread with a thin scrape of cheap salt butter on it. She now and then furtively wiped her eyes with her knuckles, but did not actually break down and cry until she was alone in the strange little bed in the strange little room upstairs, amid strange old-fashioned furniture, with forms and shadows that were unfamiliar to her peering eyes.

It may seem odd, but it was not the thought of parents or sisters that "set her off" at last—it was the idea that this bed and bed-room didn't know her or care about her, and that the cosy white crib at home that had cuddled her every night as long as she could remember, would wait for her in vain. The poor little empty bed! Margerie stuffed the corner of the pillow into her mouth and shook with sobs. It did her good, though, that fit of unrestrained weeping. The pillow, at least, seemed more friendly after it had been wet with her tears, and with both arms round it, she by and by fell asleep.

Margerie soon found that grandma was very much in earnest when she said that she should "get her into the way of being handy." Only three rooms in the house (besides a kitchen) were occupied: viz. a parlour and the two bed-rooms. All the others were either empty or shut up and locked. But the woman who worked for grandma seldom came more than twice a week, and all the lighter labour which was required in the intervals, which the old lady before her accident had performed himself, she now expected our little maid to do. It was a good deal for a child not yet ten years old, quite as much as Minnie and Maud had undertaken to do between them at home.

And then mother was so different! She would tell anybody how to do a thing over and over again, but grandma did not seem to like to have to show Margerie more than once, or at most, twice. Nevertheless, being one of those quick, imitative children who delight in copying the movements of their elders, and really desirous of doing her very best and being a great deal of use, the little girl soon became surprisingly deft in her handling of broom and brush, so that if grandma gave her no praise, she at least rarely found cause for complaint.

One evening the old lady suddenly observed in her sharp, abrupt way, "I suppose you would very much rather live here than at home?"

This was a "poser." Margerie turned as red as fire, and twisted the corner of her apron. "I like being able to help you, grandma," she said.

She was not looking at the old lady as she spoke, but out into the high-walled garden, dim with trees and gathering twilight, or she would have seen those long, thin lips soften into something more like a smile than grandma's iron features usually displayed.

"Humph!" the latter said. "But it was your own wish to come, your mother told me," was the next remark.

"Ye-es!" whispered Margie.

"You were wise. It is a great thing, in your father's present position, for you to get your board, lodging, and schooling for nothing. An immense advantage, and one which few children of your age have offered them. It is more than your father, after the way he behaved towards me before you were born, had any right to expect. But I am willing to let bygones be bygones, you see, and behave generously towards you."

If any unprejudiced person had noted the amount of waiting upon, of sweeping, dusting, washing up, and general attendance Mrs. Grace, senior, obtained of that one small pair of hands and feet in return for the said "immense advantage," he might have come to the conclusion that the balance of indebtedness didn't exactly "bump" down on Margerie's side. But let that pass. The little girl herself believed she had cause to be very grateful, and very grateful she earnestly tried to be.

One night, about ten days after her arrival, when the first dreadful home-sickness had somewhat worn off, Margerie woke up suddenly, while it was yet quite dark. She did not know what had aroused her, but her first feeling was of terror and intent listening.

With every sense concentrated into that of hearing, she sat up in bed. The stealthy opening of a door was audible below, followed by the softest of footsteps.

Margerie occupied a small room over a built-out scullery. Grandma slept on the same floor in the front. She sprang out of bed and darted along a short corridor to the old lady's chamber. The door was ajar, and grandma's deep, uninterrupted breathing could be heard within. On the threshold the child paused; should she wake her or not? What could a poor old lady with a bad arm and a lame hip do to help anybody? Besides, she was not like mother; she might be very angry if aroused.

While Margerie stood with the handle of the lock in her hand, still hesitating, a faint glimmer of light became visible, as if moving noiselessly about the lower part of the house. She sprang half inside the room with a smothered scream, her eyes still fixed upon the descending stairs. The light instantly vanished, and the darkness and silence—save for grandma's snoring—were profound.

The old lady was somewhat hard of hearing when her night-cap was on, and continued to sleep undisturbed.