Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  “There are two ways of obtaining money for such wants: one is by earning; and the other is by saving. Now both are good, because both imply self-denial. Do you understand me, Tom? If you have to earn money, you must steadily go on doing what you do not like, perhaps; such as working when you would like to be playing, or in bed, or sitting talking with me over the fire. You deny yourself these little pleasures; and that is a good habit in itself, to say nothing of the industry and energy you have to exert in working. If you save money, you can easily see how you exercise self-denial. You do without something you wish for in order to possess the money it would have cost. Inasmuch as self-denial, energy, and industry are all good things, you do well either to earn or to save. But, you see, the purpose for which you want the money must be taken into consideration. You say, for ‘something wise and good.’ Either earning or saving becomes holy in this case. I must then think which will be most consistent with my other duties, before I decide whether I will earn or save money.

  “I don’t quite know what you mean, mother.”

  “I will try and explain myself. You know I have to keep a little shop, and to try and get employment in knitting stockings, and to clean my house, and to mend our clothes, and many other things. Now, do you think I should be doing my duty if I left you in the evenings, when you come home from school, to go out as a waiter at ladies’ parties? I could earn a good deal of money by it, and I could spend it well among those who are poorer than I am (such as lame Harry); but then I should be leaving you alone in the little time that we have to be together; I do not think I should be doing right even for our ‘good and wise purpose’ to earn money, if it took me away from you at nights: do you, Tom?”

  “No, indeed; you never mean to do it, do you, mother?”

  “No,” said she, smiling; “at any rate, not till you are older. You see at present, then, I cannot earn money, if I want a little more than usual to help a sick neighbour. I must then try and save money. Nearly every one can do that.”

  “Can we, mother? We are so careful of everything. Ned Dixon calls us stingy: what could we save?”

  “Oh, many and many a little thing. We use many things which are luxuries; which we do not want, but only use them for pleasure. Tea and sugar; butter; our Sunday’s dinner of bacon or meat; the grey ribbon I bought for my bonnet, because you thought it prettier than the black, which was cheaper: all these are luxuries. We use very little tea or sugar, it is true; but we might do without any.”

  “You did do without any, mother, for a long, long time, you know, to help widow Black; it was only for your bad headaches.”

  “Well! but you see we can save money; a penny, a halfpenny a day, or even a penny a week, would in time make a little store ready to be applied to the ‘good and wise’ purpose, when the time comes. But do you know, my little boy, I think we may be considering money too much as the only thing required if we want to do a kindness.”

  “If it is not the only thing, it is the chief thing, at any rate.”

  “No, love, it is not the chief thing. I should think very poorly of that beggar who liked sixpence given with a curse (as I have sometimes heard it) better than the kind and gentle words some people use in refusing to give. The curse sinks deep into the heart; or, if it does not, it is a proof that the poor creature has been made hard before by harsh treatment. And mere money can do little to cheer a sore heart. It is kindness only that can do this. Now, we have all of us kindness in our power. The little child of two years old, who can only just totter about, can show kindness.”

  “Can I, mother?”

  “To be sure, dear; and you often do, only perhaps not quite so often as you might do. Neither do I. But instead of wishing for money (of which I don’t think either you or I are ever likely to have much), suppose you try to-morrow how you can make people happier, by thinking of little loving actions of help. Let us try and take for our text, ‘Silver and gold have I none, but such as I have give I unto thee.’“

  “Ay, mother, we will.”

  Must I tell you about little Tom’s “to-morrow”?

  I do not know if little Tom dreamed of what his mother and he had been talking about, but I do know that the first thing he thought about, when he awoke in the morning, was his mother’s saying that he might try how many kind actions he could do that day without money; and he was so impatient to begin, that he jumped up and dressed himself, although it was more than an hour before his usual time of getting up. All the time he kept wondering what a little boy like him, only eight years old, could do for other people; till at last he grew so puzzled with inventing occasions for showing kindness, that he very wisely determined to think no more about it, but learn his lessons very perfectly; that was the first thing he had to do; and then he would try, without too much planning beforehand, to keep himself ready to lend a helping hand, or to give a kind word, when the right time came. So he screwed himself into a corner, out of the way of his mother’s sweeping and dusting, and tucked his feet up on the rail of the chair, turned his face to the wall, and, in about half-an-hour’s time, he could turn round with a light heart, feeling he had learnt his lesson well, and might employ his time as he liked till breakfast was ready. He looked round the room; his mother had arranged all neatly, and was now gone to the bedroom; but the coal-scuttle and the can for water were empty, and Tom ran away to fill them; and, as he came back with the latter from the pump, he saw Ann Jones (the scold of the neighbourhood) hanging out her clothes on a line stretched across from side to side of the little court, and speaking very angrily and loudly to her little girl, who was getting into some mischief in the house-place, as her mother perceived through the open door.

  “There never were such plagues as my children are, to be sure,” said Ann Jones, as she went into her house, looking very red and passionate. Directly after, Tom heard the sound of a slap, and then a little child’s cry of pain.

  “I wonder,” thought he, “if I durst go and offer to nurse and play with little Hester. Ann Jones is fearful cross, and just as likely to take me wrong as right; but she won’t box me for mother’s sake; mother nursed Jemmy many a day through the fever, so she won’t slap me, I think. At any rate, I’ll try.” But it was with a beating heart he said to the fierce-looking Mrs. Jones, “Please, may I go and play with Hester? Maybe I could keep her quiet while you’re busy hanging out clothes.”

  “What! and let you go slopping about, I suppose, just when I’d made all ready for my master’s breakfast. Thank you, but my own children’s mischief is as much as I reckon on; I’ll have none of strange lads’ in my house.”

  “I did not mean to do mischief or slop,” said Tom, a little sadly at being misunderstood in his good intentions. “I only wanted to help.”

  “If you want to help, lift me up those clothes-pegs, and save me stooping; my back’s broken with it.”

  Tom would much rather have gone to play with and amuse little Hester; but it was true enough that giving Mrs. Jones the clothes-pegs as she wanted them would help her as much, and perhaps keep her from being so cross with her children if they did anything to hinder her. Besides, little Hester’s cry had died away, and she was evidently occupied in some new pursuit (Tom could only hope that it was not in mischief this time); so he began to give Ann the pegs as she wanted them, and she, soothed by his kind help, opened her heart a little to him.

  “I wonder how it is your mother has trained you up to be so handy, Tom; you’re as good as a girl--better than many a girl. I don’t think Hester in three years’ time will be as thoughtful as you. There!” (as a fresh scream reached them from the little ones inside the house), “they are at some mischief again; but I’ll teach ‘em,” said she, getting down from her stool in a fresh access of passion.

  “Let me go,” said Tom, in a begging voice, for he dreaded the cruel sound of another slap. “I’ll lift the basket of pegs on to a stool, so that you need not stoop; and I’ll keep the little ones safe out of mischief till you’re done. Do let me go,
missus.”

  With some grumblings at losing his help, she let him go into the house-place. He found Hester, a little girl of five, and two younger ones. They had been fighting for a knife, and in the struggle, the second, Johnnie, had cut his finger--not very badly, but he was frightened at the sight of the blood; and Hester, who might have helped, and who was really sorry, stood sullenly aloof, dreading the scolding her mother always gave her if either of the little ones hurt themselves while under her care.

  “Hester,” said Tom, “will you get me some cold water, please? it will stop the bleeding better than anything. I dare say you can find me a basin to hold it.”

  Hester trotted off, pleased at Tom’s confidence in her power. When the bleeding was partly stopped, he asked her to find him a bit of rag, and she scrambled under the dresser for a little piece she had hidden there the day before. Meanwhile, Johnny ceased crying, he was so interested in all the preparation for dressing his little wound, and so much pleased to find himself an object of so much attention and consequence. The baby, too, sat on the floor, gravely wondering at the commotion; and, thus busily occupied, they were quiet and out of mischief till Ann Jones came in, and, having hung out her clothes, and finished that morning’s piece of work, she was ready to attend to her children in her rough, hasty kind of way.

  “Well! I’m sure, Tom, you’ve tied it up as neatly as I could have done. I wish I’d always such an one as you to see after the children; but you must run off now, lad; your mother was calling you as I came in, and I said I’d send you. Good-bye, and thank you.”

  As Tom was going away, the baby, sitting in square gravity on the floor, but somehow conscious of Tom’s gentle helpful ways, put up her mouth to be kissed; and he stooped down in answer to the little gesture, feeling very happy, and very full of love and kindliness.

  After breakfast, his mother told him it was school-time, and he must set off, as she did not like him to run in out of breath and flurried, just when the schoolmaster was going to begin; but she wished him to come in decently and in order, with quiet decorum, and thoughtfulness as to what he was going to do. So Tom got his cap and his bag, and went off with a light heart, which I suppose made his footsteps light, for he found himself above half way to school while it wanted yet a quarter to the time. So he slackened his pace, and looked about him a little more than he had been doing. There was a little girl on the other side of the street carrying a great, big basket, and lugging along a little child just able to walk, but who, I suppose, was tired, for he was crying pitifully, and sitting down every two or three steps. Tom ran across the street, for, as perhaps you have found out, he was very fond of babies, and could not bear to hear them cry.

  “Little girl, what is he crying about? Does he want to be carried? I’ll take him up, and carry him as far as I go alongside of you.”

  So saying, Tom was going to suit the action to the word; but the baby did not choose that any one should carry him but his sister, and refused Tom’s kindness. Still he could carry the heavy basket of potatoes for the little girl, which he did as far as their road lay together, when she thanked him, and bade him good-bye, and said she could manage very well now, her home was so near. So Tom went into school very happy and peaceful, and had a good character to take home to his mother for that morning’s lesson.

  It happened that this very day was the weekly half-holiday, so that Tom had many hours unoccupied that afternoon. Of course, his first employment after dinner was to learn his lessons for the next day; and then, when he had put his books away, he began to wonder what he should do next.

  He stood lounging against the door, wishing all manner of idle wishes; a habit he was apt to fall into. He wished he were the little boy who lived opposite, who had three brothers ready to play with him on half-holidays; he wished he were Sam Harrison, whose father had taken him one day a trip by the railroad; he wished he were the little boy who always went with the omnibuses it must be so pleasant to go riding about on the step, and to see so many people; he wished he were a sailor, to sail away to the countries where grapes grew wild, and monkeys and parrots were to be had for the catching. Just as he was wishing himself the little Prince of Wales, to drive about in a goat-carriage, and wondering if he should not feel very shy with the three great ostrich feathers always niddle-noddling on his head, for people to know him by, his mother came from washing up the dishes, and saw him deep in the reveries little boys and girls are apt to fall into when they are the only children in a house.

  “My dear Tom,” said she, “why don’t you go out, and make the most of this fine afternoon ?”

  “Oh, mother,” answered he (suddenly recalled to the fact that he was little Tom Fletcher, instead of the Prince of Wales, and consequently feeling a little bit flat), “it is so dull going out by myself. I have no one to play with. Can’t you go with me, mother--just this once, into the fields?”

  Poor Mrs. Fletcher heartily wished she could gratify this very natural desire of her little boy; but she had the shop to mind, and many a little thing besides to do; it was impossible. But however much she might regret a thing, she was too faithful to repine. So, after a moment’s thought, she said cheerfully, “Go into the fields for a walk, and see how many wild flowers you can bring me home and I’ll get down father’s jug for you to put them in when you come back.”

  “But, mother, there are so few pretty flowers near a town”, said Tom, a little unwillingly, for it was a coming down from being Prince of Wales, and he was not yet quite reconciled to it.

  “Oh dear! there are a great many if you’ll only look for them. I dare say you’ll make me up as many as twenty different kinds.”

  “Will you reckon daisies, mother?”

  “To be sure; they are just as pretty as any.”

  “Oh, if you’ll reckon such as them, I dare say I can bring you more than twenty.”

  So off he ran; his mother watching him till he was out of sight, and then she returned to her work. In about two hours he came back, his pale cheeks looking quite rosy, and his eyes quite bright. His country walk, taken with cheerful spirits, had done him all the good his mother desired, and had restored his usually even, happy temper.

  “Look, mother, here are three-and-twenty different kinds; you said I might count all, so I have even counted this thing like a nettle with lilac flowers, and this little common blue thing.”

  “‘Robin-run-in-the-hedge’ is its name,” said his mother. “It’s very pretty if you look at it close. One, two, three”--she counted them all over, and there really were three-and-twenty. She went to reach down the best jug.

  “Mother,” said little Tom, “do you like them very much?”

  “Yes, very much,” said she, not understanding his meaning. He was silent, and gave a little sigh. “Why, my dear?”

  “Oh, only--it does not signify if you like them very much; but I thought how nice it would be to take them to lame Harry, who can never walk so far as the fields, and can hardly know what summer is like, I think.”

  “Oh, that will be very nice; I am glad you thought of it.”

  Lame Harry was sitting by himself, very patiently, in a neighbouring cellar. He was supported by his daughter’s earnings; but as she worked in a factory, he was much alone.

  If the bunch of flowers had looked pretty in the fields, they looked ten times as pretty in the cellar to which they were now carried. Lame Harry’s eyes brightened up with pleasure at the sight; and he began to talk of the times long ago, when he was a little boy in the country, and had a corner of his father’s garden to call his own, and grow lad’s-love and wallflower in. Little Tom put them in water for him, and put the jug on the table by him; on which his daughter had placed the old Bible, worn with much reading, although treated with careful reverence. It was lying open, with Harry’s horn spectacles put in to mark the place.

  “I reckon my spectacles are getting worn out; they are not so clear as they used to be; they are dim-like before my eyes, and it hurts me to read long tog
ether,” said Harry. “It’s a sad miss to me. I never thought the time long when I could read; but now I keep wearying for the day to be over, though the nights, when I cannot sleep for my legs paining me, are almost as bad. However, it’s the Lord’s will.”

  “Would you like me--I cannot read very well aloud, but I’d do my best, if you’d like me to read a bit to you. I’ll just run home and get my tea, and be back directly.” And off Tom ran.

  He found it very pleasant reading aloud to lame Harry; for the old man had so much to say that was worth listening to, and was so glad of a listener, that I think there was as much talking as reading done that evening. But the Bible served as a text-book to their conversation; for in a long life old Harry had seen and heard so much; which he had connected with events, or promises, or precepts, contained in the Scriptures, that it was quite curious to find how everything was brought in and dove-tailed, as an illustration of what they were reading.

  When Tom got up to go away, lame Harry gave him many thanks, and told him he would not sleep the worse for having made an old man’s evening so pleasant. Tom came home in high self-satisfaction. “Mother,” said he, “it’s all very true what you said about the good that may be done without money: I’ve done many pieces of good to-day without a farthing. First,” said he, taking hold of his little finger, “I helped Ann Jones with hanging out her clothes when she was”----

  His mother had been listening while she turned over the pages of the New Testament which lay by her; and now, having found what she wanted, she put her arm gently around his waist, and drew him fondly towards her. He saw her finger put under one passage, and read--

  “Let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth.”

  He was silent in a moment.

  Then his mother spoke in her soft low voice: “Dearest Tom, though I don’t want us to talk about it, as if you had been doing more than just what you ought, I am glad you have seen the truth of what I said: how far more may be done by the loving heart than by mere money-giving; and every one may have the loving heart.”