University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
LEAVING HOME.

On Sunday evening Mrs. Lee announced to her
family that Lucy was to leave home in the morning.
Lee was reduced to passiveness, and a long
interval of temperance, enforced though it was, had
caused him to revert to some of the feelings of his
better days. “Come to my bedside, Lucy,” he
said; “you are going out into the world, child—
you'll find it's a selfish world—everybody is for
number one—keep open a jealous eye—don't submit
to be trampled on—I have seen enough of the
tyranny of mankind—I have no faith in them—
your mother will tell you a different story—your
mother is one of the best of women, and her own
goodness is a kind of veil between her and the
wickedness of the world. She puts the best face
on everything, but she does not seem to have
much to say for the place you are going to—well,
there is one consolation—you can always change
it—if you have anything to complain of, let us know
it—don't submit to imposition. Now I have given
you all the advice I can think of—but oh, my child,

what shall I do when you are gone? you have always
been my pride and darling! you do everything
just right for me—you fix my pillow easy,
and you make my tea just sweet enough, and you
can always make Jemmie quiet, and the girls are
contented when you are in the house. Oh, Lucy,
if I could only do anything for you!”

“You can, father,” replied Lucy, laying her
cheek wet with tears to his; “always speak kind
to mother and poor Jemmie!”

Her father promised, and remembered, for the
first time, that others were to suffer severely, as
well as himself, from Lucy's departure.

Jemmie, the poor little boy who was the object
of his sister's intense love and tender care, had received
a terrible injury when he was three years
old from a fall from a horse, on which his father,
in a fit of intoxication, and in spite of his mother's
entreaties and remonstrances, had insisted on placing
him. The child's back was protruded, and his
limbs withered, but his mind had a preternatural
development. Lucy withdrew from her father's
bed to prepare Jemmie's supper. He, meanwhile,
was lying in his basket-cradle, his soft black eye
following his sister, and tear after tear trickling
down his unnaturally pale cheek. She sat down
on her accustomed seat beside him. He took in
silence one or two swallows, and then gently pushing
away the spoon, he said, “It chokes me,
Lucy! I can't eat to-night.” Lucy set away the
cup of tea, and, putting her lips to his, whispered,
“Don't feel so, Jemmie.”

“How can I help it, Lucy?”

“Oh, we must do as mother says—look at the

bright side, Jemmie. I shall come home every
Sunday.”

“Every Sunday; and oh, how long it will seem
before Sunday comes! But it is not of myself I'm
thinking, though it does make the tears come so
when I think you won't be here to ask for what I
want, and always to look pleasant, and leave your
work, and come and read to me, and sing to me
when the other girls want to be doing something
else, and I can't bear to trouble mother—and you
are never tired drawing me, and I can go to sleep
if my breast aches ever so much when you bend
over me, and stroke, and smile, and stroke as if it
were always pleasant to do it; but it's not for myself
only, Lucy,” and here he sobbed aloud; “but
I cannot bear to think you must go away from your
own home, and work all day for people that will
only pay you, and not love you as we do.”

“Not as you do,” replied Lucy, making an effort
to speak calmly; “but I shall try to make
them love me a little—it would be hard indeed to
work for nothing but money, and I do not intend
to do so. Mother says she never saw a family yet
where there was not some one to love, and some
good to do besides just work—I shall try—it's not
very agreeable to have a hungry stomach, but a
hungry heart must be a great deal worse—don't
you think so, Jemmie?”

Jemmie smiled through his tears. “I should
think so, Lucy, but I don't know anything about
it, for we have always plenty of the best food for
our hearts, if we have not anything else.”

“We must thank mother for that; and now

promise me, Jemmie, you'll make the best of my
going.”

“I'll try, Lucy,” replied the little fellow, with a
quivering lip; and Lucy proceeded with all the
resolution she could muster to go through her usual
occupations. Her father's evening meal was prepared
with as much care as that of a more pampered
epicure. His toast, his tea and salt fish, must be
exactly right to tempt the sense, blunted and diseased
by gross indulgence, and he selfishly ate,
and groaned, and fretted, while his defrauded wife
and girls sat by, supping on the hardest fare.
Thanks to the sweet used of labour and temperance,
they relished it more than the sick man could
have relished a Roman feast.

“I am sure,” said little Annie Lee, setting back
her chair, and throwing herself into Lucy's lap, “I
don't know what Martha and I are to do when you
are gone.”

“Do?” replied Lucy, kissing her; “why, Annie,
you are to do all your work, and mine into the bargain.”

“Oh, Lucy, you know that is not what I mean;
but who will make Martha's paste?”

“I have taught her how to make it as well as I
can.”

“Yes; but sometimes she has bad luck with it,
and you never have bad luck, and she can't call
on mother, because mother has too much to do already.”

“No; instead of calling on mother, I hope you
will both always be ready to assist her.”

“But I must ask her, Lucy, to fix my work when

it plagues me, and to put my band on, and to do
everything that you do, and that I can't do.”

“Well, do your best, girls—try hard to please
father—never, never get out of patience with poor
little Jemmie, and always be kind to dear mother
—be thoughtful, girls—don't wait till she asks you
to do a thing, for you know mother is too apt to do
things herself rather than to keep asking and asking—I
think, girls, it's the willingness we put into
our service that sweetens it to ourselves and to
others—you will have a great deal more to do
when I am gone; but I shan't be sitting with my
hands before me, and what I earn I shall bring home
to mother; so, though apart, we are all working
for home. Come, mother, let us sit down round
Jemmie's cradle and sing our hymns—it won't disturb
you, will it, father?”

“No—I don't hear you half the time when you
sing.”

Singing hymns with her children was Mrs. Lee's
habitual Sunday-evening recreation; and never had
she seen an hour so dark and disturbed that this
exercise did not tranquillize and elevate her spirits.
Sometimes Jemmie's thin feeble voice joined
the rest, and he attempted now to raise it,
but his tremulous tones soon died away; and pressing
Lucy's hand which held his, he said, “I can
only join you in my heart, Lucy.” Mr. Lee fell
asleep; and when the singing was finished, Mrs.
Lee knelt in the midst of her children, and commended
them to the care of their Father in Heaven.
Most earnestly did she pray for her who was going
forth from the shelter of family love into the world,
that in her temptations she might remember Him

who was tempted in all points as we are, and yet
without sin—that in her ignorance and weakness
she might seek wisdom and strength from him
who giveth liberally—and that at last, however separated
and tried on earth, they might all, parents
and children, meet in the bosom of the father.

As they rose the children kissed their mother
and kissed one another. It is such worship as
this, in the sanctuary of home, that binds in one
“bundle of life” the parent and child, that sustains
the old and prepares the young for conflict
and victory. “Before you go to bed, Lucy,”
said her mother, “I must give you some advice;
it must be general, for I cannot foresee the circumstances
in which you may be placed. You
cannot greatly err if you will keep it in mind that
God's eye is upon you, and if you love him supremely.
Remember what I have so often told you,
that it is not the events of life—its outward circumstances
that are important, but the effect they
have on our characters. The cloudy and the
bright day alike soon pass away. It is our business
to sow the seed and till the ground, and then,
whether bright or cloudy, the harvest will come in
due season. You will have trials, Lucy: your
most faithful services may pass without praise,
thanks, or even notice—but be patient, my child—
toil not for praise—do not shrink from underserved
blame. Be content with the sense of doing your
duty—judge yourself honestly, and never forfeit
your own self-respect. I am a little afraid you will
fail in the manners suited to your condition—I have
been so sure that my children respected me, that I
have not required the outward sign. Though we

live in a republican country, the truth is, we have unequal
conditions—I do not wish you to be servile—I
would not have you imitate the manners of foreign
servants—a respectful manner, my dear child, is
always fitting from a young person to her elders,
and modesty, civility, and gentleness are suited to
every relation in life. I have known many ladies
speak to their domestics with far more civility
than they replied to them—and I know some who
forget, in their manners at least, that domestics
are no longer slaves. Keep your feelings right
towards your employers, and then your manners
cannot be very unsuitable. Remember the great
virtue of that soft answer that turneth away wrath.
The heads of families have a great many irritating,
vexing cares that you can know nothing of: if
they are petulant and unreasonable to you, be forbearing,
my child, and you may do them good; at
any rate, you will avoid doing evil yourself. Be
gentle and patient, kind and generous, to the children
of the family.”

“Gentle, patient, and kind I can be—but
how in the world generous? what shall I have to
give?”

“Your time, your strength, your ingenuity; a
person who will sit by a child and contrive it
amusement for half an hour is far more generous
than she who goes out with a full purse and buys
the same child an expensive toy. Our means of
generosity do not depend on our riches—your generosity,
dear Lucy, when you have foregone a
pleasant walk of a Sunday, and sat down by poor
little Jemmie, and made him happy for an hour, has
often brought tears to my eyes.”

“Oh,” said Lucy, “how I do wish Mrs. Broadson
had children—something that I could love.”

“If you find you cannot love Mrs. Broadson,
Lucy, you may find somebody to love—maybe
that good-natured Irish girl.”

“That will be a comfort—and if Mrs. Broadson
is cross, maybe she will take my part.”

“Have a care, Lucy; don't have any combination
against your employer.”

“But, mother, you would not have me bear
everything?”

“No, my child; when there is that which you
ought not to bear, you must change your place;
but don't be in haste to do this; you will find something
disagreeable in every place; permanence is
in itself a great good, especially for a young person.
You hardly need any other recommendation
than that you have lived a long while in any decent
family.”

“Well, mother, I shall always come home and
tell you all my troubles, and then do just what you
think best.”

“No, Lucy—try first to bear your troubles, and,
by bearing, overcome them. If they are insupportable,
then come to me—if you are puzzled as to
what you ought to do, come to me — but don't
make mountains of molehills. One thing I charge
you to be circumspect about—the private circumstances
of a family must be more or less exposed
to the persons employed in it, and a feeling of
honour should restrain them from tale-bearing—I
am afraid there is very little of this. The time will
come, when, as the condition of the employed in our
country is very much elevated above what that of

the same class is in any other country, their characters
will be so too. This relation is sometimes a
very happy one, when there is mutual kindness, and
affection, and, I may say, respect—trust on one side,
and faithfulness on the other, and gratitude on both.”

“Gratitude, mother? Do you think that I can
make a person that pays me for my service grateful
to me besides?”

“My dear child, if you are such a servant as I
trust you will be, you will render services that
money can never pay for—but you will understand
all this better hereafter, when you have seen more
of the world. Serve others from a sense of duty
as you have served me from love. Remember the
woman in Scripture of whom our Saviour said `she
had done all that she could,' and for that reason he
graciously accepted her small service. Ask God's
blessing daily—that will be sufficient for you.
Good-night, my dear child—to-morrow you begin!”
Lucy moved Jemmie from his basket-cradle to her
cot, where he always slept, and fell asleep wetting
his cheek with her tears.

It was worthy of remark, that Mrs. Lee had never
once alluded to her former superior condition. She
carried her virtue still further; she endeavoured to
conceal it from her children, and to forget it herself.
How unlike those who have neither the
sense nor the virtue to adapt their minds to fallen
fortunes, but with their old tastes and appetites are
for ever hankering after the luxuries of Egypt,
instead of putting forth the strength essential to
help them through the wilderness, and which would
surely carry them to an inheritance enriched with
divine gifts—the promised land of persevering
virtue.