University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
CHARLIE'S MOTHER.

Mrs. Lovett, in point of fortune and station, was
on an equal footing with her neighbour. Her husband
was a prosperous baker, with seven sons,
healthy, noisy, good-humoured boys, our friend
Charles, now a lad of seventeen, being the oldest.
A person suddenly transported from the depths of
the winter of an arctic region to a land of soft airs,
verdure, fruits, and flowers, could not have felt a
greater change than did Lucy in her translation
from her dreary existence at Dame Simson's to the
atmosphere of affection and kindness that Mrs.
Lovett breathed around her. These two women
possessed the same external means; the cupidity
and selfishness of the one made a moral waste
around her—the good sense, affectionateness, and
sweet temper of the other operated like those
blessed fountains well called “diamonds of the
desert,” that minister to the life and beauty of
everything within their reach.

If Mrs. Lovett had some defects which impaired
the effect of her virtues, or rather diminished the
amount of good she might have produced, we do
not care to analyze them. It seems unreasonable
to demand an exact arrangement of rich, spontaneous
productions. We therefore prefer giving a
glimpse of her home; a day there might stand for

a year, as her kindness was inexhaustible, having
no measure but the never-ending wants of her fellow-creatures.

Lovett's business made it necessary for him to
be in his bakehouse before light, and Charles, at
the peep of dawn, was off in the bread-cart. The
morning was yet dim when Lovett came in from
his bakehouse, and found his wife kindling the
kitchen fire. “Mother!” he exclaimed, “why
don't you call up your boys to do that?”

“Oh, I like to do it now and then myself.”

“Yes; but your now and then is about every
morning—it's the boys' business.”

“They went out skating last evening, you know,
and it's their nature to love to sleep in the morning.”

“Have a care, mother; boys' natures must not
be humoured too much. Where is Lucy? Why
is not she helping you?”

“Oh, you know she had Jemmie here to spend
the day yesterday, and she and Charlie drew him
home in the evening, and she went to bed late and
tired. Besides, poor thing, she has got a pain in
her breast working so hard next door—down late
and up early, and it will take a good deal of resting
to bring her quite right again.”

“Well, she has reason to bless her stars she has
got into hands that give rest to everything but themselves.
What upon earth is that noise? A cock
crowing up stairs!”

Mrs. Lovett laughed. “It's only Sammy's bantam!
He begged me to let him take him up stairs
to wake the boys up this morning; I thought I
would indulge him just once.”

“Once! It's well it takes a power of spoiling
to spoil good boys.” Lovett hit the truth, though
he did not precisely state it. Indulgence loses
much of its vitiating effect where good feelings are
kept in constant exercise by pure examples and
warm affections. “Come, Sam! John! Bob!”
cried Mr. Lovett, going to the stairs, “get up and
help your mother. Bring down your bantam, Sam
—he'll wake Lucy!”

Lucy at this moment was coming down stairs,
and she said, smiling, she “wished he'd waked
her sooner.”

“Soon enough, my child, soon enough. Mother,
now Lucy is up to help you, I'll tell you what I
stepped in for. There was a poor German came
into the bakehouse last night for employment, and
Charlie made out to talk with him enough to find
out he had been looking since he landed, a week
ago, in vain for work. He is a very respectable-looking
man, and tells a sad story about the starving
state of his old parents at home, for whom he
hopes to provide a place in our country—”

“Did Charlie,” interrupted Mrs. Lovett, “find
out all that? Well, he did not take all that pains to
teach Annet for nothing.”

“No, mother, a kind turn is seldom thrown
away. But I was going to say, that as this poor
fellow has nowhere to go to breakfast, I thought, if
you were willing, I would ask him in?”

“Certainly—I should like it. You know I have
rather a fancy for Germans. Lucy, clap down
some sausages; he has been so long fasting he'll
want something warming. Make a good cup of
tea, Lucy; it will be relishing to him—poor fellow!”

Lucy did all she was bidden, and would
fain have done more. A portion of her work had
been omitted in consequence of Jemmie's visit the
preceding day, and she set about rubbing the
knives. “That will do, Lucy,” said Mrs. Lovett;
“they are clean, never mind the polishing; put the
brightest by father's plate and that poor fellow's.
I'll see to the sausages, and fry the cakes; it's bad
work for your eyes. You run and set the table,
and clap on an end, so that German need not feel as
if he crowded us.”

“The cloth is rather spotted—shall I put a clean
one on, Mrs. Lovett?”

“No, never mind; it makes the washes too heavy
for Dinah to have clean table-linen every day. Set
the plates round so as to humour the spots. You
say they only dirty one cloth a week next door. I
should think the Millennium had come if that happened
with my boys. They never will learn such
neatness!”

“It is a good lesson to learn,” thought Lucy,
but learned next door at too great an expense of
thumps on the head, raps over the hand, and aching
hearts. Mr. Lovett now came in to say the
stranger was ashamed to accept their hospitality.
He had not been shaven for a week, and was not
willing to appear before the women in that condition.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Lovett, ever ready to sacrifice
herself to the simplest act of kindness, “oh, never
mind, let him just step into our bedroom and shave
—take him round the other way. Lucy, run in,
and clear up, and tuck away!” This was done, and
well done in a minute, and no one can question

Lucy's faculties who has seen “mother's room,” in
a house where there are half a dozen boys, a baby,
and a “never mind!” mother. The Lovetts' hospitality
was the first ray of kindness that had fallen
on the poor stranger since he had reached our
shore, whither he had come full of hope as the
pioneer of starving friends at home. In Charles's
absence not one of the family could speak an intelligible
word to him; but each, eagerly offering some
kindness, employed a language as universal as human
feelings. Bobby set his favourite cat on the
stranger's knee, and the baby, sitting on Lucy's lap,
snatched from her plate a “buckwheat” and offered
it to him. “Willie, dear!” exclaimed Lucy, repressing
his hand, “you are dripping the molasses
all over the cloth.” A tear of pleasure started into
the mother's eye. “Never mind, Lucy!” she said;
“dear little fellow, how strange he should enter
into his feelings!”

“Mother!” cried out one of the little boys, “do
see Bob and puss drinking milk out of the same
cup!” The mother reproved Bobby, but, joining
in the general laugh, the reproof was neutralized.

“You need not all laugh at me,” retorted Bobby,
“for Sam lets his dog eat out of his plate.”

“But not when he does,” interposed Lucy.

“No, but he lets Jerry Bantam pick the corns
off his lips, and I am sure my pussy's mouth is as
clean as Jerry's—you need not laugh so, mother,
it's cleaner than baby's was yesterday when you
kissed it, and said you did not mind such a sweet
little fellow's dirt.”

“Oh, Bob! I guess not.”

“Well, if you did not say so, mother, you did
not mind it.”

“Then I'll punish myself by not kissing you for
a week to come.”

“Oh, no, no, mother! please give me one kiss
now.” Mother refused, and Bob, a dauntless little
rogue, jumped up behind her chair, encircled her
neck with his arms, and kissed her chin, cheeks,
and forehead, leaving an impress of molasses
wherever his lips touched. There was a general
shout round the table at Bob's victory. Lucy
quietly handed Mrs. Lovett a wet napkin; the
stains were effaced, and the breakfast being over,
the family proceeded to the business of the day.
Mrs. Lovett had an energy and steadfastness in
the pursuit of her children's improvement, that,
if we did not every day see new and strange combinations
in individual character, would have seemed
incompatible with the habits of general indulgence
we have depicted. A portion of her power
was undoubtedly wasted; but her imperfections
were accompanied by such perfect disinterestedness
and generosity, that all sense of the infirmity
was lost in love and gratitude.

“Bring your book, John,” she said, “and let
me be sure you have learned your lesson. You
were all agog about the skating last night. Lucy,
just hear Sam in Colburn. Oh, never mind! if
you are getting Charlie's breakfast—that's right,
dear—keep the sausage hot for him, but you need
not spread that clean napkin over the cloth—
Charlie is used to taking it as he can get it.”

“He never finds fault, Mrs. Lovett, but he likes
it nice. Dinah don't mind washing a napkin more
for him—she says Charlie's clothes wash easy.”[1]

“Charlie gets the blind side of every one in
the house; but go on your own way, Lucy. Bless
me! when did you scour that knife and fork. It
must be confessed, you have profited by living next
door. Such a body as Mrs. Simson has her uses
for those who know how to catch the good and
leave the bad.”

“The bad was so disagreeable, Mrs. Lovett, you
could not catch it.” Lucy was right. It is the
faults of the good and loveable that we are in danger
of imbibing.

John had finished his recitation in that charming
school-book—charming alike to teacher and learner
—“Popular Lessons,” and was now in eager pursuit
of his slate. “Have you seen it, mother?”
he asked.

“No—how is that, Sam—seven times seven is
fifty—think again—Lucy, dear, just set the baby
down and look for John's slate.”

“Oh, mother! Miss Selden said I must not
come to school again without strings in both my
shoes.”

“Lucy, dear, run into the bedroom and look for
a piece of galloon—it is in the upper drawer, or
the under, or on the table—oh, perhaps in my piece
basket.” Alas for the chace through that labyrinth.

“Oh, Lucy, please to find my cap—blame it!
it's always gone.”

“Find it yourself, Bob—don't call on Lucy for
everything.”

“But, mother, Lucy always can find everything,
and I always can't.” And so it proved. Lucy,
with infinite sweetness, found and arranged all that
was wanted, and the happy little troop issued from
the street-door and were bounding away, when
their mother called after them, “John! Sammy!
here, for mercy's sake! John, you must take a bottle
of wine to poor old Bretti.”

“Mother!—clear to Reed-street!”

“Not if you do not choose, sir,” replied his
mother, sternly, for she could manifest displeasure
when her children failed in an act of kindness.

“Do give it to me, mother—I do choose, only
it's such a horrid long way down there.”

“No. Charlie will take it by-and-by. The
way should never seem horrid long when we go to
do a kindness.”

“Well, I don't see what he wants wine for—you
and father never drink wine.”

“The doctor has ordered it for him, John. Now,
my boy, you are conscious you have done wrong,
and are trying to find some reason for it. Sammy,
take this book to Sarah Martin.”

“Has the doctor ordered a book to cure Sarah
Martin's lame foot, mother?” asked Sam, laughing.

“I don't know as to that, Sam, but I know it's
what they call an `easing medicine' for all diseases
that are not too bad to admit of using it—ah,
Charlie! good-morning to you. Your breakfast is
all ready, and Lucy ready to bake your cakes.”

“That's firstrate, mother.” Never did breakfast
meet a keener appetite to do it justice, an appetite
prepared by long exercise in the morning
air, and stimulated by good food, arranged by “neathanded”

Lucy, who, while performing various other
miscellaneous offices, was baking the cakes, filling
his cup, and throwing in kind words and smiles.
A spoiled favourite of fortune (so called), rising
from the distasteful luxuries of a twelve o'clock
breakfast, might have envied our baker's boy!

“Oh, mother,” asked Charles, “has father decided
about the ticket for the lectures?”

“Yes; at least he left it to me, as he always
does, and I am determined to go, provided Mr.
What-ye-call-him says that a family-ticket will
admit Lucy.”

“To be sure it will—is she not one of the family?”

“There are few,” said Lucy, slightly blushing,
“that consider help so.”

“Then they are fools, Lucy, besides being geese
—but, in order to be certain, besides being sure, I
called on Mr. `What-ye-call-him,' mother's name,
you know, for all mankind, besides a part of woman-kind,
and asked him, and he said any one that lived
with us was one of the family.”

“But be honest, Charles—did you tell him I was
your mother's help?”

“No—why should I, any more than that mother
was your help—no disparagement to you, Lucy;
but I think mother is the greatest help we have in
this family.”

“If help means aiding every one, and more
kindly than any one else ever did, I think she is
the best help in the world, Charles.”

“Oh, Lucy and Charlie—go about your business
—you are turning my head!”