University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
BONA FIDE.

“Lucy Lee,” said Ferris, “you know you have
the dishes to do to-day; it's my Sunday out.”

“But I did not have my Sunday out last Sunday,
you know, Mrs. Ferris.”

“That was not my fault.”

“Nor was it mine,” said Lucy, who had the
strongest motive for maintaining her rights. “Sophy
wanted to go out, and Mrs. Ardley said if I
would stay and amuse the children I should go
home to-day.” And Lucy had well earned the performance
of the promise, for Mrs. Ardley said she
“had never known the children so quiet—she and
Mr. Ardley had both got their Sunday's nap without
once hearing them.” The secret of this was, that
Lucy, finding it sorely against her conscience to
pass the sacred day in picking up ninepins and
dressing dolls, had kept the children still, and most
happy too, by telling them Sunday stories she had
heard from her mother. Ferris left the kitchen
for a few moments, and presently the bell rung
twice, the summons for Lucy. “Lucy, I am sorry
to disappoint you,” said Mrs. Ardley, “but I entirely
forgot it was Ferris's Sunday out.”

“Can't I set the dishes aside, ma'am, and wash
them when I come home?”

“No, Lcuy. Nothing puts Ferris out so much

as that—you know we must mind our p's and q's
with Ferris—don't look so dismal, child—it's only
waiting till to-morrow.”

“Jemmie will think it's for ever waiting till to-morrow.”

“Jemmie! Oh, that little broken-back brother
you told me about—never mind; I'll give you some
of the children's old playthings to carry to him to-morrow.”

“He is not fond of playthings, Mrs. Ardley, he
can't play with them.”

“Well, books, then—picture books.”

Lucy's face brightened. She had often thought
how happy it would make Jemmie to possess a
few of the books the children were tossing about
the nursery. “Thank you, Mrs. Ardley,” she
said, “nothing would please Jemmie so much; it
will make the time seem shorter when I am away;”
and half consoled, and but half, she returned to the
kitchen, where Ferris greeted her with, “You'll
find, Miss Lucy Lee, you'll never get the upper
hands of me; so you may as well give up first as
last telling about burnt spreads, or trying to keep
me at home when my turn is out.”

“I did not try to keep you at home, Mrs. Ferris,
I only tried to go myself; and if you knew how
much reason I had, you would not wonder.”

Her mild answer softened Ferris, and she said,
“Well, well, child, your turn will come—young
folks must give way, you know.”

Lucy, after “doing up her odds and ends,” went
to bed and went to sleep, for sleep is the certain
compensation, the sure wages of the working; but
not till she had wondered whether mother looked

as pale as when she had last saw her, and whether
Jemmie had felt very bad about her not coming
home!

“There's tears on her cheek, and she sleeping!”
said Ferris, as she got into bed that night. “They
sting me. God forgive me!”

The next morning Lucy seized a favourable moment
to ask Mrs. Ardley to select the books. “Oh,
there's no hurry, child,” said Mrs. Ardley; “I can't
possibly spare you to go home to-day. It's Monday,
you know, and we are to have company to
dinner, and—” Mrs. Ardley was interrupted by
a request from David that Lucy might help him
with the breakfast things; this was followed by a
message from Ferris asking Lucy's aid. “You
see how it is,” resumed Mrs. Ardley, after giving
an affirmative to both applications, “you must
wait till to-morrow—come, don't look like all the
woes! I'll get your books ready now, so there
will be nothing to detain you when the time comes.”
This she immediately did, and in the indulgence
of her good-nature quite forgot the virtue that was
appropriate to the occasion. Sore as Lucy's disappointment
was, that boasted specific for happiness,
having a little more to do than she could do,
shortened the twenty-four hours which followed.
“Now, Mrs. Ferris,” she said, “I am going. I
have finished all you told me to do.”

“Finished! you have not brought down the things
for the pudding?”

“Yes.”

“But you have not beaten the eggs?”

“Yes, and ground the spice, and the coffee, and

dusted the dresser, and cleaned the celery, and
taken the pin-feathers out of the ducks.”

“Lucy!” called David from the top of the stairs,
“just rub over the table-spoons and silver forks
for me—that's you, Lucy.” Poor, Lucy with a sigh,
proceeded to the task. Before it was done Mary's
bell rung, and Lucy had to run to the thread and
needle store for something the seamstress must
have. On her return she met Sophy—“Oh, Lucy!”
she said, “you must put Mrs. Ardley's room up—
she has sent me to the dressmaker's.” “Lucy!”
called out from the upper entry Miss Anne, “just
come and sew on my shoestrings for me; Mary
Minturn is busy.” “Lucy!” screamed Master
Will Ardley, “ask David for my boots, and bring
them up.” “Lucy!” piped a little urchin from the
nursery door, “mamma says you may come and set
up the soldiers I shoot down.” “No, no, Lucy!”
cried in the same breath Belle Ardley, “mamma
says you may iron my doll's frock first!” Lucy,
secretly resolving that if she ever enlisted in another
service, it should not be for “odds and ends,”
patiently threaded her way through, and then presented
herself, cloaked and hooded, to Mrs. Ardley,
and asked not “if she might go,” but “how long
she might stay.” “Oh, Lucy, child—I am really
sorry! I forgot to tell you that you cannot possibly
go to-day. Wilson” (Wilson was the wet-nurse)
“says she must go out—and you know it is as much
as my life is worth to refuse Wilson.”

“But cannot Mrs. Wilson come home in time
for me?”

“No—she will not be in till after dinner, and
then it will be too late for you—quite dark.”

“Oh, Mrs. Ardley! won't Miss Anne mind the
baby just while I run home and see how they all
are, and tell Jemmie why I can't come?”

“No, Miss Anne cannot; she is just going to
her dancing lesson.”

Lucy was silent for a moment. It seemed impossible
to her to give up, and she ventured upon
rather a daring request. “Mrs. Ardley,” she
asked, tremulously, “won't you be so good as to
take care of the baby yourself—I'll be as quick as
possible.”

“Lucy, you are going a little too far. Everybody
that lives with me, old and young, presumes
upon my indulgence. You know, child, I am just
dressing to pay visits.”

“Oh, Mrs. Ardley, if you could once see our
poor Jemmie, you would not wonder that I could
ask for dancing or visits to be given up.”

“It may be, child; but still you should recollect
what is proper and what is not. I really would
not disappoint you if I could well help it.”

Lucy turned away to hide the tears she could
not repress. The younger children, who had been
listeners and spectators, now, from the kind instincts
of their nature, pressed round their mother to urge
Lucy's suit. Mrs. Ardley, probably from an uncomfortable
consciousness of the wrong she was
inflicting, was unjust, and much less good-humoured
than usual. “Be quiet, children,” she said, “I
must be more firm with the whole of you. Don't
tease me any more about this business of going
home, Lucy—it's always inconvenient in the week
to spare you. To-morrow Sophy and Mary Minturn
leave me, and my new women are coming;

Friday the baby is to be christened, and Saturday
is always a busy day—so you must wait till Sunday
comes, and say no more about it.”

It is said, the worm will turn if you do tread on
it. Lucy had nothing of the reptile in her nature,
but she did turn, and said in a voice that should have
penetrated the lady's conscience, “You promised,
you promised, Mrs. Ardley!”

“Hush, child—go and lay away your cloak and
hood.”

“But you did promise her, mother,” said one of
the children, “and you always tell us we ought to
keep our promises.”

“Certainly you ought, and so I always do unless
I have very good reasons for breaking them.”

Half an hour afterward Alice Ardley asked her
sister Belle where the basket was she promised to
give her. “I have concluded to keep it myself,”
replied Belle; “I want it very much to keep my
doll's hat in.”

“But you promised to give it to me.”

“So I did; but mamma says we may always break
our promises if we have good reasons for it.”

A natural application, and not a very forced version
of the mother's ethics.