The Carpenter's Daughter Part 11

"Father, I am come to invite you home to supper to-night. Mother and I have a particular reason to want to see you. Will you come?"

"Come where?" said Mr. Mathieson, but half understanding her.

"Come home to tea, father. I came to ask you. Mother has made something you like."

"I'm busy, child. Go home. I'm going to supper at Jackson's. Go home."

He turned to his hammering again. But Nettie stood still in the snow and waited.

"Father--" she said, after a minute, coming yet closer and speaking more low.

"What? Aint you gone?" exclaimed Mr. Mathieson.

"Father," said Nettie, softly, "mother has made waffles for you,--and you used to like them so much, she says; and they are light and beautiful and just ready to bake. Wont you come and have them with us?

Mother says they'll be very nice."

"Why didn't she make 'em another time," grumbled Barry,--"when we weren't going to punch and oysters? That's a better game!"

If Mathieson had not been drinking he might have been touched by the sight of Nettie; so very white and delicate her little face looked, trembling and eager, within that border of her black hood on which the snow crystals lay, a very doubtful and unwholesome embroidery. She looked as if she was going to melt and disappear like one of them; and perhaps Mr. Mathieson did feel the effect of her presence, but he felt it only to be vexed and irritated; and Barry's suggestion fell into ready ground.

"I tell you, go home!" he said, roughly. "What are you doing here? I tell you I'm _not_ coming home--I'm engaged to supper to-night, and I'm not going to miss it for any fool's nonsense. Go home!"

Nettie's lip trembled, but that was all the outward show of the agitation within. She would not have delayed to obey, if her father had been quite himself; in his present condition she thought perhaps the next word might undo the last; she could not go without another trial.

She waited an instant and again said softly and pleadingly, "Father, I've been and got cinnamon and sugar for you,--all ready."

"Cinnamon and sugar"--he cursed with a great oath; and turning gave Nettie a violent push from him, that was half a blow. "Go home!" he repeated--"go home! and mind your business; and don't take it upon you to mind mine."

Nettie reeled, staggered, and coming blindly against one or two timbers that lay on the ground, she fell heavily over them. n.o.body saw her. Mr.

Mathieson had not looked after giving her the push, and Barry had gone over to help somebody who called him. Nettie felt dizzy and sick; but she picked herself up, and wet and downhearted took the road home again.

She was sadly downhearted. Her little bit of a castle in the air had tumbled all to pieces; and what was more, it had broken down upon her. A hope, faint indeed, but a hope, had kept her up through all her exertions that day; she felt very feeble, now the hope was gone; and that her father should have laid a rough hand on her, hurt her sorely.

It hurt her bitterly; he had never done so before; and the cause why he came to do it now, rather made it more sorrowful than less so to Nettie's mind.

She could not help a few salt tears from falling; and for a moment Nettie's faith trembled. Feeling weak, and broken, and miserable, the thought came coldly across her mind, _would_ the Lord not hear her, after all? It was but a moment of faith-trembling, but it made her sick. There was more to do that; the push and fall over the timbers had jarred her more than she knew at the moment. Nettie walked slowly back upon her road till she neared the shop of Mme. Auguste; then she felt herself growing very ill, and just reached the Frenchwoman's door to faint away on her steps.

She did not remain there two seconds. Mme. Auguste had seen her go by an hour before, and now sat at her window looking out to amuse herself, but with a special intent to see and waylay that pale child on her repa.s.sing the house. She saw the little black hood reappear, and started to open the door, just in time to see Nettie fall down at her threshold. As instantly two willing arms were put under her, and lifted up the child and bore her into the house. Then Madame took off her hood, touched her lips with brandy and her brow with cologne water, and chafed her hands.

She had lain Nettie on the floor of the inner room and put a pillow under her head; the strength which had brought her so far having failed there, and proved unequal to lift her again and put her on the bed.

Nettie presently came to, opened her eyes, and looked at her nurse.

"Why, my Nettie," said the little woman, "what is this, my child? what is the matter with you?"

"I don't know," said Nettie, scarce over her breath.

"Do you feel better now, _mon enfant_?"

Nettie did not, and did not speak. Mme. Auguste mixed a spoonful of brandy and water and made her take it. That revived her a little.

"I must get up and go home," were the first words she said.

"You will lie still there, till I get some person to lift you on the bed," said the Frenchwoman, decidedly. "I have not more strength than a fly. What ails you, Nettie?"

"I don't know."

"Take one spoonful more. What did you have for dinner to-day?"

"I don't know. But I must go home!" said Nettie, trying to raise herself. "Mother will want me--she'll want me."

"You will lie still, like a good child," said her friend, gently putting her back on her pillow;--"and I will find some person to carry you home--or some person what will bring your mother here. I will go see if I can find some one now. You lie still, Nettie."

Nettie lay still, feeling weak after that exertion of trying to raise herself. She was quite restored now, and her first thoughts were of grief, that she had for a moment, and under any discouragement, failed to trust fully the Lord's promises. She trusted them now. Let her father do what he would, let things look as dark as they might, Nettie felt sure that "the rewarder of them that diligently seek him" had a blessing in store for her. Bible words, sweet and long loved and rested on, came to her mind, and Nettie rested on them with perfect rest. "For he hath not despised nor abhorred the affliction of the afflicted; neither hath he hid his face from him; but when he cried unto him, _he heard_." "Our heart shall rejoice in him, _because we have trusted in his holy name_."

Prayer for forgiveness, and a thanksgiving of great peace, filled Nettie's heart all the while the Frenchwoman was gone.

Meanwhile Mme. Auguste had been looking into the street, and seeing n.o.body out in the wet snow, she rushed back to Nettie. Nettie was like herself now, only very pale.

"I must have cut my lip somehow," she said; "there's blood on my handkerchief. How did I come in here?"

"Blood!" said the Frenchwoman,--"where did you cut yourself, Nettie? Let me look!"

Which she did, with a face so anxious and eager that Nettie smiled at her. Her own brow was as quiet and placid as ever it was.

"How did I get in here, Mrs. August?"

The Frenchwoman, however, did not answer her. Instead of which she went to her cupboard and got a cup and spoon, and then from a little saucepan on the stove dipped out some riz-au-gras again.

"What did you have for dinner, Nettie? you did not tell me."

"Not much--I wasn't hungry," said Nettie. "O, I must get up and go home to mother."

"You shall eat something first," said her friend; and she raised Nettie's head upon another pillow, and began to feed her with the spoon.

"It is good for you. You must take it. Where is your father? Don't talk, but tell me. I will do everything right."

"He is at work on Mr. Jackson's new house."

"Is he there to-day?"

"Yes."

Mme. Auguste gave her all the "broth" in the cup, then bade her keep still, and went to the shop window. It was time for the men to be quitting work, she knew; she watched for the carpenters to come. If they were not gone by already!--how should she know? Even as she thought this, a sound of rude steps and men's voices came from down the road; and the Frenchwoman went to her door and opened it. The men came along, a scattered group of four or five.

"Is Mr. Mat'ieson there?" she said. Mme. Auguste hardly knew him by sight. "Men, I say! is Mr. Mat'ieson there?"

"George, that's you; you're wanted," said one of the group, looking back; and a fine-looking, tall man paused at Madame's threshold.

"Are you Mr. Mat'ieson?" said the Frenchwoman.

"Yes, ma'am. That's my name."

"Will you come in? I have something to speak to you. Your little daughter Nettie is very sick."

"Sick!" exclaimed the man. "Nettie!--Where is she?"