Графични страници
PDF файл
ePub
[graphic]

66

COUSIN BERTHA. 1 CHAPTER I.

THE apostle, in writing to the Hebrew Christians, exhorted them not to be forgetful to entertain strangers; "for thereby," he added, some have entertained angels unawares." Whenever I read this passage, I am reminded of Bertha Connor.

Not that Bertha was an angel exactly, though I have heard my mother say, of late years, that she only wanted wings to be one. And not that Bertha was a stranger exactly, because she was near of kin to us, although, in

OCTOBER, 1863.

L

other respects, she was a stranger to us all until the day that she first stepped over our door sill. But she was so much of a stranger, and so much of an angel in disposition, that, as I have just written, I cannot help thinking of her when I read what the apostle wrote.

Before I begin to tell of Bertha Connor, I may as well explain that the home of my childhood was a large old farm-house; for my father was an English farmer, and did not wish to be anything else. He was proud of his calling, and of his skill, and of his success. To find the way to his heart readily, it was only necessary to praise his his cattle, his sheep and pigs. No doubt this was a weakness in him; but all persons have a weak point in their character, and this was his.

crops,

My mother was very much of her husband's mind. She was a farmer's daughter, and had never aspired to any higher position than that of a farmer's wife. I have heard that she refused the hand of her first admirer, with something like scorn, because he was “in trade,” and for no other reason. My mother attained to the summit of her ambition when she married my father; and I am sure she never repented her choice.

Like my father, too, my mother had her sources of selfgratulation. She was proud of her dairy; proud of her poultry; proud of the bacon flitches which stored her racks, and of the large hams smoking over the wood fires which blazed below. She was proud of her old china, too, and of her large presses full of household linen. This pride was my mother's weak point, doubtless.

We were a large family altogether; for my parents had many children. And now to my story.

One day at breakfast time our father entered the house with a letter in his hand, having just received it from the postman; and without saying a word he gave it to my mother, who read it attentively. The letter had a black border; and this raised the curiosity of all around the table, the more so that our father's usually cheerful countenance was clouded with apparent trouble or vexation.

"This is sad news," said our mother, when she had read the letter.

Father shook his head, but said nothing.

"What is to be done?" she continued.

"I must go to the funeral, of course; though I am sure I don't know how to spare the time," he said.

"And about the girl-Bertha?”

"I must bring her back with me, I suppose. It won't do to let her be sent to the workhouse."

We were all young children then, the eldest of us being only twelve years of age, and the youngest a baby in arms. It was not for any of us to ask questions, therefore; but before many hours had passed we knew that our uncle Connor was dead; that he had died suddenly, and left his motherless child to the cold charity of the world.

It was a dark and mysterious affair to us altogether-I mean that about our relatives, the Connors; we had never seen either our uncle or our cousin; and we had only slightly heard of them as living in London. We afterwards, however, knew why there had been this reserve. Our father had, in his younger days, a sister Bertha, of whom he was fond. But great offence was given by her marriage on two accounts; first, her husband was a tradesman; and next, he was an Irishman by birth, though he had resided almost all his life in England. In spite of this offence, however, our father kept up occasional intercourse with his sister until her death, which took place a few years after her marriage. Then the tie was looked upon as severed; so our uncle Connor and his little daughter Bertha were quite disregarded, if not forgotten.

The letter which brought the tidings of uncle Connor's death, also revealed that he had died in great poverty, and that his poor orphan girl had neither home nor friends, unless our parents would take compassion on her. The letter was written by a clergyman who had visited our uncle in his illness, and who pleaded very earnestly on behalf of our poor cousin. And as neither our father nor mother was hard-hearted, it was soon decided that there was plenty of room in our old farmhouse for Bertha, and that one child more or less would make but little difference.

So, two days after the receipt of the letter, father took the long journey to London, to attend the funeral of his brother-in-law; and in less than a week he returned, accompanied by our cousin.

Bertha, at this time, was about twelve years of age, very thin and pale and delicate; and perhaps she looked more so because of the black dress she wore. At first, too, she fretted sadly and mourned deeply for her father's death; so that, for a time, she refused to be comforted. But it is

mercifully ordered that sorrow presses more lightly upon the young than upon the old, else would they often be quite crushed beneath its weight: thus, after a few weeks, our poor orphan cousin became more reconciled to her loss, and to her changed circumstances; while country air, early rising, exercise, and plenty of wholesome food, soon brought a bloom upon her cheeks and put flesh upon her bones.

I do not think that our parents at first intended to put any difference between their own children and their niece; and while the novelty lasted, nothing was wanting in the kindness Bertha received from her cousins. Indeed, there was some danger of her being overwhelmed with outward manifestations of love. Nothing could be done without Bertha. She was enticed by us boys to accompany us in our long rambles into the woods, on half-holidays, and dragged through bushes and briars in search for birds'nests. She was the cause of quarrels among our sisters, who, each of them, wished to monopolize Bertha to herself as a favourite companion. And even the baby cried to have Bertha for a nurse. There was good reason for this latter preference, at any rate-indeed there was reason for all our preferences: Bertha was so sweet and even tempered, so desirous of obliging, and so affectionate, that it was no wonder she won all our hearts.

*

*

*

*

I must now pass over five years, and present cousin Bertha to my readers under different circumstances. Perhaps there are few positions in life more painful, and more difficult to fill with satisfaction to all parties, than that of a poor and dependent relative. I am ashamed as well as sorry to say that Bertha Connor's situation was no exception to the general rule. By degrees, slow at first, but more rapid afterwards, she had subsided into a hardworking servant, with this difference, that it did not enter into our parents' thoughts that, as she was a servant, she had a right to expect at least a servant's wages and a servant's freedom to change her place of service. Instead, it would have been looked upon, I am sure, as a startling piece of ingratitude, had our cousin hinted at a desire to leave us, while all the remuneration she received for all her usefulness-I had almost written slavery-was the privilege of wearing my sisters' cast off clothes, with a very rare gift of a new gown or bonnet, and the permission

to rear and sell on her own account enough poultry to provide herself with shoe-leather. And even this permission was given, as I very well remember, grudgingly and of necessity, on the representation of our father that "the girl must be shod somehow," and that that was the easiest way of doing it without much expense.

This, however, represents only a part of the hardship of our cousin Bertha's position at that time. It was humbling to her, doubtless, to have to feel herself only a menial in the family into which, as a child, she had been received on terms of equality. But this was easier to bear than the coldness and only half-concealed disdain with which she was treated by her cousins who had once made so much of her, and the harshness she had sometimes to experience from her aunt who, without meaning to be unkind, had the idea strongly impressed on her mind that the way to make servants good for nothing was by pampering and indulging them.

I could give many particulars to show how great and painful a difference was put between us, the children of the family, and our poor dependent cousin; and how unjustly and unkindly we had learned to behave towards her. I could also dwell upon the meekness and patience and good temper with which she bore her reverses, and submitted to what others would have considered to be deep mortifications. But I must pass on to another part of my cousin Bertha's history, which will give a clue to the secret source of that evenness of temper and peace of mind which she possessed amidst all her trials.

Now, I am constrained to confess that my parents were irreligious. They had not even that form of godliness which, alas! is often substituted for the true and living faith of Christianity. They not only lived" without God in the world" themselves, but they were strongly prejudiced against those who acknowledged the claims of religion, and paid regard to those claims. In other words, my parents disliked exceedingly what they called "Methodism,"-meaning by this, the doctrines of the gospel.

There is no doubt that this prejudice and hatred was in some measure the effect of ignorance, combined with the natural enmity of an unrenewed heart against God and the people of God. But this ignorance was wilful and determined. They had the light of Divine truth in their dwelling, but they would not go to it. For many years I

« ПредишнаНапред »