Little Miss Joy

by Emma Marshall

CHAPTER XI.

MR. SKINNER IN COMMAND.

Mrs. Skinner was more silent than ever during the next few days, and when she spoke it was to scold Bet in a rasping voice.

She was suffering from that very bad mental disease which is beyond the reach of doctors, and is a perpetual torment; and that disease is called remorse.

Of late she had been haunted by the memory of her only daughter, and of her harshness to her. The man she had chosen to marry was good, and to all appearance above the class in which Maggie was born. There was nothing against him but poverty. He had been a travelling photographer, who set up his little van with "Photographic Studio" painted on the canvas cover in large letters, and had sometimes done a brisk trade on Yarmouth sands. One of his first customers had been Maggie Skinner, then in her fresh beauty, and a tempting subject for a photographer or artist.

About the same time a wealthy grocer in Yarmouth, old enough to be her father, had offered to marry her. He had a villa at Gorlestone: possessed a pony-carriage, and was rich and prosperous. But Maggie shrank from marrying him. Mr. Plummer might be rich, and no doubt he meant well and kindly by her, but she could not marry him.

In vain she pleaded with her mother, and with her inexorable brother Joe, that to marry simply for what you were to get by it was a sin—a sin against the law of God, who meant marriage to be a sign and seal of mutual love.

Mrs. Skinner at last said that if she did not do as she bid her, and promise to marry Mr. Plummer, she might go and earn her living for she was not going to keep her in idleness. Many stormy scenes followed; and one night Maggie declared that she could not marry Mr. Plummer, for she had promised to marry Roger Chanter, the photographic artist!

"And if you do, you shall never see my face again," Mrs. Skinner declared. "I'll turn you out of the house, and you may disgrace yourself as you please. I have done with you. Your brother there knows when I say a thing I mean it."

"Oh, mother, you are very cruel!" Ah! how those words sounded sometimes in the dead of night, when Mrs. Skinner lay awake, listening for Joe's return, and to the moaning of the restless sea.

"Oh! mother, you are very cruel!" Those were the last words ever heard from Maggie, as she passed out of her mother's sight. The next morning her bed was empty, and she was gone.

From that day up to the present time not a word had been heard of her, nor had her mother or her brother troubled themselves to inquire for her. It was supposed she had married the pale, delicate-looking photographer; but her name was never mentioned, and she had passed away as if she had never been.

It was the day of the bride and bridegroom's return, and Patience Harrison had put all things in order. The business had not suffered in the absence of the head of the establishment, and Mr. Skinner expressed considerable satisfaction at this. He at once took the keys, and said he would keep the books and the money, and, in fact, rule the establishment, and transact the business.

He was fidgeting about the shop the next morning, and peering into all the boxes and drawers, when his wife ventured to remark that perhaps he would be late at the office on the quay, as the clock had struck ten.

"My dear," was the reply, "I have resigned my post in the Excise-office, and shall henceforth devote myself to you and my aged mother. I have always been a good son, and I shall often look in on her of an evening when I have settled up matters here."

Patience Harrison heard this announcement, and saw her sister's face betray considerable surprise.

"Resign the place at the office!" she exclaimed. "Why, Joe!——"

"Why, Joe!" he repeated. "Why, my dear, you ought to be delighted; you will have so much more of my company and my help. Now you can take your ease, and sit in your parlour, while Mrs. Harrison waits in the shop, and performs household duties."

"What next, Joe! I am not going to sit with my hands before me because I am a married woman. As to a man about in a little shop like mine, with ladies trying on caps and ordering underclothing, it is not to be thought of. The customers won't like it. It is too small a place for three."

"You may be easy on that score, sister," Patience said. "I only remained while you were away. I wish to leave you, and think of taking a little house on the Denes, and taking a lodger till they come home."

"Pray may I ask who are they?" Mr. Skinner said.

"My husband and my son," was the reply.

"The folly of some women!" exclaimed Mr. Skinner. "No, Mrs. Harrison, you don't know when you are well off. You should recompense your sister's goodness and generosity by staying to assist her in her household cares."

"I did not ask for your advice, and I do not want it. Sister, I shall cross over to Mr. Boyd's, and take care of that dear child for the present. I have packed my boxes, and Peter will carry them over."

"My dear," Mr. Skinner said, "that being the case, we at once renounce all connection with Mrs. Harrison."

"But we shall have to keep a servant," exclaimed his wife; "and servants are such a terrible trouble, and think of the worry and the expense, and——"

Poor Mrs. Joe Skinner seemed unfeignedly sorry. She began to magnify her gentle sister's perfections now she was to lose her.

"And Patience knows all my ways, and how to use the furniture polish on the chairs and table in the parlour. And—— Oh! really, Patience, I hope you will stay; especially now the boy is gone. You are welcome, I'm sure; very welcome! It was the boy made the trouble. We've gone on so pleasantly since he went."

Patience turned away to hide the tears of wounded feeling, and said no more.

As she was crossing over to Mr. Boyd's, she saw a ladylike, sweet-faced woman standing at the door of the shop.

Mr. Boyd was very busy rubbing up a chronometer, which the captain and mate of one of the small sailing vessels were bargaining for; and as it was difficult for more than three people to stand in the little shop at once, Patience paused before entering.

"I am waiting to speak to Mr. Boyd," the lady—for so she looked—said.

"I dare say he will be at liberty directly," Patience said. "It is a very small shop, and too full of goods for its size."

"Do you happen to know if Mr. Boyd has a little girl living with him? She is now just short of nine years old. She is very——"

The voice suddenly faltered, and Patience hastened to say—

"She is a darling child. Mr. Boyd has adopted her, and he calls her Joy. We all call her Joy—little Miss Joy. Do you know anything about her?"

The lady grasped Mrs. Harrison's arm.

"Let me see Mr. Boyd," she said. "Wait till I see him."

The bargain in the shop was now completed, and the captain and mate were departing with their chronometer, when Uncle Bobo sang out to Patience—

"Glad to see you; the little one aloft is just hungry for a sight of you. Bet isn't come yet. She's to help her old grannie before she starts."

A bevy of little girls on their way to school now came up with flowers, and some ripe plums in a basket.

"Please will you give these to little Miss Joy?" the eldest of the four said, "with our love. Please, Mr. Boyd, how is she? is she better?"

"So they say, my dear; so they say. I wish I could say so too. But—well—never mind. Here, Mrs. Patience, take 'em aloft to the child. And now, ma'am, what can I show you?" Mr. Boyd said, turning to the lady.

"The child—you call—little Miss Joy," was the reply, in faint tones. "Mr. Boyd, you don't know me, and Mrs. Harrison does not know me. I was once Maggie Skinner, and Little Joy is my child!"

Uncle Bobo looked with a keen glance from under his bushy grey eyebrows into the lady's face.

"You Maggie Skinner! Well, I never!"

"Yes, I have had a great deal of trouble; but it is over now."

"Sit down; sit down," Uncle Bobo said, pushing a high round stool with a slippery leather top, the only seat for which the shop could afford room. "Sit ye down; but surely you look too old to be Maggie Skinner!"

"I have had many troubles. Oh! Mr. Boyd, can you forgive me? When my darling child was a baby, I wanted bread. My husband died just when she was eighteen months old; I had not a shilling in the world; there was only the workhouse before me, and I could not—no, I could not take my precious child there. So I walked here from Ipswich. I remembered you had a kind heart—so I laid her here on your door-step and stood watching till you came and took her up, and I knew you would be good to her; but I dared not face my mother. I wandered alone all that night; and early in the morning, before any one was stirring, I came to look up at this house. As I stood listening, I heard my baby's little cough. Some one was crooning over her and playing with her."

"That was Susan. Hi, Sue! come this way," exclaimed Mr. Boyd.

Susan came blundering down the stairs, asking—

"What do you want? I was just giving the precious child her breakfast. She seems a bit brighter this morning."

"What is the matter with her?" Maggie Chanter asked. "Is she ill? is she ill?"

"She was knocked down by a runaway horse last June, and hurt her back. What do you know about the child?"

"I am her mother?" was the answer. "Oh! I thank you all for being kind to her." And then a burst of passionate tears choked the poor mother.

Patience Harrison's kind arms were round her in a moment.

"My dear," she said, "God is very good to us. Do not fret; you trusted this little one to His care, and He has not forgotten you. Little Miss Joy is loved by every one; she is the sweetest and best of little darlings."

"Ah! I am so afraid she may not love me," the poor mother said. "She may think I was cruel to desert her; but what could I do? I knew Mr. Boyd had a kind heart; but many, oh! many a time I have repented of what I did. As I wandered back to the quay that morning I saw a new registry office I had never seen before. I waited till it was open, and went in. A man-servant was waiting with me, and he went into the manager's room first. Presently the manager came out.

"'What place do you want?' she asked,

"'Any place,' I replied. 'A maid——'

"'I think she'll do,' the man said.

"Then he told me his young mistress was married a month before, and was to sail from London Docks that night for India. The maid who was to have attended her was sickening of scarlet fever; the lady was at her wits' end; she was staying at Lord Simon's, near Yarmouth. 'Come out,' he said, 'and see her at once.'

"I went, and I was instantly engaged. I told my story in a few words, and the lady believed me. Strange to say, she had a photograph taken by my husband, with the name Ralph Chanter on the back. She remembered him and the time when he was taking portraits here. Well, I served her till she died, dear lady, and never returned to England till last week. She has left me a legacy, which will enable me to set up a business, and make a home for my child. You'll give her back to me, Mr. Boyd?"

Uncle Bobo's face was a study as he listened to this story, told brokenly, and interrupted by many tears.

"It will be kind of hard," he said at last. "Yes, it will be kind of hard," with desperate emphasis. "But," he said, heavily slapping his leg, "I'll do what is just and right."

"I know you will, I know you will," Patience Harrison said; "but, oh! I am so sorry for you, dear Uncle Bobo."

"Let me see my child," Maggie Chanter said. "Let me see her; and yet, oh, how I dread it! Who will take me to her? Will you take me? Will you tell the story, Mr. Boyd?"

"No, no, my dear, don't ask me; let Patience Harrison do it; let her. I can't, and that's the truth."

Then Patience Harrison mounted the narrow stairs, and pausing at the door said, "We must be careful, she is very weak."

Maggie bowed her head in assent, and then followed Patience into the room.

"Oh, Goody, I am so glad you are come!" and the smile on Joy's face was indeed like a sunbeam. "Bet has not come yet. I don't like to vex her, but she does blunder so. Susan calls her Blunder-buss; isn't that funny of Susan?"

Then Joy turned her head, and caught sight of the figure on the threshold.

"Why doesn't she come in?" Joy said; "she looks very kind; and see what flowers and plums the girls have brought me as they went to school!"

"Joy, darling Joy," Patience said, "you have often said you wished you had known your mother."

"Have I? You are like my mother now."

"But what if I were to tell you your very own mother is come, Joy?" And then, pointing to Maggie, she said, "There she is!"

The excitement and agitation was all on one side. The mother tried in vain to conceal her deep emotion. Joy, on the contrary, was quite calm, and said, looking at Patience—

"Is it true? is this my mother?"

"Yes, yes; your poor unhappy mother. Can you love her, little Joy? Can you forgive her for leaving you to Mr. Boyd?"

"Why, yes," Joy said brightly, "of course I can; he has been ever so good to me, and I do love him so."

Then Patience Harrison slipped away, and left the mother and the child together.

"The meeting is well over," she said as she returned to the shop.

"But the parting isn't over," was poor Uncle Bobo's lament; "and I tell you what, when it comes it will break my heart. I shan't have nothing left to live for; and the sooner I cut my cable the better."

Patience Harrison felt that it was useless to offer comfort just then, and she remembered Bet had not arrived as usual, and turned out of the row. Towards the market-place, on the way to Mrs. Skinner's cottage, she met George Paterson. His face brightened, as it always did, when they met.

"Well," he said, "have the bride and bride-groom come home?"

"Yes," she replied, "and I have given notice to quit."

"You have!" he said joyfully; "then you will come to me?"

"No, George, no—not yet."

"Not yet! When, then?" he asked quickly. "I was reading in the paper the other day, that when a man is not heard of for seven years it is lawful to marry another. It is getting on for twice seven years since you were left desolate."

"My dear kind friend," Patience said, "I have waited so long and prayed so often to be shown the right path, that I feel sure God will not leave me without an answer; and till I am certain that my husband is taken away by death, I could not be the wife of another man."

"Then you may wait till you are a hundred," George said impatiently. "How can you ever know?"

"Dear George, be patient with me. Do not be angry with me. I have asked God for guidance, and He will give it in His own time."

"I am wrong to be hard on you, I know," was the reply; "but to see you drifting alone, and with no home, is enough to madden any man when a home is ready for you."

"I have got some strange news for you," Patience said, trying to change the subject. "Our little Joy is Maggie Skinner's child. She left her when destitute on Mr. Boyd's door-step."

"How do you know?"

"Because she is here in Yarmouth, and I have just left her and her child together."

"Well, wonders never cease! and I suppose you know why Joe Skinner has left the office?"

"That he may get entire rule in my poor sister's home, and grind every penny out of her. The reason is plain enough."

"Ah! but there's another reason. He is dismissed from the office for certain irregularities in the cash. He has narrowly escaped prosecution—so I hear."

"Oh, George, then our suspicions about that little cash-box are right!"

"It looks like it," George said, as Patience's eyes shone with a wonderful light of hope. "It looks like it; and when the boy comes home, we will see his character cleared."

"When he comes home! Oh, another 'when,' another waiting time!" Patience sighed out, "There is a word which gives me comfort, however, and I am always hearing it, as if it were whispered to me: 'If it tarry, wait for it.'"

"You find waiting easier than I do," George said.

"Easy!" she said, clasping her hands together. "Easy! oh, only God knows how hard!"

Then she turned sorrowfully away from him, and pursued her way alone to look for Bet.