CHAPTER IV.
"You are making fun of me, Mr. John."
"I am incapable of such an action, Miss Toosey."
Six months have passed since my last chapter, and John Rossitter has paid many visits to the little house in North Street. Indeed, he rarely came to Brooklands without going to see Miss Toosey, drawn by a strange attraction which he hardly understood himself; though he once told his mother that he had fallen in love, and asked her how she would like Miss Toosey for a daughter-in-law.
Miss Toosey is still at Martel, and likely to remain so. Her interview with Mr. Peters put an end to her idea of becoming a missionary, as John Rossitter quite expected, and also provided the rector with a good joke, over which he laughs till the tears run down his cheeks. It was a very alarming interview to Miss Toosey altogether, as the rector was seized with an attack of coughing in the middle, and sputtered and choked till Miss Toosey longed to pat him on the back, if she had dared to venture on such familiarity with a Church dignitary; and for many months she puzzled Mrs. Peters by anxious inquiries after the rector's cold and the sad delicacy of his throat, and advised gargling with port wine and alum, and other decoctions of marvellous efficacy.
Miss Toosey's missionary ardor was by no means damped, only it was turned into a fresh channel. "Your money," the Bishop had said, "was another of those barley-loaves of every-day life that most people had in some proportion to offer;" thinking principally of the luxury and extravagance of fashionable life, and of the superfluity that might so well be cast into his empty treasury. There was not much luxury or extravagance in the little house in North Street; indeed, it was only by close management that two ends could be brought to meet; and even in little charities to poor neighbors (infinitesimally small though they might be) she was never in danger of offering to God that which cost her nothing. So it was an unsatisfactory thing to review her expenditure, with a view to greater economy, "with butchers' meat quite a fancy price, and everything else to match;" but she was not easily daunted, as you know, and she applied to Mr. Peters to procure her a box in which to collect for the Nawaub Mission. She did not allow him to forget it or to convince her that a Church Missionary box, or one for the Irish Society, would do quite as well; and when at last she had it, she carried it home with great pride, and gave it the place of honor in the centre of her table on the bead mat, in place of the lava inkstand that had been one of Mrs. Toosey's wedding presents.
It was this box that was now forming the subject of conversation between her and Mr. Rossitter, for she was to take it that very afternoon to the rectory to be opened, and the contents were to be forwarded to the Bishop. John had been commenting on its weight, and had told Miss Toosey that she would be obliged to have the omnibus from the "Hare and Hounds" to take it to the rectory, or at any rate a wheelbarrow and a strong man. And so it came that she accused him of laughing at her.
"But it really is very heavy. I wonder you are not afraid of thieves coming to carry it off at night."
"Well, Mr. John, I was rather nervous now and then. There have been very odd noises at night, and though Betty says it's the mice, I can't always quite believe it. I always hide the box when I go out, and now and then I forget where I put it; and, oh, dear! what a search we had the other day! I was in such a fright, and where do you think it was? Why, behind the shavings in the fireplace. Wasn't it a capital place? No thief would have dreamt of looking there."
"It's a good thing that you are going to empty it to-day, or I might have been tempted to play burglar to-night."
"Well, you see, Mr. John, it's not really so valuable as you might think, for it's chiefly pence and a good sprinkling of farthings, and they don't come up to much of a sum. You see I have been obliged to take a little here and a little there, not being rich, Mr. John, or having much to spare. One thing I always put in, 'Your change, with thanks;' don't you know those pretty little envelopes that they put pence in at Knight's and Jones's and one or two other places, with 'Your change, with thanks,' in mauve on the back? I always took that for my box, and I felt quite pleased when they had not a threepenny bit, so that I got more pence. And then, when the butcher's book came to five and sixpence half penny, Mr. Barker often says, 'Never mind the halfpenny, Miss Toosey,' and I put it into my box; and sometimes I get a halfpenny on the washing. Of course it seems very little, but it all helps. And then I fine myself. I got a good deal that way. A halfpenny if I lose my spectacles. A penny if I go to sleep in church; yes, Mr. John, I'm sorry to say I do drop off now and then. I know it's very wrong, but it's wonderful how it cures you of such habits if you have to pay for them; I don't lose my spectacles half so often as I used to, indeed I feel quite vexed sometimes that I don't get more fines; but I don't think it fair to lose them on purpose. I might save a good deal more if it wasn't for Betty. She's a good girl and honest, and much attached to me; but she's very obstinate and wrong-headed. The fuss that girl made about my letting the fire out now and then of an afternoon, for the winter has been mild, Mr. John, and coals such a price! After I'd done it once or twice, she found out it was not an accident, and she would come bouncing in and put on coals every half-hour, till there was a fire fit to roast an ox, and once she gave warning because I did not take a second helping at dinner. But there's one thing I can do without another year, which no one can object to, and that is my sitting in church. The free seats are so comfortable that it really would be a change for the better, except perhaps as to the hearing."
Just at this point some fresh visitors arrived, and John prepared to go; but, finding the passage blocked by a double perambulator, and a smiling nurse and nursemaid exchanging confidences with Betty at the door, and hearing the tallest of the visitors (who was about as high as the table) declare that "Mamma said they were not to stop, but she sent her love and the Graphic," he resumed his seat, and offered a knee and an inspection of his watch to the two nearest young Mackenzies. There were nine young Mackenzies, of all ages; every year a fresh curly head or Sunday hat appeared in the square pew by the north door, which Mr. Peters compared to a pigeon pie, till at last it ran over altogether into another seat by the pulpit, which could hardly contain them now.
Miss Toosey's present visitors were the younger detachment, all of them pretty more or less with that beauty which has been called "the sacrament of goodness and innocence,"—cheerful souls, not tall enough to see troubles,—very well contented with life as seen from near the ground, which is, I fancy, a much more amusing point of view than we enjoy. They had a good deal of information to give, unintelligible to John, but Miss Toosey gave a free translation, which enlightened his darkness. Life was more than usually cheerful that morning, for they had met that walking money-bag, papa, as they went out, whose store of pennies was inexhaustible when he could be cajoled or teased into feeling in his pocket. To-day in a moment of lavish generosity, he had given a penny all round, even to Kitty, who had conveyed it at once to her mouth, without waiting for the visit to Mrs. Goodenough's, which transformed pennies into all that heart can desire.
"Mine penny!" says Mabel, who is rather solemnized by her position on John's knee; and she allows him to catch a glimpse of her treasure, clasped tightly in her soft knitted glove, in which the fingers live all together in dimpled friendliness, and the thumb only enjoys a house to itself.
"What are you going to buy?" asks John.
"Bung," is the decided answer.
Meanwhile the other children are examining the money-box on the table, rattling its contents in a manner deafening to older ears, till Miss Toosey begins to tell them of the poor little black children who never go to church or say their prayers, which rouses great interest.
"Naughty, wicked little children" is the universal opinion.
"Poor little things!" says Miss Toosey reprovingly, "they have not any church to go to, and they have never been taught to say their prayers."
(John Rossitter, Miss Toosey, Mackenzie children)
I am afraid some of the little Mackenzies were disposed to envy the little black children, who could go straight into their cribs when they were sleepy, and play at dolls any day in the week. But they were discreetly silent while Miss Toosey explained that the money in the box was to go out to make them good little black boys and girls.
"Make them white," says Ben decisively.
Miss Toosey is embarrassed, regarding things from a severely literal point of view; but John comes to the rescue.
"Yes, that's about it, young man."
And just then Maudie discovers the "dear little darling hole" at the top where the pennies go in, and all the children admire it and feel it, and Mabel pats with her woolly gloves, repeating gravely, "Make black boy white."
I don't know quite how it happened, for all the other children were under the sofa, trying to catch Sammy the cat, and Miss Toosey distracted by her anxiety lest they or the cat should get hurt, and Mabel was placidly tapping the box with her penny, repeating, "Make black boy white" at intervals; when John heard a sudden rattle, and, looking down, said, "Hullo!" for the knitted glove was empty, and Mabel looked up at him with rather an awe-struck face, repeating, "Make black boy white."
"O Mr. John!" Miss Toosey exclaimed, her eyes filling with tears, "the dear, sweet little angel, giving her little all to the Mission! How touching!—how beautiful!"
John, however, whose eyes were not full of tears, saw an ominous quivering about the little angel's under lip, and an anxious feeling of knitted gloves around the "dear, darling little hole," as if the penny might yet be recovered, and as if the giver had not realized the fatal and irretrievable nature of putting into a missionary-box. The full sense of her loss at last overwhelmed her, and she burst into uncontrollable grief, "I wants my penny" being the burden of the tale.
It was in vain John handed her over to Miss Toosey who quickly supplied her with another penny, and supplemented it with a biscuit and a lump of sugar; it was not "mine penny, what papa gave me!" and at last she was carried off sobbing, and casting looks of fear and aversion at the missionary-box on the table.
That afternoon, as John was on the way to the station, he saw Miss Toosey wending her way thoughtfully up High Street, and he crossed over and joined her. She was on her way home from the rectory, and her first remark to John Rossitter was, "Do you believe in miracles, Mr. John?"
"As described in the Bible?"
"Oh, no; of course every one believes in them. I mean miracles now."
"Well, Miss Toosey, if you mean winking Virgins and hysterical peasant girls, I am afraid I am rather skeptical."
"Ah, Mr. John! that's what I thought to myself. It's popish to believe in such things nowadays,—all superstition and such like,—so I'm glad I did not tell Miss Baker what came into my head."
"May I ask what it was? I don't think you are at all popish."
"Well, I'll tell you. It's my missionary-box. Now, Mr. John, how much do you think there was in it?"
"I have not the least idea."
"Well, there was six pounds nine and seven-pence three farthings." Miss Toosey's voice sank to an impressive whisper, and she stood still, looking at John as if he might be so overcome by surprise as to drop his bag and umbrella, or require support to prevent him from falling. But he only said,—
"You don't say so," in a very ordinary tone of voice.
"Six pounds nine and sevenpence three farthings," repeated Miss Toosey, emphasizing the six pounds, as if he had not appreciated the vastness of the sum.
"Ah!" said John; "I'm sure it does credit to you, Miss Toosey; who would have thought that 'Your change, with thanks' would have added up so. I am afraid you must have gone to sleep in church very often."
"But it could not have been that," went on Miss Toosey solemnly. "One pound nine and seven-pence three farthings were principally in coppers, and any sixpenny or fourpenny bits I could account for. But the five pounds were in a note, so it could not have been change or a fine."
"You must have slipped it in some day by chance with other money."
"No, for I never have notes. When I draw my money I always get it in gold, for I am always afraid of notes blowing into the fire or getting torn up. And, besides," went on Miss Toosey, "I am not so rich, Mr. John, that I could lose even sixpence without knowing it."
"It is very strange," said John.
"Strange!" seemed a mild expression to Miss Toosey, to whom it appeared miraculous. "I don't know how to account for it, Mr. John. I suppose it's wrong to think it a miracle, but I could not help thinking of what happened this morning."
"What was that?"
"Why, don't you remember that dear child putting her penny into the box?"
"Oh, yes; and making such a hullaballoo afterwards."
Miss Toosey did not wish to recall that part of the affair. "It was so sweetly done."
"Yes; but you gave it back directly."
Miss Toosey felt quite cross at such inconvenient remarks interrupting her miracle; but she continued, relapsing into a confidential whisper,—
"You see, Mr. John, it was a lad that brought the five barley-loaves, and I thought perhaps the baby's penny might have been turned into a five-pound note."
John made no comment, and she went on as much to herself as to him,—
"I suppose it's popish to think of such a thing; and besides one would have thought if it had been a miracle it would have been quite a new Bank of England note; but it was one of Tuckey's, crumpled and dirty, that had been cut in half, and joined down the middle with the edge of stamps, and it had Mr. Purts's name written on the back. But still," said Miss Toosey wistfully, as they came to the station-road, and John shook hands in parting, "it's God that gives the increase anyhow, miracle or not, and He knows all about it."