CHAPTER VI.
ROSY FRANCES EASTMAN MARY.
Prudy had enjoyed a great many rides in Susy's beautiful sleigh; but nowthe doctor forbade her going out, except for very short distances, andeven then, he said, she must sit in her mother's lap. He wanted her tolie down nearly all the time, and keep very quiet.
At first, Mrs. Parlin wondered how it would be possible to keep such arestless child quiet; but she found, as time passed, and the diseasemade progress, that poor little Prudy was only too glad to lie still.Every motion seemed to hurt her, and sometimes she cried if any oneeven jarred the sofa suddenly.
These were dark days for everybody in the house. Susy, who wasthoughtful beyond her years, suffered terribly from anxiety about herlittle sister. More than that, she suffered from remorse.
"O, grandma Read," said she one evening, as she sat looking up at thesolemn, shining stars, with overflowing eyes--"O, grandma!" The wordscame from the depths of a troubled heart. "I may live to be real old;but I never shall be happy again! I can't, for, if it hadn't been forme? Prudy would be running round the house as well as ever!"
Mrs. Read had a gentle, soothing voice. She could comfort Susy whenanybody could. Now she tried to set her heart at rest by saying that thedoctor gave a great deal of hope. He could not promise a certain cure,but he felt great faith in a new kind of splint which he was using forPrudy's hip.
"O, grandma, it may be, and then, again, it may not be," sobbed poorSusy; "we can't tell what God will think best; but anyhow, it was I thatdid it."
"But, Susan, thee must think how innocent thee was of any wrong motive.Thee did not get angry, and push thy little sister, thee knows theedidn't, Susan! Thee was only in a hurry, and rather thoughtless. Thebest of us often do very foolish things, and cause much mischief; butthee'll find it isn't best to grieve over these mistakes. Why, my dearlittle Susan, I have lived eight years to thy one, and if I should sitdown now and drop a tear for every blunder I have made, I don't know butI could almost make a fountain of myself, like that woman thee tellsabout in the fairy story."
"The fountain of Pirene that Pegasus loved," said Susy; "that was thename of it. Why, grandma, I never should have thought of your sayingsuch a queer thing as that! Why, it seems as if you always did justright, and thought it all over before you did it. Do _you_ ever dowrong? How funny!"
Mrs. Read smiled sadly. She was not an angel yet; so I suppose she didwrong once in a while.
"Now, grandma, I want to ask you one question, real sober and honest.You know it was so dark that morning in the middle of the night, when wewere going down the back stairs? Now, if I'd made a great deal worsemistake than calling Prudy a snail,--if I'd pushed her real hard, andshe had fallen faster,--O, I can't bear to think! I mean, if thechair-prongs had hit her head, grandma--and--killed her! What would theyhave done to _me_? I thought about it last night, so I couldn't go tosleep for the longest while! I heard the clock _strike_ once while I wasawake there in bed! Would they have put me in the lock-up, grandma, andthen hung me for murder?"
"My dear child, no, indeed! How came such horrible ideas in thy tenderlittle brain? It is too dreadful to think about; but, even if thy littlesister _had_ died, Susan, thee would have been no more to blame thanthee is now, and a great, great deal more to be pitied."
Susy sat for a long while gazing out of the window; but the stars didnot wink so solemnly; the moon looked friendly once more. Susy wasdrinking in her grandmother's words of comfort. The look of sadness wasdisappearing from the young face, and smiles began to play about thecorners of her mouth.
"Well," said she, starting up briskly, "I'm glad I wasn't so veryterribly wicked! I wish I'd been somewhere else, when I stood on thoseback-stairs, in the middle of the night; but what's the use? I'm notgoing to think any more about it, grandma; for if I should think till myhead was all twisted up in a knot, what good would it do? It wouldn'thelp Prudy any; would it, grandma?"
"No, dear," said the mild, soothing voice again; "don't think, I beg ofthee; but if thee wants to know what would do Prudence good, I will tellthee: try thy best to amuse her. She has to lie day after day andsuffer. It is very hard for a little girl that loves to play, and can'tread, and doesn't know how to pass the time; don't thee think so,Susan?"
It was certainly hard. Prudy's round rosy face began to grow pale; and,instead of laughing and singing half the time, she would now lie and cryfrom pain, or because she really did not know what else to do withherself.
It was worst at night. Hour after hour, she would lie awake, and listento the ticking of the clock. Susy thought it a pitiable case, when_she_, heard the clock strike _once_; but little Prudy heard it strikeagain and again. How strangely it pounded out the strokes in the night!What a dreary sound it was, pealing through the silence! The echoesanswered with a shudder. Then, when Prudy had counted one, two, three,four, and the clock had no more to say at that time, it began to tickagain: "Prudy's sick! Prudy's sick! O, dear me! O, dear me!"
Prudy could hardly believe it was the same clock she saw in the daytime.She wondered if it felt lonesome in the night, and had the blues; orwhat _could_ ail it! The poor little girl wanted somebody to speak to inthese long, long hours. She did not sleep with Susy, but in a newcot-bed of her own, in aunt Madge's room; for, dearly as she loved tolie close to any one she loved, she begged now to sleep alone, "sonobody could hit her, or move her, or joggle her."
It was a great comfort to have aunt Madge so near. If it had been Susyinstead, Prudy would have had no company but the sound of her breathing.It was of no use to try to wake Susy in the dead of night. Pricking herwith pins would startle her, but she never knew anything even after shewas startled. All she could do was to stare about her, cry, and act verycross, and then--go to sleep again.
But with aunt Madge it was quite different. She slept like a cat, withone eye open. Perhaps the reason she did not sleep more soundly, was,that she felt a care of little Prudy. No matter when Prudy spoke to her,aunt Madge always answered. She did not say, "O, dear, you've startledme out of a delicious nap!" She said, "Well, darling, what do you want?"Prudy generally wanted to know when it would be morning? When would thesteamboat whistle? What made it stay dark so long? She wanted a drink ofwater, and _always_ wanted a story.
If aunt Madge had forgotten to provide a glass of water, she put on herslippers, lighted the little handled lamp, and stole softly down stairsto the pail, which Norah always pumped full of well-water the last thingin the evening.
Or, if Prudy fancied it would console her to have a peep at herbeautiful doll which "would be alive if it could speak," why, downstairs went auntie again to search out the spot where Susy had probablyleft it when "she took it to show to some children."
The many, many times that kind young lady crept shivering down stairs tohumor Prudy's whims! Prudy could not have counted the times; and you maybe sure aunt Madge never _would_.
Then the stories, both sensible and silly, which Prudy teased for, andalways got! Aunt Madge poured them forth like water into the _sieve_ ofPrudy's mind, which could not hold stories any better than secrets. Nomatter how many she told, Prudy insisted that she wanted "one more," andthe "same one over again."
It touched Susy to the heart to see how much her little sistersuffered, and she spent a great deal of time at first in trying to amuseher. Aunt Madge told stories in the night; but Susy told them in thedaytime, till, as she expressed it, her "tongue ached." She cut outpaper dolls when she wanted to read, and played go visiting, or dressedrag babies, when she longed to be out of doors. But while the noveltylasted, she was quite a Florence Nightingale.
Her Wednesday and Saturday after-noons were no longer her own. BeforePrudy's lameness, Susy had used her new skates a great deal, and couldnow skim over the ice quite gracefully, for a little girl of her age.The reason she learned to skate so well, was because she was fearless.Most children tremble when they try to stand on the ice, and for thatvery reason are nearly sure to fall; but Susy did not tremble in theface of da
nger: she had a strong will of her own, and never expected tofail in anything she undertook.
She had spent half of her short life out of doors, and almost consideredit lost time when she was obliged to stay in the house for the rain.
Mrs. Parlin kept saying it was high time for her eldest daughter tobegin to be womanly, and do long stints with her needle: she could notsew as well now as she sewed two years ago.
But Mr. Parlin laughed at his wife's anxiety, and said he loved Susy'sred cheeks; he didn't care if she grew as brown as an Indian. She wasnever rude or coarse, he thought; and she would be womanly enough one ofthese days, he was quite sure.
"Anything," said Mr. Parlin, "but these _womanly_ little girls, such asI have seen sitting in a row, sewing seams, without animation enough totear rents in their own dresses! If Susy loves birds, and flowers, andsnowbanks, I am thankful, and perfectly willing she should have plentyof them for playthings."
Then, when Mrs. Parlin smiled mischievously, and said, "I should like toknow what sort of a wild Arab you would make out of a little girl," Mr.Parlin answered triumphantly,--"Look at my sister Margaret! I broughther up my own self! I always took her out in the woods with me, gunningand trouting. I taught her how to skate when she was a mere baby. Ioften said she was all the brother I had in the world! She can remembernow how I used to wrap her in shawls, and prop her up on the woodpile,while I chopped wood."
"And how you hired her to drop ears of corn for you into thecorn-sheller; and how, one day, her fingers were so benumbed, that oneof them was clipped off before she knew it!"
"Well, so it was, that is true; but only the tip of it. Active childrenwill meet with accidents. She was a regular little fly-away, and wouldsooner climb a tree or a ladder any time, than walk on solid ground._Now_ look at her!"
And Mr. Parlin repeated the words, "Now look at her," as if he was surehis wife must confess that she was a remarkable person.
Mrs. Parlin said, if Susy should ever become half as excellent andcharming as Miss Margaret Parlin, she should be perfectly satisfied, forher part.
Thus Susy was allowed to romp to her heart's content; "fairly ran wild,"as aunt Eastman declared, with a frown of disapproval. She gathered wildroses, and wore them in her cheeks, the very best place in the worldfor roses. She drank in sunshine with the fresh air of heaven, just asthe flowers do, and thrived on it.
But there was one objection to this out-of-doors life: Susy did not loveto stay in the house. Ainu days and evenings, to be sure, she madeherself very happy with reading, for she loved to read, particularlyfairy books, and Rollo's Travels.
But now, just as she had learned to skate on the basin with other littlegirls and young ladies, and could drive Wings anywhere and everywhereshe pleased, it was a sore trial to give up these amusements for thesake of spending more hours with poor little Prudy. She was veryself-denying at first, but it grew to be an "old story." She found itwas not only pony and skates she must give up, but even her preciousreading, for Prudy was jealous of books, and did not like to have Susytouch them. She thought Susy was lost to her when she opened a book, andmight as well not be in the house, for she never heard a word thatanybody said.
Now I know just what you will think: "O, I would have given up a greatdeal more than ponies and books for _my_ dear little sister! I wouldhave told her stories, and never have complained that my 'tongue ached.'It would not have wearied me to do anything and everything for such apatient sufferer as little Prudy!"
But now I shall be obliged to confess one thing, which I would havegladly concealed.
Prudy was not always patient. Some sweet little children become almostlike the angels when sickness is laid upon them; but Prudy had been sucha healthy, active child, that the change to perfect quiet wasexceedingly tiresome. She was young, too,--too young to reason about theuses of suffering. She only knew she was dreadfully afflicted, andthought everybody ought to amuse her.
"O, dear me!" said Susy, sometimes, "I just believe the more anybodydoes for Prudy, the more she expects."
Now this was really the case. When Prudy first began to lie upon thesofa, everybody pitied her, and tried to say and do funny things, inorder to take up her attention. It was not possible to keep on giving somuch time to her; but Prudy expected it. She would lie very pleasant andhappy for hours at a time, counting the things in the room, talking toherself, or humming little tunes; and then, again, everything would gowrong. Her playthings would keep falling to the floor, and, as she couldnot stoop at all, some one must come and pick them up that very minute,or they "didn't pity her a bit."
Every once in a while, she declared her knee was "broken in seven newplaces," and the doctor must come and take off the splint. She didn'twant such a hard thing "right on there;" she wanted it "right off."
Her mother told her she must try to be patient, and be one of God'slittle girls. "But, mamma," said Prudy, "does God love me any? I shouldthink, if he loved me, he'd be sorrier I was sick, and get me well."
Then, sometimes, when she had been more fretful than usual, she wouldclose her eyes, and her mother would hear her say, in a low voice,--
"O, God, I didn't mean to. It's my _knee_ that's cross!"
Upon the whole, I think Prudy was as patient as most children of her agewould have been under the same trial. Her father and mother, who had themost care of her, did not wonder in the least that her poor littlenerves got tired out sometimes.
While Susy was at school, Prudy had a long time to think what she wantedher to do when she should come home. She would lie and watch the clock,for she had learned to tell the time quite well; and when the hour drewnear for Susy to come, she moved her head on the pillow, and twisted herfingers together nervously.
If Susy was in good season, Prudy put up her little mouth for a kiss,and said,--
"O, how I do love you, Susy! Ain't I your dear little sister? Well,won't you make me a lady on the slate?"
Susy's ladies had no necks, and their heads were driven down on theirshoulders, as if they were going to be packed into their chests; but,such as they were, Prudy wanted them over and over again.
But if Susy stopped to slide, or to play by the way, she would findlittle Prudy in tears, and hear her say, "O, what made you? Naughty,naughty old Susy! I'm goin' to die, and go to God's house, and thenyou'll be sorry you didn't 'tend to your little sister."
Susy could never bear to hear Prudy talk about going to God's house. Herconscience pricked her when she saw that the poor child was grieved; andshe resolved, every time she was late, that she would never be lateagain.
Prudy had a great many odd fancies now: among others, she had a fancythat she did not like the name of Prudy.
"Why; only think," said she, "you keep a-calling me Prudy, and Prudy,and Prudy. It makes my head ache, to have you say Prudy so much."
"But, my dear child," said Mr. Parlin, smiling, "it happens,unfortunately, that Prudy is your name; so I think you will have to tryand bear it as well as you can."
"But I can't bear it any longer," said the child, bursting into tears."Prudy is all lame and sick, and I never shall walk any more while youcall me Prudy, papa."
Mr. Parlin kissed his little daughters's pale cheek, and said, "Then wewill call you pet names; will that do?"
Prudy smiled with delight.
"I've thought of a real beautiful, splendid name," said she. "It is RosyFrances Eastman Mary; ain't it splendid?"
After this announcement, Prudy expected the family would be sure to callher Rosy Frances Eastman Mary; and, indeed, they were quite willing toplease her, whenever they could remember the name. They all supposed itwas a fancy she would forget in a day or two; but, instead of that, sheclung to it more and more fondly. If any one offered her an orange, orroasted apple, and said, "Look, Prudy; here is something nice for you,"she would turn her face over to one side on the pillow, and make noreply. If she wanted a thing very much, she would never accept it whenshe was addressed by the obnoxious name of Prudy. Even when her fatherwanted to
take her in his arms to rest her, and happened to say, "Prudy,shall I hold you a little while?" she would say, "Who was you a-talkin'to, papa? There isn't any Prudy here!" Then her father had to humblehimself, and ask to be forgiven for being so forgetful.
The child had a delicate appetite, and her mother tried to tempt it withlittle niceties; but, no matter what pains she took, Prudy relishednothing unless it was given to her as Rosy Frances, the little girl whowas _not_ Prudy.
"O, here is a glass of lemonade for you, Prudy; made on purpose foryou," Susy would say; "do drink it!"
"O, dear me, suz," cried Prudy, with tears falling over her cheeks; "O,Susy, you plague me, and I never done a thing to you! You called mePrudy, and I ain't Prudy, never again! Call me Rosy Frances EastmanMary, and I'll drink the lemonade."
"You precious little sister," said Susy, bending over her gently,"you'll forgive me; won't you, darling?"
"I'll try to," replied Prudy, with a look of meek forbearance, as shesipped the lemonade.