Democratic Sentinel, Volume 6, Number 34, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 22 September 1882 — MRS. WILKIN’S DUTY. [ARTICLE]

MRS. WILKIN’S DUTY.

She “always tried to do it,” she said, but, like the kitchen work of poor housekeepers, it was never done up. -Tim insisted that there was more than belonged to one family; “Aunt ’Liz’beth took in a good deal for other- folks; and once he shyly chalked a sign upon the front door, “Duty Done Here.” But then Tim had arrived at a peculiar age when a boy had no rights and is needed to run on errands, and it is probable that duty—his aunt’s, not his own—interfered with ' his comfort even more than that of older people. In truth, Mrs. Wilkin’s duty was not a convenient article to have about the hou-e. It was a bristling, aggressive affair, always springing up unexpectedly, like one of the dogs so unaccountably petted in some households for their sole virtue of being always in the way. Moving forward, one runs against the creature and it growls; moving backward, one steps upon its tail and it snarls. It lies on the back piazza to be carefully stepped over in the day-time and disastrously stumbled over in the night; and haunts the front steps to bark at every visitor coming in, and howl at every member of the family going out. Mrs. Wilkin kept no dog, but her duty sniffecl an opportunity, and pounced out of its hiding-place, when there came a timid little knock at the dining-room door in the early morning; and ifs, answering revealed a small, quiet-faced, brown-robed figure—face and dress both past the freshness of their youth —carrying a. basket. “Good morning, Mrs. Wilkin.” “Come in?” questioned Mrs. Wilkin, with only half an invitation in her voice. The acceptance was a half one, likewise 1 . The little brown woman stepped in. certainly, and poised herself on the outer edge of a chair near the door. “I called to see if you didn’t want to buy some knitted articles, or to engage some work of that sort,” in a gentle, depreciating voice. , “Well, I don’t,” interposed Mrs. Wilkin very positively. “I do all that kind of work myself.” “I didn’t know. Many ladies haven’t time, and I’m glad to do it.” “I suppose so, but I consider it my duty to do all I can myself and set other folks the example, whether they follow it or not,” said Mrs. Wilkin, with a slight gesture like emptying her hands of responsibility. “If I was agoin’ to give out work at all, it would be some hard jobs that it would be a help to be rid of, not the pick and choice little easy things that I could rest and not work; but then I ain’t so particular as some, ami so I do all kinds myself.” A faint flush crossed the visitor’s thin face. She was not quite sure that she had been called indolent, and advised to go to work and earn an honest living; the words only had an uncomfortable sound; so her lips kept their timid, gentle smile, though they trembled a little. She held first one hand in its thin cotton glove, and then the other, to the fire; moved uneasily, glanced down at her feet with a dim thought that if they had always chosen the smoothest path it had yet been rough enough to weAr out her shoes much faster than she could replace them : and then she rose to go. “ Wasn’t you rather hard on her, ’Liz’beth?!’ asked Mr. Wilkin, with a regretful glance toward the door as it closed. Mrs. Wilkin returned to her seat at the breakfast table, and surveyed him over the shining tin coffee-pot. “Haul on her? I only told her what I do, and, if that pricks her conscience and makes her uncomfortable, it’s not my fault. But you needn’t worry; she just said, ‘ Good-mornin’,’ as sweet as ever. She’s one of the weak kind that can’t be stirred up, and haven’t spunk enough to say their souls are their own. I wonder what such folks are good for; they’ll never make the world any better, that’s sure. They haven’t courage enough to put down any evil if it was right under their noses; they’d only stand and smile. The very sight of one of ’em provokes me! I consider it my duty to speak out when I see things goin’ wrong. 4 ' “ But then everybody ain’t alike, ’Liz’beth,” interposed Mr. Wilkin. “Needn’t tell me that, it’s plain enough,” snapped Mrs. Wilkin. ■ “Just look at this neighborhood—peaceable, orderly place two years ago; and now there's a mill started and all sorts of vagabonds brought here to work in it. If I’d had my way they wouldn't have come; an’, now they're here, somebody ought to keep a sharp watch on ’em. But that’s the trouble; there’s so many’ mild, easy folks that want to sit still an’ do the knittin’ work of life that there’s precious few left to take any care of the good of society.” “I don’t see as the mill folks have done any mischief yet, ’Liz’beth.” “Of course you don’t see, and nobody else sees; but I know there’s something goin’ on. when the lower part of the mill that old empty storeroom back where it can’t be seen from the street-—-is lighted up two or three nights every week,” said Mrs. Wilkin, triumphantly. “I’ve watched the twinkle through the shutters, tight as they’re shut, and seen folks slippin’ in through the door, too. It’s time it was looked after, and I’ll do my duty, if nobody else does. There may be a gatig of thieves or counterfeiters starting for all we know.” A suppressed giggle made Tim suddenly cough and put down his coffee cup. “Timothy,” exclaimed his aunt, severely, “if you can’t drink coffee without doing it so fast that you choke yourself you’ll have to go without it. I’ll do my best to bring you up right, whatever comOs of it.” Bringing Tim up in the way he should go was one of Mrs. Wilkin’s strong points. He was the son of her niece, ami Belinda had married in opposition to her aunt’s advice. Mrs, Wilkin had protested, and then washed her hands of the whole matter. But when the poor man was so inconsiderate gs to die and leave Belinda with half a dozen children just wfom she needed his help .Mrs.’ Wi kin's opinion of his general “slackness” was verified. The family was poor of coSr'se. She didn’t believe in sending in many things -self-depen-dence was a blessing—but she offered to take Tim. . y \ “Having to ra*se ; makes me moro.<cyu feful diWe foorais of the whole place, * .she bp her orjgin tl subfoety. -ffindjj laMkrathere befog --,-np thieves ’round here, I’ve thought for some time that tlie hens went pretty fast from the hen-house.”

“Dop’t—now, ’Liz’beth, I—l’m sure no one® stole zny,” said Mr. Wilkin, with a startled, uneasy look. “You—you couldn’t have counted the roosters, ahd everything,” «. “Na»L4on’t count, but I can miss ’em for ’sll that,” affirmed Mrs. Wilkin, decidedly. “I know there’s more than we use, or that die.” “Anyhow, it’s no difference. I wouldn’t, ’Liz’beth there’s plenty, you see; more than we want,” advised Mr. Wilkin, urgently, but rather incoherently. Then he caught up his hat and darted for the barn. Mrs. Wilkin looked after him with pitying disapproval. “When you have more than you want yourself, leave it handy for somebody to steal! Well, that’s a new commandment, I do declare!” she said. “Not so dreadful new, neither, Aunt ’Liz’beth,” interposed Tim, stoutly. “’Cause the Bible folks were always told to be sure and leave some of their harvest so the poor could come and get it. I read it myself, only it wasn’t called stealing then, and was to be left handier than all shut up in henhouses.” t “Timothy!” began Mrs. Wilkin. But Tim suddenly remembered that the chickens were waiting for their breakfast, and chose to interpret the exclamation as an admonition in that direction. “Yes’m, I’m going to feed ’em right away,” he observed, seizing a basket of corn and darting through the door by which his uncle had departed. In truth, it was not altogether easy to mold Tim into the desired shape; there was too much individuality about him. Incasing him in Mrs. Wilkin s code of manners was putting too large a boy into too small a jacket; he was always bursting out at the elbows or tearing off the buttons. Mrs. Wilkin sighed at this new evidence of the new number of things in the world that needed attention ; but England never expected every man to do his duty more strongly than Mrs. Wilkin expected to here.

That evening the mysterious lights appeared again in the store-room of the mill. She could plainly see them, for just beyond her own back gate an open field sloped directly and steeply down to the building. The road afforded a public and more circuitous mode of reaching it, but from the hilltop the suspicious store room was directly in range. Mrs. Wilkin determined to take a more thorough observation than the kitchen window allowed, and, throwing a shawl over her head, she picked her way carefully down the icy steps and crossed the yard to the gate. The snow lay white and glistening in the moonlight, and, standing in the sheltering shadow of a post, she watched the door below. But before she discovered any one entering there she heard sounds in another direction—steps in the yard behind her. What if she should prove beyond all doubt that her fowls were stolen and detect the thief? With that quick thought she turned her head cautiously. Yes, some one tried the hennery door and entered. Breathlessly Mrs. Wilkin waited until the figure- reappeared and passed along in the shade of the house, and then, as it emerged into the clear moonlight, she leaned eagerly forward to catch a full sight of it. It was easily recognizedj—Mr. Wilkin, beyond all question, stealing from his own hennery. The revelation was astou-nding. In her astonishment Mrs. Wilkin incautiously loosened her hold on the gate post, took a step forward, and her feet slipped upon the treacherous ground. She sat down violently, and in an instant was speeding rapidly down the hill toward her original point of investigation. For once the path of duty was smooth before her —entirely too smooth and icy. She could not check or guide her progress, her feet struck with force ■against the mysterious door, pushed it open and she slid into a hall. Thieves, gamblers, or whatever they were, she must not be discovered by them, flashed through Mrs. Wilkin's mind—more an instinct of self-preser-vation than a thought—and, springing to her feet, she slipped behind some boxes piled near her. The noise attracted attention, and in a moment the store-room door was opened and a boy looked out.

“ Guess it’s only the door blew open; don’t catch good,” he retorted. ‘‘Lock it then, Janies, and bring in the key,” said a voi-e from within; and to Mrs. Wilkin’s consternation the order was obeyed, and she was a prisoner. The boy left the outer door slightly ajar as he re-entered. A gleam of light shone into the hall, and there were sounds from the room beyond, a scratching of pens and a woman’s voice; it sounded wonderfully like that of the little knitting woman, directing and encouraging. “Well done, Susan!” “Now, don’t be disheartened, Will. Of course, while you work in the mill, and can study only at night, you can’t get along just as some do who can go to school all day; but what you learn may be of more use to you. We care most for the things that cost us trouble.” There were a few simple mathematical problems, and then a reading, and the words spelled out with difficulty by some were Bible words. “Charity suffereth long and is kind;” “vaunteth not itself;” “seeketh not her own, believeth all things, hopeth all things.” It was easily understood. Mrs. Wilkin leaned forward a little, and could, peep into the room.. Fifteen or twenty boys and girls from the mill gathered into a night school. Then those wonderful words, read so slowly and emphatically, seemed to suddenly assume a new and deeper meaning than Mrs. Wilkin had ever thought of their possessing some things show so much more clearly in the dark than in the light. As the timid little woman—who would have been frightened at her own voice in any other audience as large—explained in her simple, gentle way. the passage read, it occurred to the listener • outside that some one was keeping a sharp watch on these mill people, after all, and that this might be a better way of doing it than would be practiced by any police force. It was a very informal school. One girl had brought her best dress that the teacher might show her how to mend a rent in it, and another was trying to knit a pair of mittens for her brother. Every winter has its thaws. Mrs. Wilkin had a heart down under all the crust of opinions that she had christened duty; she became interested despite her uncomfortable situation. The position was unpleasant. She did not like playing eaves-dropper to this innocent gathering, but there seemed no help for it. She could not escape through the locked door; and boldly revealing herself, and explaining her absurd suspicions and the remarkable way in which she came there, was more than even her thoughts could endure. So she kept her place, hoping that when the pupils were dismissed she might slip out among them unnoticed. But w’hen the lesson hour ended they departed slowly, by twos and threes, the open door flinging a flood of light out into the hall. At last only one lingered, and Mrs. Wilkin listened intently as she caught his voice. “Now, Tim,” said the little knitting woman, “I like to have you come, you know that, and. I’ll help you all I can, ..but you really must tell your aunt about It.” “Well, you see, I don’t know what she’ll say,” began Tim, irresolutely,

“But that shouldn’t hinder you from doing your duty.” “Don’t know about that,” said Tim, still doubtfully. “You jee Aunt ’Lizbeth’s got an awful ’mount of duty of her own, and it’s such a particlar kind that other folks can’t get much chance to do theirs only when hers is a nappin’. Why, Uncle Reub gives my mother lots of eggs and chickens, but he just slips ’em off, and don’t tell.” “Well, if you don’t know what is right for you,*l do know what is right for me,” said the little teacher, with a quiet laugh; “and I can’t let you come again until you tell your aunt how you spend vour evenings.” Mrs. Wilkin nodded a vigorous approval, but it was evident that Tim departed in a state of dissatisfaction. There was a sound of a crutch tapping on the floor, and Mrs. Wilkin remembered that a little lame brother had sometimes gone about with the knitting woman. They two left alone in the room, and went around shaking out the fire and putting up jooks and papers. “Only 10 cents a week for each one —that’s so little,” said the boyish tones, i musingly. “Yes; but it isn’t so very much that 1 can teach them,” answered the little woma.n, humbly. “And then it is all they can afford to pay, poor things, i And, you know, we began more for their I sake than our own, though we do need ! money. Courage, though, Johnny! It all counts, and you shall have your overj coat pretty soon now. Beside, this is i work that blesses both ways—in what • we give as well as what we get.” If she could only pass that open door! I Mrs. Wilkin was growing benumbed by standing so long in the cold. Finally the lights were extinguished, and the two came out. Just then, fortunately, Johnny remembered that they had left a book behind them, and, as the unconscious jailers turned back, the prisoner seized her opportunity and escaped. She was sitting alone by the fire when Tim, who had made his homeward route sufficiently circuitous to include a call on his mother, returned. He sat down near her, twisted his fingers unj easily, and Mrs. Wilkin guessed what j was coming. “There’s been an evenin’ school started here, Aunt ’Liz’beth.” “So I understand,” responded Mrs. Wilkin, coolly. “Why, I thought”—began Tim, with wide-open eyes of surprise, and then checked himself with the sudden reflection that it might not be wise to recall the conversation of the morning. I’d like to go to it—that is, I have been once or twice,” he said. “Fact is, Aunt ’Liz’beth, when we lived down the river, before you took me, there wasn’t any . school for me to go to, and so I’m behind other fellers. Miss Kelly she I makes ’ritlimetic so plain, and helps me ' with writin’, and so—” “You might do worse,” said Mrs. Wilkin, briefly. “Go if you want to. Only one thing, Timothy Stone, I won’t have any 10-cent business about it! Honest is honest, and it’s worth inore’n 10 cents a week to teach you anything, I know.”

Tim forgot to be astonished at his aunt’s knowledge and -overlooked the reflection upon himself, in the pleasure : of expressing a desire that he had cherished secretly, but hopelessly. “She wouldn’t take any more pay ’cause she’d want to serve all alike; but, ; oh, Aunt ’Liz’beth, if I just could give ; her and Johnnie something nice for Christmas!” “Humph!” I’ll think about it,” answered Mrs. Wilkin, disapprovingly. I “’Liz’beth,” began Mr. Wilkin, nervi ously, the next morning. “I wouldn’t say nothin’ to anybody about thieves or watchin’ them mill folks, if I was you.” “I don’t mean to,” replied his wife, with an odd pucker about her lips. “Well, lam glad of it—l really am,” said Mr. Wilkin, in a tone of great relief. “I don't think anybody stole anything, and somehow it seems to me as. if our duty now a days is a good deal like it was when them Israelites took Jericho—only marchin’ against the bit of wall that’s right in front of us, and lettin’ our neighbor take care of what’s in front of him. It sort of seems that way, ’Liz’beth.” Mrs. Wilkin did not answer, but she took her revenge that evening when Mr. Wilkin was going out. “Beuben,” she said, quietly, “if you see any thieves .’round our hen-house, just tell ’em there’s a ham hanging near the door that I put there on purpose. It’s natural Belinda’d like a change of meat as well as other folks.”— Kate W. Hamilton* in Sunday Afternoon.