Nattie Nesmith

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Nattie Nesmith; Or, The Bad Girl.

By Sophia Homespun.

Boston: Published by D. Lothrop & Co. Dover N H: G. T. Day & Co. 1870.

Disobedience

Nattie Nesmith; Or, The Bad Girl.

I CAN'T, I sha'n't, and I won't!"

Three very bad sounding words, certainly. Do any of the little girls who have sat down to the reading of this book ever use any of them? I hope not; yet, it would be strange if they didn't, sometimes. I know more than a few grown-up people, who, if they do not say the words, exemplify the spirit of them in their lives.

When trouble comes, if, instead of evincing a courageous heart, we tamely sink under its weight, then we virtually say, "I can't;" when things go contrary to our wishes, if, instead of quietly submitting and making the best of it, our turbulent passions are stirred up in revolt, we say, "I sha'n't;" and when the blessed Saviour whispers, "Give me thy heart," and our inclinations rise in opposition, we virtually say, "I won't", to the winning call, which, if listened to and obeyed, would secure for us God's special care while here and a life of blessedness hereafter.

These words were spoken by a girl of thirteen years to her invalid mother; and now that you know this, children, they sound more ungracious than ever, do they not? To think that a child would speak thus to a sick parent seems doubly unkind and undutiful. But Nattie Nesmith had seen her mother in feeble health for a long while, and did not think much of it, save that it was "stupid and hateful to have a complaining old woman around all the time."

Think of her speaking thus of the kind mother who had cared for her from infancy. True, Nattie was but a child, and could not be expected to have the wisdom and discretion of maturer years; but she was more thoughtless, wayward and selfish than many children are, and than any children ought to be; because self and pride, unduly indulged, bring trouble and calamity to all who thus surrender themselves to the sway of passions which should be kept under the control of reason.

Nattie Nesmith was a girl of rather more than average natural abilities. Her parents were well to do in the world. She had one brother and one sister married, and a little sister at home, several years younger than herself.

The lines of family government were not very steadily held in the home of the Nesmiths. This was unfortunate, and the bad effects were most visible in Nattie's case. She was her father's favorite, and knew it quite too well. Her ready perceptions and lively humor acted on him as a pleasant relaxation from the toil and care of everyday life. The quick interest which she evinced in whatever interested him, her wit, and even her sauciness, afforded him not a little amusement. Thus, if the mother complained of her idleness, or corrected her pertness, the father too often sided with the daughter. This course could not fail to injure the child, rendering her careless and disobedient to her mother. Mr. Nesmith did not intend to bring about this state of things. He thought Nattie bright, and did not like to see her angry. He knew that she had considerable temper and will, but said that, when she was older, she would know how to manage herself, and would, he believed, make the smartest one of the family.

Thus started, Nattie ran rapidly in her own ways. Mr. Nesmith was absent from home a great deal, and thus the invalid mother was left quite to the caprices of her wayward, willful girl.

Nattie thought her lot the hardest that any girl of her age and tastes ever had to endure,—being obliged to sit in a close room from morning till night, and to hear the complaints and attend to the wants of an invalid; though that invalid was her own tender, loving mother, who never thought any hardship or privation too great to be endured for her child.

On this particular morning, Mrs. Nesmith wished to send a glass of currant jelly to a neighbor who had a little daughter ill of throat distemper. She wished Nattie to go on the errand; and it was in response to this request of her sick mother, that the girl had made use of the ungracious words at the head of this chapter. Her father, as he was leaving home, had filled her pocket with candy and nuts. She had got settled in her mother's cushioned chair, to eat them and to read a story book; consequently, her ease and comfort were much disturbed by this little request.

"I never saw anybody who loved to make trouble as well as you do!" she exclaimed, pettishly. "I never tried to have a good time, in my life, but you wanted to spoil it in some way. Father likes to see me enjoy myself, but you don't; you want to be driving me around all the time, to wait upon you. I am determined that I won't bear it any longer. Send Bridget with the jelly, or go yourself, for all I care."

"Why, Nattie!" said the mother, gently, "you know that it is impossible for me to go. I can not walk across my room without help."

"It is impossible for me to go, too," responded Nattie, cracking the nuts, sharply, with her sound, white teeth.

"Don't crack those hard filberts thus," said the mother; "how many times have I told you that you would ruin your teeth? What is the reason that you can't do this errand for me?"

"Because I can't,—I sha'n't,—and I won't!"

Nattie crunched the very biggest filbert which she could find in her pocket, as she spoke these words. Then, emptying her shells on the carpet, she drew forth a long stick of candy, and resettled herself to reading the story book.

The mother observed all these movements, her heart writhing with more cruel pain than her poor, spent body, even; and then, uttering a low, distressed groan, she turned, her face to the wall, silently praying for her disobedient child.

In the course of an hour, Bridget came in from the kitchen. Her honest Irish face flushed when she saw the litter around Nattie's chair. She cried, in a loud voice, which caused Mrs. Nesmith to turn toward her:

"Shure, and what is the use for the likes o' me to swape? when no better than an hour agone, I did the room up illegant, and now it looks more like a pig-sty than a sick lady's parlor, where she resaves her docther and all her fine visitors. Shurely, Mrs. Nasmith, ye won't be afther thinking that poor Biddy will stay along wid yees, to be sarved like this. I couldn't do it, no, not at all, Mrs. Nasmith."

Nattie's black eyes looked saucily at the enraged Irish girl, while Mrs. Nesmith's pale cheek grew still paler, as she faintly responded:

"Biddy, we have to put up with a good many trying things, in this world."

"I should say as much," added Nattie, scowling.

"Shure, an' its meself that would say the same, ma'am," responded Bridget; "but if ye'd allow it, I'd add that I don't see the use o' bein thried and disthressed for nothing; and when I swapes and dusts yer room of a morning, and comes back in an hour to find it worse than before I touched it, that is what I calls labor in vain, ma'am; which same Biddy never was made for to do, ma'am; I think I'll be looking for new quarters, and wish you a long good day, ma'am, and as much better a maid as Biddy Wales as you may find, to swape and work in vain, ma'am."

Mrs. Nesmith groaned, and looked toward Nat- tie. The little girl was somewhat alarmed at the prospect of Biddy's leaving, for she thought that her hardships would be increased if the maid went away. It was not Bridget's first threat of the kind, however, but her usual resort when things got wrong, to restore them to better courses again. Nattie laid down her book, crossly, and began to pick up the shells scattered on the carpet.

"Can't I eat a few filberts without having such a noise as this?" she said. "What a house this is for flurries! and, Bridget Wales, you had better go back to your work in the kitchen. As to your going away from here, I don't believe that we could drive you off, if we tried. Who, but we, would sing Irish songs with you, Saturday nights? or stay at home to do your work and let you go to Mass as often as you choose?"

"There, Miss Nattie, many's the good times we has, singing of ould Ireland; and, if ye'd be a bit more careful, like, wid yer dirt and litter, I might stay wid yer till the day o' my doom."

"That will be as long as we shall want you, Biddy," said Nattie, langhing, and throwing the last of the shells into the grate.

"Would there be anything you'd be afther wanting me to do for ye now, Misthress Nasmlth?" Biddy asked, going to the bed.

"I would like to send this cup of jelly to Hattie Hartwell; the doctor told me yesterday how much the poor child was suffering with her throat, and could not swallow her food."

"Poor childer!" said Biddy. "Shure, an I'll do your bidding; but couldn't I do anything for your own self, to aise your pains? such as to bathe your head, or put up your pillows?"

The sick woman sighed, as she thought how much more kindness the Irish girl showed than her own daughter.

"I'd rather you would carry the jelly," she answered. "I told the doctor that it should be sent, and fear that the sick child will needlessly fret about it. I know that when one is sick, one thinks much of having any little relish sent in by a friend."

"That is thrue, Misthress; an' I'll go with the cup before I brings dinner to the table; though Miss Nattie, here, must plase to look to the mate and praties whilst I'm gone."

"That I can easily do," said Nattie, from her cushioned chair.

"An' I'll be much obleeged," returned Biddy, taking the glass of jelly and retiring.

The little time-piece on the mantel ticked away till fifteen minutes were told. The mother then reminded Nattie of the articles of food in process of cooking, which required looking to.

"Pretty soon," was the response; "Biddy has but just gone out, now."

"She has been gone a quarter of an hour," said Mrs. Nesmith; "I'm sure the potatoes must need to have the water poured off, and the kettle set back on the stove."

"Oh, dear! I never can have a minute's peace," cried Nattie, angrily; "but I'm determined that I won't stir till I have a mind to."

"If you had carried the jelly, you needn't have been troubled with going to the kitchen," said Mrs. Nesmith.

"Well, I didn't carry the jelly; and, what's more, I didn't intend to. The truth is, I don't care if Hat Hartwell is sick."

"Nathalie!" said the mother, reproachfully, "what if you should be ill, yourself? Would you like to have any one speak of you so unfeelingly?"

"I don't intend to be sick. Hat wouldn't have been if she hadn't wet her feet in the slush, going to school, and then been afraid to ask to go to the fire and dry them."

"Hattie is very timid, and a good girl, I believe, generally."

"Oh, yes, she is too good. She don't know enough to stand her own ground. Anybody can push her around and impose upon her as much as is agreeable. She has no spirit at all, and never stands up for her rights.

"Whoever takes advantage of her timidity to wrong her, does a cruel, unjust thing, and will be punished accordingly."

"I'd rather make Hat Hartwell cry, any time, than eat when I'm hungry."

"Nattie, you distress me, exceedingly," said the mother; "unless you control these perverse propensities of yours, I fear the worst for your future."

"Don't be scared, Marm Nesmith," drawled Nattie; "you are always in a fret about something."

A smell of burning victuals now came from the kitchen. Nattie dropped her book and rushed out, leaving the door open behind her; so her mother's apartment was quickly filled with the stifling smoke and sickening odors. The water had boiled out of the potatoes, and they were burning on the bottom of the pot. She caught hold of the bail to lift it from the stove, when the cover came off, letting the hot steam up in her face. She screamed, and let go the kettle, which fell to the floor, and the hot potatoes went rolling in all directions. Just then Bridget came in, and her face put on its reddest tinge when she saw the state of things in the kitchen. The stifling smoke which filled the sick-room, and, indeed, the whole house, had brought upon Mrs. Nesmith a severe fit of coughing, while Nattie was driving about in a wild manner, complaining of the smart which the hot steam had given her face and hands.

"What shall I do, Biddy?" she cried. "I am afraid the skin will all come off from my face; and my eyes are running out of my head."

"If ye had minded my words, the pain wouldn't have come to ye," said Biddy, with a hardness rather unusual to her. "As for me, I shall go at once to your poor mother, as has got one of her coughings on her, all owing to your misdoings; and you had better be afther claning up the spot o' work you've made on my kitchen floor, that I washed the last thing before I went abroad, this blessed day."

"My face smarts so that I can't," said Nattie, in tears.

"It won't smart none the worse, nor quite so bad, when you're to work," responded Bridget, flinging out of the kitchen with an indignant air.

Nattie had a little awe of Biddy when she was vexed; so, with her smarting face and fingers, she set about gathering the broken potatoes together, and wiping the smeared hearth. The kettle she put away under the sink, without cleaning.

The coughing fit of Mrs. Nesmith brought on bleeding, and the doctor had to be sent for in haste. Nattie was driven forth on this errand; for Biddy's wrath was up, and she declared that she would not trust het with the house "a blessed minute, again." The cold air made the smarting face feel better, while she was exposed to it, though the pain seemed doubled when she returned to the warm atmosphere of the house. Nattie well knew that her own willfulness had brought the pain upon her, and this seemed to aggravate its intensity. Bridget would not pity her a bit, but cast the most scathing, disapproving eyes upon her all the afternoon, as she sat in a corner of the kitchen, holding a cloth, moistened with alcohol, to her face.

Flight

WHEN father gets home I shall have somebody to pity me, and care for me," Nattie kept thinking, as the long, slow hours wore away, and even ing approached.

It filled her with anger and jealousy to see the care and attention bestowed on 'mother's room,' while she sat, quite unnoticed, in her corner. She began to feel herself to be the most abused person in the house. No doubt, her face smarted; but that was a trifle, compared with the serious effects of the fit of coughing upon her invalid mother. The poor woman was quite prostrated from the loss of blood. She was slowly failing from consumption, and the doctor did not know but this might prove the last blow.

While Nattie watched the window, anxious for her father's coming, her married sister drove up to the door, with her husband. This was not a sight that afforded Nattie much pleasure, for she was not a favorite with her sister; and as for Mr. Stone, the husband, he had once given Nattie a severe whipping for refusing to obey him, when she was visiting at his house. This Nattie never forgot, and both feared and disliked him ever afterwards.

"I don't see what they are here for," she thought, as they alighted and entered the front door.

Pretty soon her sister came into the kitchen, looking very sad, and approached the corner where Nattie sat. She looked at her in silence for a while. This vexed Nattie, for she read reproach in the eyes.

"I wish you would go away, Susan, and let me alone," she said, fretfully; "for I hate to have anybody stand and stare at me, as you do, and not say a word."

"How do you do, Nathalie?" asked Mrs. Stone.

"I am scalded almost to death; but nobody cares, or does anything for me; though father will when he comes."

"Father is not coming to-night, so the doctor called and told us to hasten to mother, and remain till his return," said Mrs. Stone.

"Oh, dear! but father will come to-morrow, won't he!"

"No; not unless mother is worse, and we send for him. He has gone to a distant place to buy some lumber."

"I shall die, if he don't get back soon," said Nattie, groaning.

"How do you feel?" asked her sister, not knowing but her burns were deeper than Bridget had stated. The woeful look of the flushed face suggested severe injuries.

"I feel mad enough to bite your head off," was the quick, spiteful answer; "and I tell you again that I wish you would go away and let me alone."

Susan looked at the flashing eyes that were now turned up to her face, and said, sorrowfully:

"Nathalie, did you know that mother had had another bleeding spell?"

"Yes; what of it? She has them every little while, and always gets well again. What is it to spit up a little blood?—not half as bad as to have a scalded face, aching and smarting; but nobody minds anything about me."

"I am sorry that your face smarts, Nattie; but am more sorry that your disobedient conduct should have brought this very serious illness upon mother. I fear that she will never be as well as she was before."

"What do you say that I made her sick for?" demanded Nattie, sharply. "It was Biddy, who went off and didn't attend to the dinner, and it boiled over and filled mother's room with smoke, which set her to coughing; and in trying to stop the steam, I dropped the great, heavy potato kettle, and scalded me so dreadfully."

"Ah, Nattie, I know the whole story from a safer tongue than yours," responded the sister, sadly. "It grieves me much to think of the harm which your willful disobedience has occasioned. I hope that this will be a warning to you, and that, henceforth, as long as mother lives, you will do her bidding. If you mind no one else, Nattie, do mind your dying mother, so that when she is gone you may not have to regret your unkindness to her."

Nattie put on a most sullen, angry look, and turned spitefully away from her sister. Susan returned to the sick-room, leaving Nattie to nurse her wrath alone. No sooner was the little girl thus left, than she rose from her seat and ran out of doors. Bridget, entering the kitchen a moment after, missed her, but supposed that she was somewhere in the house, and would be ready to join the family at the evening meal, which she now busied herself in preparing.

When Mr. Stone and his wife were called to supper, no Nattie was to be found.

"Shure, an' what shall we be afther doin'?" said Biddy. "The child must be gone clane daft, to clear out when she knew I was goin' to bake waffles for tay; for she is more fond o' them nor nothin' else."

"Leave her alone," said Susan. "She is angry because I reproved her for disobeying mother, and thus causing her sickness. No doubt she has hid away, thinking that we shall be alarmed, and search for her. I know Nattie's ways pretty well. She will come back when she sees that no notice is taken of her absence. But don't let it come to mother's knowledge that she is missing; it might cause her unnecessary worry."

"It is meself that will be careful that it don't reach your poor mother's ears, Misthress Susan," said Biddy, officiously placing her nicely browned waffles and shining tea-urn on the table.

The young husband and wife commenced eating their supper, thinking it quite likely that Nattie would come in and take her usual place before the meal was over. But she did not come. Supper was cleared away, the doctor made the evening call, the clock pointed to the hour of nine; still, no Nattie. The house, barn and grounds were carefully searched. She was nowhere about the premises. Biddy was wild. It was necessary to keep her out of the sick-room, for the fright and terror of her honest face would be marked by the faintest eye.

"She must be sperited away," said the ignorant, superstitious girl; "for she never could have put herself out o' sight and hearin' so quick, without help. I'm sore afraid we never shall lay eyes on Miss Nattie again. Bad she was, at times, for shure, but then, a bright, gay creathur, afther all, and her poor father's joy. What will that jintleman say when he knows it all?"

Mr. Stone and his wife consulted together. They both believed that Nattie had hidden herself away, in a spirit of anger and jealousy, for the sake of making them trouble; but, as she was a little girl, they knew not into what difficulty and danger her own rashness might bring her, and felt it incumbent upon them to make search for her without delay. Susan accordingly asked Bridget if Nattie had any particular friend of her own age, on whom she would be likely to make an evening call. Biddy could think of none, nor did she ever know Miss Nattie to be out of an evening by herself before.

"Hasn't she gone into Mr. Hartwell's to see Hattie?" asked Susan.

"I can't think she has, Miss," said Biddy; "for she and Miss Hattie was niver friendly, and to-day she wouldn't even go to carry the cup of jelly to the poor, sick childer; but, if ye thinks best, I'll run over this minute and ask if she is there."

"Perhaps my husband had better go, and you and I will remain with mother," said Susan, looking at Biddy's wild face.

"You are right, Miss," answered the girl; "for I'm that scared and flustered, I hardly know what I'm about."

"There is no great cause for alarm," said Susan, calmly; "Nattie is probably safe in some neighbor's house, feeling not a little elated at the thought of the trouble which she is giving us. I am sorry that such is her disposition; but you know it, as well as I do, Biddy."

"Yes, Misthress Stone, 't is thrue; Miss Nattie is a pretty high, naughty girl," said Biddy; "but I should be woful sorry to have harm come to her, for I hope she will get over her bad ways one o' these days, and make a smart woman." Now till this minute, I haven't thought to be askin' ye for a word about her little sister that ye keeps with ye, at your house,—Tiny, as we calls her here at home. Has she been thrivin' wid ye these many blessed days?"

"Tiny is well, and growing fast. We thought it best not to bring her with us to-day; she is an active, restless child, and makes a good deal of noise. I thought that she and Nattie might annoy mother; but my husband will go home to-morrow, and, probably, bring Tiny back with him, as I shall remain here till father's return, or till mother is better,—if she ever is any better."

These last words were uttered in a low, sad voice.

"Shure, an' ye don't think but that the misthress is going to get up again!" asked Biddy, in fresh alarm.

"I hope she may; though she seems very low, at present," was the answer. "Perhaps you had better remain here, Biddy, while I go in and see her. She may think strange of our long absence from the room."

Biddy nodded her head affirmatively, and sat down near the stove, bowing her face on her hands.

When Susan returned to the apartment, the invalid's eyes were roaming from one object to another, in a strange, bewildered manner. She did not seem to notice her daughter at first, nor did she make any response until her name had been spoken several times.

"What is the matter, mother?" said the daughter, anxiously; "you see me, don't you, and hear my voice?"

"Nattie, don't crack filberts with your teeth," said the invalid. "I've told you not to do it, many times."

Susan thought best to humor this fancy, and responded, in a voice as like Nattie's as she could assume:

"Well, I won't, mother."

But this answer was so unlike any that Nattie would have made, that the sick woman looked up quickly, and recognized her eldest daughter.

"I have been wandering and dreaming," she said. "I thought Nattie was cracking nuts here, as she often does. Where is she?"

"She is not here now."

"Oh, gone to bed, I suppose. I should have liked to say good-night to her before she went. Poor, wayward child! I fear that she is strewing her own path with thorns. What time is it, Susan?"

"It is not very late in the evening, yet," was the rather evasive answer.

"Did Nattie get hurt to-day, when she dropped the kettle?"

"Not much; the steam made her face and hands smart a little."

"I wish you had brought Tiny with you. Sometimes I think that Nattie would be better if her younger sister was at home with her."

"You know that you sent Tiny away because Nattie teased and vexed her so much," said Susan.

"Yes; but Nattie is older now; she has felt the sorrow of being alone, too. I think she would better appreciate Tiny's company."

"Austin will bring her to-morrow, if you wish, and let her stay as long as I remain; then we can see how the two get along together."

"Yes, that will be a good way to do. I think Nattie needs some company near her own age. I feel very anxious about her. It would be harder to die and leave her than all the rest of my family, for she is the least fitted to be left without a mother."

"We hope you will be spared to us all for some years, yet, mother," said Susan, turning away to conceal a tear.

The feeble woman only sighed. There was the sound of an opening door. Susan started rather abruptly.

"Who is coming?" asked the invalid.

"It is Austin, my husband; he has been out a little while, and has just come in. I will go into the kitchen and tell him to be more quiet, lest his noise should disturb you. I see you look sleepy, and hope you will get some rest."

Susan went out. There stood her husband alone, looking at her with wide, staring eyes.

"I have called at a dozen places, but can't find her," he said.

Lost

THE dark night is stealing on; the beat of the heavy March rain sounds dreary against the windows of the sick-room, where the mother lies in a transient, fitful slumber, watched over by the elder daughter and her husband. The sick woman knows not as yet but Nattie sleeps, as usual, in her little bed-room that opens out of the kitchen; but the sleeper there to-night is a heavier one than Nattie. Her loud, long-drawn breathing greets the ears of the watchers. It is Irish Bridget, who was too timid to go to her usual sleepng chamber, aloft, "with the poor childer lost abroad, nobody knew where," as she said; and yet, she no sooner touched Nattie's little cot than she forgot her fright in slumber.

When, about midnight, the sleep of Mrs. Nesmith seemed deepest, the watchers drew back toward the grate, and spoke in soft whispers concerning the fugitive.

"What a driving storm!" said the young wife, with a shudder; "and how do we know but that poor, misguided child is abroad in it? So young, so ignorant of the world! what course will she take, and what will become of her?"

"I hardly think that she is out in this storm," returned the husband; "Nattie is willful, and rash enough, when her temper is up; but she is precious tender of her own little body, after all. Don't you know what an ado she made, to-day, over her slight scald? and how wrathful she was because there was not more done for her relief? She thought her case much worse than poor mother's. It was this jealousy, combined with your reproof of her disobedience, that started her off, I suppose. She found that her father was not coming home for a few days, and that we were to be here till he arrived. The prospect was not agreeable, so she concluded to take herself out of the way, give us as much extra trouble as possible, and return when she might feel disposed."