p. 118 | The Cross Family

Pacific Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Oakland, California · Apr 5, 1877

The Cross Family.

“Dear me! I think we are rightly named; for we are certainly the crossest family on record!” exclaimed Margaret Cross, as she threw herself on a stool and leaned her head on the window-sill. “There’s mother grumbling at Tom because he whistles in the house, and father just snapped at me because I asked a favor of him. And it’s just so all the time; sharp, harsh answers and cutting sarcasm are the most of our conversation with each other.”

“Why don’t you set the example by acting the Miss Amiable yourself, then?” retorted her sister Clara, who stood before the mirror arranging her hair.

“I should have a pleasant time of it in the way of snubs and sneers if I did,” replied Margaret. “But, really, Clara, it has troubled me very much of late; in fact, ever since I visited aunt Alice and saw such a contrast. They were all so polite to one another, and so careful of one another’s feelings, that it was a comfort to be with them.”

“I hope you took a few lessons,” remarked Clara, sneeringly, “and can instruct in the art.”

“I should have a large field to labor in; but I very much fear most of it would prove to be stony soil,” replied Margaret. The conversation here ended, Clara soon left the room, and Margaret was alone with her thoughts.

“It is the truth,” she said bitterly to herself. “It’s the truth. We are so wrapped up in our mantles of selfishness that natural love between us is being frozen to death. Even father and mother seem to have lost all love for each other—if they ever had any, and I suppose they had once—and as for us girls and Tom, why we would as soon think of flying as of waiting upon one another; and I verily believe if one of us kissed another they would think that one insane. I am so tired of this endless snapping and snarling. I mean to try to do something to make our family a more united one; and if they laugh at me they may. I’ll begin this very moment. Mary has one of her hard headaches. I will go and sit by her, if I do no more.”

With a firm desire to do, and a resolution to try to bring about a more perfect state of harmony, Margaret arose and went to her sister’s room. She opened the door softly and walked in. Mary was lying with closed eyes, and moaning as if in great pain. She opened her eyes languidly at the sound of Margaret’s footsteps, but closed them immediately.

Margaret softly approached the bed, and, laying her hand on her sister’s head, said: “Poor girl! Does your head ache so? Let me bathe or rub it for you.”

Mary, all unused to sympathy or assistance, replied: “No; nothing would help it. Just let me alone and it will get well itself.”

“But can’t I do something for you?”

“No, I don’t want anything done. I’ve stood it so long, I guess I can stand it a little longer,” replied Mary, fretfully.

If Margaret had expected to have her sympathy appreciated, this repulse might have disheartened her; but she had expected just such a greeting, and had made up her mind how to act. Without noticing her sister’s words, she hastened to the kitchen, procured a basin of water, and returning to her sister’s side, she bound up the aching head, bathed the throbbing temples and moistened the feverish hands. Mary made no resistance, but lay with her eyes closed, while Margaret performed these acts of kindness. Then she closed the blinds and sat down by the bedside, and very soon had the satisfaction of knowing, by the quiet breathing, that Mary was asleep. Then Margaret stole softly out of the room, and a feeling of joy stole into her own heart that had never been there before. This was her first lesson in the book of sympathy, and she found it sweet as the breath of morning.

Perhaps Margaret Cross would not have been at this time of her life experimenting, as it were, in this new field, had the circumstances of her life been other than they were. But the Cross children had been born and bred in the school of self-reliance. Their mother believed that children could be very easily spoiled by too much manifested love. Hence she had disciplined them to a rigid denial of caressings, and drove the wedge of selfishness in their hearts which was to make the family one scene of discord. They easily learned how much sympathy to expect from the fountain head; for if they came with a bruised body, she might bind up the wounds with rags, at the same time taking particular pains to impress upon their minds the fact that their own carelessness was the prime cause of the disaster; but if they came with a bruised heart, sympathy cost more than rags, so was withheld. Thus it was that the Cross children grew up, “wrapped in their mantles of selfishness,” as Margaret had said, until, as far as regards the inner life, they were as far apart as if a continent divided them.

“What are you doing, Margaret? Why don’t you come to your dinner?” said Mrs. Cross, as the family, except Mary and Margaret, were seated at the table. “I’m coming soon, mother; but do not wait.” Presently Margaret entered with a waiter, on which was some nicely browned toast.

“Heigho!” exclaimed her brother Tom. “Queen Margaret feels dainty to-night; so do I,” and reaching over, he took the brown slice. All now expected an outburst. None more than Tom himself. But Margaret only looked at him with a queer expression about the mouth—a half-laugh, and half-serious pucker—and said: “Well, I can make more; take it, Tom, if you wish.” But Tom did not want it. He had taken it for the sole purpose of teasing her, and failed. So he passed it back to her, saying: “I don’t want your bread; I only wanted to see your eyes snap.”

“Was that your game? Then you deserve a box,” and she good-naturedly slapped his ear and started for the stairway.

“Where are you going?” asked her mother, calling sharply after her.

“To Mary’s room. I thought maybe she could eat something if I took it to her,” answered Margaret.

“Is Mary so sick?” inquired Mr. Cross.

“I didn’t know ’t was anything but one of her headaches,” answered Mrs. Cross, anxiously.

“That’s all it is, too,” said Clara. “But Margaret has turned good Samaritan. I looked into the room this afternoon, and there sat Margaret bathing Mary’s head, which was all bandaged up, and fanning her as if she were in the last stages. I offered to do something for her this morning, but she very coolly told me to let her alone, and so I did.”

No more was said until Margaret returned, when Mrs. Cross asked if Mary was better.

“She says she is, but she is very weak. She has suffered intensely,” said Margaret.

“How did she consent to let you administer to her needs?” asked Clara, raising her eyebrows and looking at Margaret. “She sent me off pretty quick when I offered my services.”

“I didn’t offer my services,” answered Margaret.

“She did not ask them, I am sure. She would die first,” said Tom.

“No, she did not ask them, nor did I ask, ‘What wilt thou have me to do?’ There’s always plenty to do if one wants to do it,” said Margaret pleasantly.

“Oh, dear!” said Clara. “That’s your practice, is it? Well, I am sure if one does not accept my services when I offer them I shall not urge the matter.”

“It’s my opinion that precious few have ever had the chance to refuse them,” said Tom, rising from the table and preparing for his visit down town.

“No one asked for your opinion, sir,” retorted Clara.

“How quick she can ruffle up,” said Tom, provokingly.

“O Tom!” said Margaret, anxious to prevent a collision. “Did you know that Ned Rogers had gone South?”

“I merely heard of it; he owes me twenty-five dollars, the rogue,” replied Tom.

“Don’t you think you will get it again?” asked Margaret, showing her interest at once.

“Perhaps.”

“Well, it will hurt him worse than it will you,” said Margaret. “For it only hurts your pocket, and it hurts his reputation.”

“Hmph! My pocket is worth more to me than his reputation,” said Tom, lighting his cigar.

Margaret did not purpose to enter into an argument with her brother, she had only sought to avert the quarrel between him and Clara and had succeeded, so without replying to her brother’s last remark, she hurried off to Mary’s room. She found the invalid sitting up, and kindly inquired after her health.

“I am ever so much better,” said Mary, “I never had my head ache worse, and it never got well so soon before. And I was just thinking, Margaret, that a little nursing does one good sometimes.”

“If it has helped you as much as it has me, we will know better how to do another time,” said Margaret, picking up the things about the room in an embarrassed way; for such confidences and confessions were entirely new between the sisters. That evening as Mr. and Mrs. Cross sat alone in the sitting-room, Mr. Cross inquired after Mary’s health.

“She came down-stairs after dinner; I guess she is not any worse than usual,” said Mrs. Cross.

“It was kind of Margaret to nurse her and wait on her,” said Mr. Cross, nervously, for he knew he was treading on dangerous ground. Mrs. Cross never believed in noticing little ailments, it was unwholesome, she said. Children so soon knew how to counterfeit illness. Much to his surprise, she answered: “Yes, Margaret made quite a hero of herself, for all the rest are talking about it. I always thought Margaret was more affectionate than any of the rest. More like your sister Alice. There’s a difference in people,” continued Mrs. Cross. “Some are always a-loving and a-kissing and hanging around somebody, others think as much, but do not care to demonstrate it. Don’t you think there’s a great difference, Mr. Cross?”

“I’ll tell you what I think, mother. I think there is a difference, but I think folks make it themselves. I believe that God puts warm feelings into every heart, but influences change or develop them. But I think we all stifle these warm impulses too much, and allow ourselves to think all demonstrations of tenderness weakly and ‘soft,’ and so crush them out of our hearts, and freeze up, as it were, until it would take an angel from Heaven to thaw us out.”

Mr. Cross had grown eloquent in his theme. Mrs. Cross only gave a little sigh, and said: “Well, I don’t know, I’m no hand to make a fuss, but I believe I love my children as much as any mother can love her children, but I sometimes think they do not think so.” Poor mother! She had sown and now was reaping.

“I wish Tom would stay at home evenings,” said Margaret, one evening, as the sisters were seated at their work, around the center table. “I wonder why boys always want to run off somewhere evenings.”

“Because they like rough company, I guess,” replied Mary.

“I think they are apt to go where they think they are most appreciated,” said Margaret. “We are always scolding at him when he is in the house.”

“Well, is it any wonder,” said Clara, “when he tangles our worsted, ridicules our dress, and makes himself a nuisance generally. For my part I am always glad to see him take himself off.”

After a long pause, Margaret said: “Mother, may I have that old stove that is out in the shed?”

“What in the world will you do with that?” asked Mrs. Cross, looking in astonishment at her daughter.

“Put it in Tom’s room. Perhaps if we fix up his room with a stove and things to make it comfortable he would stay in it more.”

“Well, you may try if you wish, but I’m afraid you’ll have your trouble for your pains.”

The next day Margaret went to work. She was not discouraged by the sneers of Clara, nor by the frowns of her mother, who said she could see no use of tearing up the house at that time. She tore down the ragged old paper curtains which adorned the windows, and substituted neat muslin ones in their place, mended the carpet neatly, put up the old stove and polished it, until it shone again, cleared the table of its rubbish, of cigar stumps, paper collars, newspapers and shoe brushes, brought a box and gathered up the boots, old and new, and put them into it, found a hanging place for the old clothes which lay scattered on chairs and trunks, and for a last finishing stroke brought up an old rocker which had lost an arm and a round, covered it with an old delaine skirt, padded the back, and placed it beside the stove in which she had arranged a fire, and then took a view of her work. “I think Tom will like this,” she said to herself. “At any rate I hope he will.”

“Come up-stairs, Tom,” said she, after dinner, “I have something to show you.”

“Bring it down, I’m in a hurry,” answered the ungracious Tom.

Margaret laughed. “I can’t bring it down. You will have to go where it is,” she said, taking his arm and leading the way to his own room.

The fire was burning and shedding a soft light over the narrow passage which led to the room. Tom looked amazed, as Margaret, stopping before the door, said, with mock gravity: “Allow me to introduce your proprietor, Thomas Cross, Esq. We hope you will be mutually pleased with each other.”

“This is nice, whose work is this?” inquired the bewildered Thomas, looking around as in a dream.

“Are you pleased with it?”

“Rather.”

“Enough to spend your evenings in it?”

“Well, yes; if you’ll agree to have a fire for me,” said Tom, lazily eyeing the neat room.

“I’ll do it!” exclaimed Margaret, clapping her hands gleefully. “And keep you company too, if you will allow me.”

It was a mutual agreement, and it proved a happy one to both brother and sister. Together they read their favorite books and discussed their merits. They gave and received confidence and learned all those sweet influences which spring from an intercourse of warm, loving hearts. Nor were these seasons confined to Tom’s room. He often sought the family circle, and by his good nature broke away the barriers of reserve and selfishness which had closed around them all. So out of Margaret’s resolve and its performance sprang a growth of tenderness that grew and blossomed until every heart in that family was firmly united in the bonds of sympathy and love.