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Title: The sign of the cross
or, Edah Champlin
Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey
Release date: November 27, 2025 [eBook #77348]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: General Protestant Episcopal S. S. Union and Church Book Society, 1855
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SIGN OF THE CROSS ***
Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.
[Illustration: Edah speaks kindly to Jack.]
The Sign of the Cross;
OR,
EDAH CHAMPLIN.
BY
LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY
AUTHOR OF "SOPHIE KENNEDY'S EXPERIENCE," ETC., ETC.
——————————————
"IF ANY MAN WILL COME AFTER ME, LET HIM DENY HIMSELF, AND
TAKE UP HIS CROSS, AND FOLLOW ME."—ST. MATT. xvi. 24.
——————————————
NEW YORK:
GENERAL PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL S. S. UNION
AND
Church Book Society,
637 BROADWAY.
1856.
———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by
THE GEN. PROT. EPISCOPAL S. S. UNION and CHURCH BOOK SOCIETY,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the
Southern District of New York.
———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
R. C. VALENTINE,
STEREOTYPER AND ELECTROTYPIST,
17 Dutch-st., cor. Fulton, N. Y.
TO THE
TRUE FRIEND OF MY EARLY DAYS,
THE BELOVED
PRINCIPAL OF THE ROCHESTER FEMALE ACADEMY,
THE FOLLOWING PAGES
ARE RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY
THE AUTHOR
PREFACE.
————
THE following pages were written with a desire of awakening in the
minds of the younger members of our Church, the inquiry, "Am I
living up, in any degree, to the promise and vow made in my name at
my Baptism? Have not I sometimes been ashamed to confess the faith
of Christ crucified, at least in deeds and in my daily life and
conversation? How many combats have I ever fought under His banner
against sin, the world, and the devil, since the Sign of the Cross was
first imprinted upon my forehead in the holy Sacrament?"
It is to be feared that too many, even of those who have by their
own act ratified and confirmed those solemn promises in the presence
of the Bishop and congregation, are living in indifference to
them. They acknowledge their obligations indeed in words, but the
mainspring of their daily actions is very far from being a principle
of self-sacrifice and self-consecration. They offer at the Communion
themselves, their souls, and bodies, to be a reasonable, holy, and
living sacrifice; but no sooner have they retired from the Holy Table,
nay, sometimes before they are out of sight of it, than they act as
though body and soul were their own, and had never been bought with
a price, nor offered anew, in both the Sacraments, to Him who bought
them. How many are there, especially of young ladies, with whom one
might be in habits of familiar intercourse for weeks, without ever
suspecting that they had renounced the vain pomp and glory of the
world, with all covetous desires of the same! Nay, might not one rather
imagine that these very pomps and glories were the very end and aim
of their lives? The account of the debut of an eminent concert-singer
or tragedian possesses more interest for them than the story of the
most triumphant success obtained by the missionaries of the Cross
over the darkness and misery of heathenism; and they would rather a
dozen western Sunday Schools should go without books, than that they
themselves should want the latest fancy of lace or trimming.
It is not often that we are called upon to make any great sacrifice
to our religious obligations, though perhaps such occasions would
present themselves more frequently if we were more willing to see them;
but there is not a day which does not bring with it some opportunity
of self-denial and self-sacrifice, or some necessity for an open
declaration of our principles either in words or actions. Let us be
careful that we do not heedlessly overlook or wilfully shut our eyes to
these opportunities as they occur. If faithfully improved, though the
plant be thorny to grasp, it will yield golden fruit of discipline and
strength; if weakly shunned, or boldly trodden down, the thorns will
remain to vex us, long after the occurrence is forgotten. It is often
difficult to perform our duty in this respect with a serene and quiet
temper; but for this, as for all graces, let us ask of Him who giveth
liberally and upbraideth not, and in due time we shall reap, if we
faint not.
L. E. G.
ROCHESTER, _Dec._ 1855.
CONTENTS.
————
CHAPTER.
I. INTRODUCTORY.
II. CHANGING PLANS.
III. THE NEW HOME.
IV. NEW FRIENDS.
V. THE SHOCK.
VI. THE RESOLUTION.
VII. THE DAY OF SMALL THINGS.
VIII. NEW LABORS AND NEW PLEASURES.
IX. THE CHRISTMAS SERVICE.
X. LETTERS.
XI. "OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN."
XII. "ARISE AND BUILD."
XIII. LENTEN SERVICES—BAD NEWS.
XIV. THE JOURNEY.
XV. THE EASTER SERVICE.
[Illustration: The Sign of the Cross]
The Sign of the Cross;
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY.
"THE Bishop of this Diocese will hold a Confirmation service in this
church on Sunday morning, the twelfth of May. Any persons intending to
come forward at that time will please give their names to the Rector
as soon as possible. A course of lectures preparatory to the rite will
commence on Wednesday evening of this week."
Such was the notice read by the Rev. Mr. Wardwell one Sunday morning
before sermon, at the same time that he gave notice of the Communion,
and other matters to be published. There had not been a Confirmation
in the parish for more than three years, during which time it had been
without a settled Rector, and in the course of these three years a
number of young persons of both sexes had come to years of discretion
to answer for themselves. There was, moreover, a large boarding-school
in the village, kept by a lady who was a member of the Episcopal
Church, and it might reasonably be expected that some of its members
would be among the number who should present themselves at this time.
Mr. Wardwell had occupied his present station about six months and he
had found things upon his arrival in rather a dilapidated state, as
might be expected in a flock having no shepherd for so long a time. The
number of regular communicants was very small; the Sunday School was
scattered, and the books lost; the church itself was out of repair, and
the people were rather unwilling to do any thing towards putting it in
better condition. Mr. Wardwell was a wise man, and knew very well that
it was not desirable to undertake too much at once, so he said nothing
at first about church repairs, but visited his people vigorously,
preached fervently, and prayed earnestly, and by and by things began
to look up. A new library was obtained, and the Sunday School started.
People began to come to church and to the Communion who had never been
seen there before. Many children and some grown persons were baptized,
and a general feeling of seriousness was apparent in the congregation.
All this was very encouraging: the faithful minister's heart sang for
joy; and when the Bishop informed him of his intention to visit the
parish at no very distant period, Mr. Wardwell had a confident hope of
being able to present a goodly number to receive the holy ordinance of
the laying on of hands.
When church was out, and the congregation was on their way homewards,
there might be heard from different groups various conjectures as to
who would come forward and who ought to come forward, while several
might be observed walking silently and with serious faces, as if
thinking deeply on some subject of importance. Among these last were
two girls (perhaps they should be called young ladies) belonging to
Miss Anderson's school. They were both rather remarkably well-dressed,
and both very pretty—the elder being perhaps about eighteen, and the
other a year younger.
They walked at least half the way down the long street without
exchanging a word, when the younger said, in a half-sportive tone, "How
sociable we are! A penny for your thoughts, Edah!"
"I was thinking of the notice Mr. Wardwell gave about the Bishop," said
Edah; and then added, rather abruptly, after another moment's silence,
"I suppose you mean to be confirmed this time, don't you?"
"Not that I know of," replied Milly, "at least I have not thought any
thing about it. Why did you think I meant to be confirmed?"
"Why, because—you are old enough, and I know you never have been, so I
thought it natural enough that you should take this opportunity, as you
will so soon be going into society."
"What of that?" asked Milly. "Cannot one go into society without being
confirmed? I have known many people very much in society who never
troubled their heads about the matter."
"But I suppose you think every one ought to be confirmed, some time,
don't you?" asked Edah. And as her companion did not reply, she went on
urging various reasons in favor of the rite.
Millicent listened in silence, and when Edah paused, she said, abruptly—
"After all, Edah, what is the difference?"
"The difference!" said Edah. "I don't know what you mean, Milly."
"I mean, what difference does it make whether a person is confirmed
or not? Take ourselves, for instance. You have been confirmed, and I
have not, and what is the great difference between us? We are both
good scholars, and tolerably obedient and tractable. We should either
of us be ashamed to engage in any such foolish cabals and pranks as
some of the girls do. If there is any difference, I think I am rather
more careful in keeping rules than you are. But in other respects I
do not see any thing to choose. You are as fond of dress and company,
and every thing of the sort, as any girl in school, and spend as much
time upon them. I always thought that religious people were fond of
the Bible, and loved prayer; but we have roomed together for more than
three years, and I cannot see that you care any more for such things
than myself. To be sure you could go to the Communion if you chose, but
then you never do choose, and, as I said, what is the difference after
all?"
Edah was silent, and Milly thought she was angry at the freedom with
which she had spoken. She hastened to say, "Do not be angry with me,
Edah. I don't say this by way of finding any fault with you, of course,
but only because—because I want to understand you. You know we always
say just what we think to each other."
"I am not angry, my dear Milly," said Edah, forcing herself to speak;
"I was only thinking of what you have been saying, and I am afraid it
is too true."
"It has never seemed to me," continued Millicent, "that I should wish
to be confirmed in that way, as if it were a mere ceremony, which was
in some way necessary to one's being grown-up. It appears to me to be a
much more solemn thing than that. I never heard much about it at home,
for my friends are not what you would call religious people, as you
know very well. Father is busy in his office from morning till night,
and almost from night till morning, and Aunt Maria cares for nothing
but society. But I used sometimes to hear old Dr. Shelly speak on the
subject, and from him I got what few ideas I have. It never seemed
to me that I should be willing to take such solemn vows upon myself,
unless I were sure of keeping them, and I am quite certain that I
should have to be something very different from what I am now to do
that."
"What vows?" asked Edah.
"Why, the baptismal vows, to be sure. I believe, after all, I know
more about it than you do. But here we are at home: how slowly we have
walked! I do not mean to say," she added, "that I shall not think of
Confirmation, and I mean to attend the lectures, at any rate, if Miss
Anderson will give me leave."
"I should like to stay at home this afternoon, Miss Anderson," said
Edah, with some hesitation, as the bells sounded for afternoon service.
Miss Anderson looked surprised.
"How is that, my dear? Are you not well?"
"My head aches a little, but that is not the reason I wish to stay at
home. I feel as if I should like to be alone a little while."
"Well, Edah," said Miss Anderson, "I think I may venture to give you
permission, though I would not do so for every one. But I know very
well that I may depend upon you—that you will not spend the time
improperly."
Edah was glad to be so trusted, and she was still more glad to have
the time to herself. Millicent's remarks had awakened a new train of
thought in her mind, which she felt in a manner obliged to follow out.
Edah had been rather peculiarly situated. Her mother died when she
was very young, and her father had married again very soon. She had
inherited some property from a distant relation, who, by his will, had
placed her under the care of another relative, a rich and childless
man, with whom she had resided almost entirely when she was not in
school.
She had once or twice made very short visits to her father's house, now
filled with a young family, but she had never found these visits very
pleasant. Mrs. Champlin was kind to her, but she was not very refined
in manners or conversation, and her children were perfectly ungoverned
and unruly. Her father had never seemed the same since his first wife's
death. He was now careless in his dress and manners, indifferent to
business, and Edah feared he sometimes drank. She had stayed a week,
and then departed, without much regret on either side, for Mrs.
Champlin felt herself rather constrained in the presence of her really
refined and fashionable stepdaughter; and Edah thought the children
perfect little barbarians, as it must be confessed they were.
Edah had received very little religious instruction. Miss Anderson
contented herself with seeing that her young ladies were all provided
with Bibles and Prayer-Books; that they went to church regularly, and
behaved well while there; and the younger ones were required to recite
the Church Catechism every Saturday morning, sometimes to a teacher,
but more frequently to some of the older girls, who were not very
particular as to the sense, provided the tongue was able to rattle off
the words glibly.
At one time when she was at home, several of her most intimate
companions had been confirmed, and she had joined them, with the
consent of her guardian, who thought it a matter of little consequence
one way or the other. She had made some good resolutions at the time,
but the duties of school, and the gaieties of home, soon effaced them
from her mind, and she stood just where she did before, except that she
had learned to feel a kind of dependence on her Confirmation, as if
that alone insured her salvation. She had now and then a feeling as if
she were not living exactly as she ought; she felt that the things of
another world were very seldom in her thoughts, and had no influence
upon her life and conversation. But these impressions had never yet
been deep enough to produce any lasting change in her conduct.
Millicent Amory was about her own age, and there were a good many
points of resemblance between them. They were both pretty and
intelligent, fond of study and reading, self-respecting, and somewhat
proud. Miss Anderson always felt that she could trust them without any
particular surveillance, and apply to them in any case of difficulty;
and they were oracles among the younger girls, who always appealed to
the one or the other in any perplexity or trouble.
Thus far they were alike, but in many things there was an essential
difference. Edah was warm, hasty, and quick-tempered. Millicent,
on the contrary, was never known to be angry, and only under the
strongest pressure of emotion did she ever manifest any signs of mental
disturbance. Edah was fond of undertaking new and difficult studies,
at which she worked very hard for a time, and then became discouraged;
while Milly, cautious in regard to new undertakings, was never known to
give way to any difficulty short of an absolute impossibility. Edah was
very particular in regard to her dress and personal appointments, and
was always anxious to have every thing, from a bonnet to a shoe-tie, in
the latest and most elegant fashion; while Milly, though essentially
neat, and always appearing well-dressed, was somewhat indifferent as to
minor matters, and sometimes distressed her friend by wearing collars
and mantles out of date, and declining the trouble of having her
dresses altered to suit the present mode.
Their worldly circumstances were somewhat similar, for both were
motherless, and had spent nearly all their lives at school. They were
both very liberally supplied with money, so liberally, indeed, that
Miss Anderson sometimes said such allowances would be ruinous to
any other girls. It had long been decided that as soon as they left
school, Edah was to spend a year with her friend, and the girls were
anticipating a great deal of pleasure from going into company together.
Mr. Liston, Edah's guardian, expected soon to make a voyage to India,
and remain there a year or two, and he was pleased to have his ward so
well provided for in his absence.
When the girls had departed, and Edah was left alone in her room,
she took her Prayer-Book, and sat down to read over the Confirmation
Service, with which she was not at all familiar. The Preface was the
first thing that attracted her attention, and she read that, and the
Bishop's address, several times over.
"I knew the Church Catechism, from beginning to end, long before I was
confirmed," she said to herself, "so, as far as that goes, I am well
enough prepared; but this renewing of the baptismal vows—I am afraid
I did not think much about them. I know I made some good resolutions,
but I am sure I have never kept one of them. The address of the Bishop
seemed very solemn, and so did all the circumstances—the standing up
before all the people, and kneeling at the Chancel; and I remember how
I trembled when the Bishop's hands were laid on my head; but after all,
I did not realize what I was doing. And these baptismal vows—I hardly
know at this moment what they are."
She turned over and read them, and as she did so, the grace of God
enabled her to understand and feel their solemn meaning.
"Dost thou renounce the devil and all his works, the vain pomp and
glory of the world, and all covetous desires of the same, with all
sinful desires of the flesh, so that thou wilt not follow, nor be led
by them?"
"Dost thou believe all the Articles of the Christian faith, as
contained in the Apostles' Creed?"
"Wilt thou then obediently keep God's holy will and commandment; and
walk in the same all the days of thy life?"
Edah dropped the book in a kind of terror—she had never so much as
thought of keeping any of these promises. She could not but see that
she thought more of the vain pomp and glory of the world—of her
dress and appearance in company—of the pleasures of society, and
being looked up to and admired, than of any thing else. Her studies
and accomplishments were all means to the same end, and her liberal
allowance was disposed of for almost no other purpose. One of her
greatest pleasures consisted in anticipating the time when she should
leave school, and be placed at the head of a fine establishment in her
guardian's house, able to dress as magnificently as she pleased, and to
indulge to their fullest extent all those elegant tastes which she was
conscious of possessing. True, she had never committed any gross sins,
because she had never been exposed to them, but she could not build
much upon that, as long as she had yielded to almost every temptation
that came in her way.
As to walking by the rule of God's commandments, she had hardly thought
of such a thing: she reviewed the events of the past week, and could
not discover that once during that time she had so much as considered
whether what she was about to do would be pleasing to Him or not. The
more she thought upon the subject, the more she became aware that she
had never confessed the faith of Christ crucified; nay, had she not
absolutely denied that faith, by turning her back upon the Table of the
Lord time after time? She had never fought one single combat under His
banner in all her life.
The return of the girls from church, and the entrance of Milly
interrupted her meditations. She was about to return her Prayer-Book
hastily to its place, when the words she had just read, "ashamed to
confess the faith of Christ crucified," returned to her mind, and she
still retained it in her hand. Millicent, however, took no notice of
her studies: she seemed rather serious than otherwise, and instead of
sitting down to write a composition, or prepare some daily lesson, she
placed herself by the other window, and remained some time silent.
"Was any thing more said about the Confirmation?" asked Edah at length.
"The notice was repeated," replied Milly, "and Mr. Wardwell invited all
those who wished to converse with him upon that subject, or any other
connected with it, to call upon him between the hours of four and six
in the afternoon, and also on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday evenings.
I heard some of the Sunday School teachers talking about it; and they
seemed to think that a number of the scholars were interested in the
subject."
"Would you not like to go into the Sunday School sometimes, Milly?"
asked Edah, as if struck with a sudden thought. "I don't mean to teach,
of course; but just to see how they go on. I never was in one in my
life."
Milly assented, and there was another interval of silence. Edah was
considering whether she ought to make up her mind to approach the
Communion on the following Sunday. She could not decide: for the first
time she felt that she should be guilty in turning away, yet she feared
to be more so in going.
"Milly," she said at last, "do you think there would be any harm in my
going down to Mr. Wardwell's to-morrow afternoon? I want to see him
very much, and one is never sure of finding him at home."
"No harm certainly; what harm could there be?"
"You know the notice was intended for those who are thinking of
Confirmation."
"The subject of Confirmation, or any thing connected with it, he said.
But will you not feel rather awkwardly to go there? You do not know
them very well."
"No; but after all he is the Rector, and seems the proper person to
apply to. I wish you would go with me."
"I would rather not, at present," said Milly: "I have not at all made
up my mind about being confirmed, and would rather wait a little before
saying any thing about it. But that need not hinder your going."
The next day Edah obtained of Miss Anderson the requisite permission,
and presented herself, not without trepidation, at the door of Mr.
Wardwell's study.
That gentleman received her with kindness, and after some little
indifferent conversation, said, "I presume, Miss Champlin, you have
called in consequence of the notice given yesterday. Are you thinking
of being confirmed?"
"No, sir," replied Edah; "I have been confirmed."
Mr. Wardwell looked surprised. "Indeed!" said he. "How long since?"
"Almost two years ago, sir."
"I do not remember that I have ever seen you at the Communion since I
have been here: how has that happened?"
Edah was silent, and Mr. Wardwell continued gravely: "Six months is
a long time for a servant of the Lord Jesus to absent herself from
His Table. I should hope you had some very good excuse to offer, Miss
Champlin."
"I have never been to the Communion at all," said Edah, speaking
with some effort; "I do not know that I ever thought of going till
yesterday, when something that Milly said made me consider the subject."
"And what was the result of your considerations?"
"I could not make up my mind about it, sir. I fear you will think me
very ignorant; but I hardly know what is necessary in order to partake.
I could not satisfy myself at all in the matter, and I came to see if
you would help me?"
"I am very happy to see you, my dear young lady, and shall gladly do
all in my power to direct and assist you. You know your Catechism?"
"Yes, sir."
"What is required of those who come to the Lord's Supper?"
"To examine themselves, whether they repent them truly of their former
sins, steadfastly purposing to lead a new life; have a lively faith in
God's mercy through Christ, with a thankful remembrance of his death;
and be in charity with all men," answered Edah.
"Right," said the Rector. "Here, you see, we have all the necessary
qualifications of the communicant expressed in a very few words; and
you will find the same ideas expressed in the Communion Service. The
first thing requisite is true and hearty repentance of all past sins,
and this same repentance is made the condition of all God's spiritual
favors towards us.
"'Repent and be baptized,' says St. Peter to the inquirers at Jerusalem
on the day of Pentecost. 'Except ye repent, ye shall all likewise
perish,' says our Saviour.
"There is not a person living upon earth who has not need of this
repentance. You may perhaps consider that your life thus far has been
very innocent and harmless, and yet if you consider it in the light of
God's law, I venture to say that you will see enough in it to make you
cry, 'God be merciful to me a sinner.'
"Nay, your very forgetfulness, if not denial of Christ, in thus turning
your back upon His Table, at which you were an invited guest, is alone
enough to condemn you, especially after you have, in the presence
of so many witnesses, solemnly renewed your baptismal covenant, and
acknowledged yourself bound to believe and to do all those things which
you then undertook, or your sponsors undertook for you. How those other
vows have been kept, I will not ask you: that is an affair between God
and your own heart."
"They have not been kept at all," said Edah, struggling with her tears:
"I have always been ashamed of the faith of Christ crucified, and have
never fought under His banner. I see very well that the Lord's Table is
no place for me."
With her usual impetuosity, she was rising to go, when Mr. Wardwell
detained her.
"Stay a moment, Miss Champlin; there is something else to be
considered. You say very truly that the Lord's Table is no place for
unrepentant sinners, but have you reflected also that it is the most
proper place for those who do truly repent them of their sins? Have you
truly reflected that there is but one place for the unrepentant sinner?
"'He that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out,' says our merciful
Saviour; but He also says, 'Whosoever shall deny Me before men, him
will I deny before the angels in heaven.'
"God in His mercy has awakened from your spiritual lethargy, and
convicted you of sin; He has set your duty plainly before you, and
placed within your reach the means to perform it. You may refuse
both the duty and the grace, but it will be at the peril of your
undying soul. You must repent; you must yield Him your full unreserved
obedience, or you are lost."
Edah trembled so excessively that she was glad to resume her seat.
After she had composed herself a little, she said—
"I see that what you say is true, Mr. Wardwell, and I only wonder that
I never saw it before. I wish with all my heart that I had never been
confirmed!"
"And how would that help you, my child? Confirmation creates no new
duties; it is only an acknowledgment of those already existing. You
would be just as much bound to yield obedience to God if you had never
confessed before the world that such was your duty. But why are you
unwilling to yield this obedience? Cannot you make up your mind to the
sacrifices it implies?"
Edah hesitated.
"I think I could," said she; "I am not sure. But how strange it is, Mr.
Wardwell, that I never thought of these things before!"
"It is indeed strange, that any one, believing the truths which our
Church so strongly sets forth, and hearing them repeated from Sunday to
Sunday, can yet be indifferent to the eternal welfare of his soul. But
I trust, Miss Champlin, that you now see the absolute necessity of a
heartfelt repentance, not only as a preparation for the Communion, but
also as necessary to your welfare here and hereafter."
"I do indeed, sir; but I fear I have never felt this repentance. What
must I do?"
"You must earnestly beseech God to grant you repentance, and His Holy
Spirit, my dear child. You must ask Him, for Christ's sake, to forgive
you all that is past, and to grant that you may henceforth serve and
please Him in newness of life. You must go to Him, believing that He
is, and that He is the rewarder of them that diligently seek Him. You
have every encouragement to seek Him, in His promises; in His love, as
manifested in the death of His dear Son, for the redemption of man. Let
me entreat you, my dear young friend, to settle this matter now: do not
be diverted from it by any thing. Give yourself no rest or peace till
you feel that you have so repented of your sins, and have such a lively
faith in God's mercy, that you can with safety approach His holy Table.
I hope to see you again soon, and have some further talk with you."
The conversation was now interrupted, and Edah returned home, after
being furnished by the Rector with some reading suitable to her state
of mind.
Milly had too much delicacy to take any notice of the marks of recent
agitation which appeared on her countenance.
For once Edah wished that she had no lessons to prepare. She could
hardly fix her mind upon her studies sufficiently to understand them,
and she gladly laid them aside the moment the bell rung for half-past
eight, and took up one of the volumes that Mr. Wardwell had lent her.
Looking up a few moments after, she was glad to see that Millicent had
opened the other, and appeared interested in it, for she had so long
depended on Milly for sympathy that the thought of having any separate
interest was painful to her.
Catching Edah's eye at the moment, Milly said with her usual directness—
"Edah, I wish you would tell me about your conversation with Mr.
Wardwell. I do not see why we should not talk about this matter as
freely as any other; even if we do not think alike, it will do no harm
to compare our thoughts."
Edah was very glad that her friend had broken the ice, and she related
to her the substance of the conversation, not without some tears. Milly
was also affected, though as usual she endeavored to conceal all signs
of emotion.
"Do you mean to go again?" she asked.
"Oh, yes! I shall go again on Wednesday. I do not mean to let the
matter rest till it is settled. Will you go with me?"
"I think I will. Setting aside any feeling on the subject, it seems
unworthy of a rational being to live as we have done—so thoughtless of
every thing but the present moment."
The night-bell was now rung, and the girls put away their books, and
prepared to go to rest. Edah knelt down by her bedside without any
diffidence, without even thinking whether any one was looking at her or
not. Milly did not kneel, but she was very silent and serious.
The girls were very thoughtful all the next day, and did not join at
all in the merriment of recess and playtime. No one made any remark
about it, however; for it happened that a good many others were in the
same situation.
Wednesday afternoon found Edah again at Mr. Wardwell's, and this time
Milly accompanied her. She now felt more at home, and better acquainted
with the Rector, and she did not hesitate to open her whole heart to
him. The conversation was long, and very interesting, and Mr. Wardwell
was rejoiced to see that his young friend had been led to see her
sinfulness, and to seek for grace where alone it is to be found.
"I shall be most happy to welcome you to the Communion Table next
Sunday," he said, "and I trust you will find there still more grace,
a deeper conviction of your own unworthiness, and of the boundless
mercy of God in Christ. But let me repeat to you once more: Be not
satisfied with any faith which does not show itself in your life and
conversation. If you truly love God, His will and His glory will be
your ruling motive. In all you do, you will be desirous to please Him
and to this test you will bring every action of your life, even the
most trivial. You must bring captive every thought into the obedience
of Christ, and unless you are willing to do this, you must not be
satisfied with your repentance."
"I do not understand that expression, doing all to the glory of God,"
said Milly, speaking almost for the first time. "I have heard it used
several times, and I do not understand it at all. I do not see how the
glory of God can depend upon men."
"It does indeed seem strange that such beings as we are can glorify our
Maker by our action but He has so said, and we are bound to believe it.
"'Herein is my Father glorified, that ye bear much fruit,' says our
Saviour. 'Whether ye eat or think, or whatever ye do, do all to the
glory Of God,' says St. Paul.
"On the contrary, He speaks of those who, by falling away, have
crucified the Son of God afresh, and put Him to an open shame. Suppose,
Miss Amory, you were going among strangers who had heard of your
father, and who would naturally judge of him and his character by you,
would you not be very anxious and very careful that nothing in your
conduct should give an unfavorable impression of him? Would you not
endeavor to be kind, generous, and self-denying, if, in so doing, you
could win the regard of your companions to your father?"
"Certainly, sir!"
"Well, my dear, this is a case in point. If people who are careless on
the subject of religion, or even those who directly oppose it, see the
professed disciples of Christ patient, unselfish, consistent, honest,
and so forth, will they not, even against their wills, be forced to
respect the principle which leads to all these good results? And if, on
the contrary, they behold these professed disciples seeking their own
interest, dishonest, busybodies, and the like, will they not at once
conclude that their profession is all a falsity, or, if it is not so,
that it is not worth considering?"
"Yes, sir, I suppose so. But, Mr. Wardwell, this is a great task to
undertake. It seems to me that it would be a burden too heavy for any
one."
"Would you then feel it a great task to behave in the manner I at first
supposed when your father's honor and reputation were concerned?"
"No, sir, because I love my father, and that would make it light. It is
not hard to make sacrifices for those we love."
"Then do you not see that when you love God as you do your father, this
difficulty would become a pleasure?"
"But is that possible?"
"I trust you will come to see the time when you will wonder that any
thing else is possible. When you come to understand the exceeding
great love of our Master and only Saviour the dying for us; when you
appreciate the amazing greatness of His sacrifice for sin, and feel
that that sacrifice was made for you personally—that the crucified
Jesus is your Saviour, your friend—that He now loves you, intercedes
for you, watches you—that God the Father is your Father, and has sent
His only-begotten Son into the world to redeem you—that He sends His
Holy Spirit to touch your heart, and bring you to a sense of your
sins—that He is more than ready to receive you, as soon as you are
willing to be received,—when you realize all this, you will not think
it much to devote your time and your talents wholly to him."
Millicent appeared more affected than Edah had ever seen her.
"I should not indeed," she said, in a trembling voice, "if I could only
once feel that this was true. But it hardly seems possible that He
should so love me, and when I have never obeyed Him—never thought of
Him."
"But it is true, my child. God commended His love to us in that, while
we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. And He not only died for us,
but He ever liveth to make intercession for us.
"'Behold, I stand at the door and knock.'
"He is now knocking at your door. The moment you are ready, He is
willing to wash away your sins, and to give you strength to serve and
please Him in newness of life."
"I must think a little more, Mr. Wardwell, before I can come to a
decision," said Milly. "I do not feel as though I quite understood the
matter."
"Think and pray both, my friend, but above all, pray. Your prayers will
be heard, if you are sincere in them. I trust and believe that you will
be guided aright, and that I shall yet have the happiness of seeing you
fighting under the banner of the Cross."
CHAPTER II.
CHANGING PLANS.
THE following Sunday saw Edah at the Communion for the first time in
her life. It had been customary for all the pupils of the school to
return home immediately after the Offertory, under the supervision
of some of the elder girls, while the teachers remained. But on this
particular Sunday morning so many of them asked permission to stay,
that Miss Anderson thought it best that all should do so, except the
very youngest, who were sent home under the care of the nurse and
matron.
Milly was very much impressed with the solemnity of the scene which she
now witnessed for the first time,—the silence of the church after the
congregation had retired—the space allotted for mental devotion—the
solemn and beautiful service, and the impressive words with which the
elements were delivered to each of those now kneeling at the Chancel
rails. Especially when her friend Edah went forward with the rest, did
she feel a strong desire to be with her—a wish that she too might be
admitted into the band of Christ's followers, and she resolved that
from that day she would place the subject first in her mind, and never
rest till she had come to a conclusion upon the subject.
And she kept her word. She devoted all her spare time to studying the
Bible, not only with all the force of her clear mind, but also with
earnest prayer for the assistance of the Spirit; for it signifies
little with what mental power we attempt to grapple with the truths
of God's word, unless, at the same time, the illumination of the Holy
Ghost accompany our efforts. She made diligent use of all the means of
grace placed in her way, keeping, at the same time, close watch over
her own temper and disposition, and when the decisive time came, she
chose as might have been expected—she chose the strait and narrow path,
which leadeth unto eternal life, and threw all her talents and all her
influence on the side of Christ.
Mr. Wardwell remarked to Miss Anderson afterwards that in the whole
course of his ministry, he had never talked with a candidate who seemed
to have clearer ideas as to what she was about to do, or a more humble
desire to lean upon the arm of God for strength.
But this was entirely in accordance with Millicent's natural character:
whatever she did was done thoroughly. She never commenced any thing
hastily, but whatever she began was carried through.
More than a dozen of the school-girls were confirmed at this time,
and about the same number from the town, and it was remarked long
afterwards that those who took this important step under Mr. Wardwell's
ministry were noticeable for the steady consistency of their life
and conversation. They were especially noticed as being "useful"
Christians. Few of them were known to shirk their share of work as
Sunday School teachers, as visitors of the sick, and comforters of the
destitute, whether of body or mind. Indeed, Mr. Wardwell's definition
of the requirement to be in charity with all men was somewhat wide,
and comprehended a great deal more than the simple fact of having no
quarrel with any one.
The time passed as rapidly as it always does with busy people, and
school-girls especially, and vacation was very near. It had been
decided that this vacation was to be spent by our two friends mostly in
a retired watering-place on the sea-shore, and they were anticipating a
great deal of pleasure, when something happened to over throw all their
plans.
The letters were always brought into the dining-room at dinner-time,
and there distributed to their owners. One day Milly and Edah each
received one. Milly's was a model of epistolary elegance—seal,
envelope, and paper being all according to the latest fashion, while
through all the vulgar contact with dunning letters, lawyers' packets,
and so forth, an odor of violets still lingered around the delicate
page. Edah's, on the contrary, was without an envelope, not remarkably
well folded, and the direction was written in a large boyish hand, with
a decided slope into one corner. Edah smiled as she looked at it.
"Really, Edah," said Milly, laughing, "your friend does not trouble
himself much with the minor elegances of correspondence."
"It is from Sam," said Edah, laughing in her turn, as she broke the
seal. "Poor fellow, his literary abilities have never been particularly
well developed; but after all, he is a good boy in his way, and likes
to write to me. Indeed, if it were not for him, I should never hear
from the family at all."
She began reading her letter, with a smile on her face, which vanished
as she went on, and she grew very grave.
"Is there any thing the matter?" asked Milly, observing the change.
"Why, yes; they are in rather an uncomfortable state, according to Sam.
Mrs. Champlin is very unwell, indeed, and so is the baby, and Pauline,
the next to the youngest, is very delicate. I hardly see how they get
on at all."
"There is another daughter, is there not?"
"Oh, yes, Susan. She is about fourteen, but from what I saw when I was
at home, I should not imagine that she would be of much assistance. I
must write to-day, and ask Sam to let me know more particularly. But
what says Miss Concklin, for I presume that elegant epistle, which
forms such a contrast to poor Sam's, is from her?"
"Oh, just as usual! She is very kind and affectionate, longs to have
the vacation arrive, that we may be with her; says my father is well,
but much absorbed in business, as usual; sends her love to yourself,
and her kind regards to Miss Anderson. Stay, here is a postscript.
"'The arrangements are all made for our party to the sea-shore, and we
have every prospect of a most delightful sojourn. The party will be
smaller than was at first proposed, but I think it will lose nothing in
point of pleasantness. Be sure to come home the first day possible.'
"How delightful it will be!" she said, refolding the elegant sheet, and
restoring it to its envelope.
Edah did not reply. She was reading her brother's letter again; and
three or four times in the course of the afternoon Milly saw her refer
to it.
"You study that letter, Edah, as if it were a mathematical problem.
What is there in it so very entertaining?"
"Nothing very entertaining, but something rather interesting. I have
been seriously considering whether I ought not to give up this party to
the sea-shore, and go home to nurse mother. If she is so unwell, and
the younger children also, it seems to me as if they must need help."
Millicent looked at her as if she had proposed to go to the moon.
"Give up going to the sea-shore, and go home instead!" she exclaimed.
"Why, Edah, what are you thinking of? It will overset our plans
entirely."
"I do not see why," returned Edah. "You could go just the same; and
although it would not be quite as pleasant for you, it would make no
difference to the others, whom I hardly know at all. It seems to me as
if I would be useful at home, in a good many ways."
"But, my dear child, what could you do? You know hardly any thing about
work."
"True; but then you know I am a pretty good nurse, at least so Miss
Anderson thinks, and I am good at sewing. Then there is another thing.
I fear, from what Sam says, that they are rather straitened in means:
the family is large, and father has not attended much to business
lately. Mr. Liston promised me a hundred and fifty dollars to spend
upon this journey, in addition to my allowance, and that would go a
good way towards making a family of children comfortable."
"But it will be such a sacrifice for you."
"It will be a sacrifice; I cannot deny it," and Edah sighed as she
spoke. "The children are terribly spoiled, and mother has no sort of
authority over them. I liked Sam the best of them all. He is a rough,
noisy fellow enough, but then he is warm-hearted and affectionate.
Susan seemed to me to be both jealous and selfish, but perhaps I might
judge differently now. The younger ones are like all spoiled children,
as far as I know. Sam, and Pauline, who was almost a baby then, took a
great liking to me, and I always intended when I had a home of my own,
to take Polly to live with me. But then, Milly, the sacrifice to myself
is not what I ought to think of: if I can be useful, that is the main
thing."
"That is true," admitted Milly, rather reluctantly; "but, will Mr.
Liston consent?"
"If he does not, it will be the first time he ever contradicted me
in his life," said Edah, laughing; "except once, when I wanted some
gunpowder to play with, like the boys in the street. Mr. Liston is
somewhat prejudiced against my father, it is true—unjustly as I think;
but after all, he likes to have people act from principle, as he says,
and then he likes to have me do as I please. I do not anticipate any
objection from him."
"Well, Edah, I cannot find it in my heart to dissuade you, sorry as I
am to have our plans broken up. But do not decide hastily."
"Oh, no; I shall wait for another letter from Sam, I ant going to write
to him this afternoon, and see what he thinks of the idea."
Sam's second letter arrived in a few days, and quite decided Edah upon
abandoning her plan of amusement for the summer, and going home to
nurse her stepmother, who, according to Sam's account, was in rather
a critical situation. Mr. Liston made no very strong objections to
her plan; as Edah said, he never contradicted her in any thing, not
actually dangerous.
Miss Concklin, Millicent's aunt, raised the loudest cry. She could
not conceive, she said in a letter to Milly, six pages long, that
Miss Champlin was under any obligations to her father's second wife.
Mr. Champlin had never done any thing for his daughter, and she had
no expectations from him. As far as she could learn, they were not at
all desirable people for a young lady of Miss Champlin's fortune and
expectations to associate with, and really, she must think that Miss
Champlin showed a very singular taste, in preferring the company of a
set of vulgar relations and spoiled children, in a country village, to
the society of some of the first people in the land, both in regard to
station and cultivation. But of course Miss Champlin must choose for
herself.
Milly only laughed over this letter: she knew her aunt well enough to
be aware that her anger at the disappointment would exhaust itself in
words, and that she would then appreciate Edah's conduct. Severely as
she knew she should feel the loss of her friend's society, she would
not say one word to discourage her from the resolution she had formed.
And it was now settled that as soon as school was out, Edah should go
at once to Brooksville, where her father resided.
"A year ago, Edah," remarked Milly, "you would hardly have thought of
doing such a thing. I do not mean, of course, that you would not have
done it for me, if I had been sick, but you would not have thought
yourself called upon to make such a great sacrifice for any one."
"I hope I am very different from what I was a year ago," returned
Edah. "A year ago, I should never have thought of going to church in
the rain, as we did yesterday; and as to wearing a gingham dress and
woollen shawl, I really believe I should have stayed at home every
Sunday for six months rather than do such a thing."
"I do not think you care so much for dress, as you did," said Milly.
"I hope I am not growing careless about it; am I?"
"Oh, no; you are as neat as ever, but you do not spend so much time
upon it as you used to. I remember your saying, last summer, that you
could not possibly dress in less than an hour, and now you find a good
deal less than that sufficient. And you do not spend nearly so much
money upon it."
"I know I do not. It does not seem right to waste so much upon mere
personal adornment, when there are so many better uses for money. The
difference between a twelve-dollar lace collar and a twelve-shilling
French worked one, would furnish a very good Sunday School library; and
how is any one the better for wearing a twelve-dollar collar?"
"No better," said Milly; "for besides the expense, the worked collar
is much the prettiest in my opinion. I remember, last summer, when the
Miss Reeves had just been at our house with a great display of Honiton
lace in collars, sleeves, handkerchiefs, &c., my father, who seldom
notices dress, asked me how long it had been the fashion for ladies to
wear ragged lace. Aunt Maria was quite indignant. But you know, Edah,
some people say, 'What would become of the people that make these
things if no one wore them?'"
"They would make something else, I suppose," said Edah; "and moreover,
I never heard that these people felt themselves bound to wear articles
after they went out of fashion, out of compassion for the people that
made them. I confess that question has puzzled me a little; but for all
that I cannot think it right to spend so much money for mere finery,
when it might be profitably employed in other ways."
"I was speaking of your being altered, Edah," said Milly, after a few
moments' silence; "I notice it more in your temper than in any thing
else. You are much less quick and impatient than you used to be."
"I am glad to hear you say so, Milly, for I assure you, I cannot see
the alteration in myself half as much as I wish I could. No one knows
how earnestly I strive and pray for a Christian temper; but every
little while something happens to upset me, and I find myself speaking
and feeling in a way, that when I think of it, makes me almost ready to
despair of myself. This very morning, Mary Snowden vexed me so, that I
hardly knew how to control myself. It does seem to me that she takes
pleasure in annoying me."
"She takes pleasure in annoying every one," said Milly. "Nothing
delights her so much as to put any one out of temper. I cannot
understand that sort of disposition myself."
"I confess I can," said Edah. "I have sometimes—I hope not lately—felt
something of it myself. A good many girls think it shows wit to
tease people, especially when they are irritable. It is a fact that
I am sometimes afraid to open my mouth before Mary Snowden, she will
invent so many ways to annoy me. I have tried every way to conciliate
her, but it seems as if the more I endeavor to be on my guard, the
more determined she is to throw me off it; and she puts on such a
face of surprise and contemptuous pity, and shrugs her shoulders so
significantly if I show the least annoyance, or even try to defend
myself ever so gently, I don't know how to bear it at all sometimes."
"It is strange enough," said Milly, "that any person should take
pleasure in seeing one betrayed into sin, but I believe it is often the
case, much oftener than people acknowledge to themselves. You will have
to keep a double guard over yourself at home."
"Yes," sighed Edah: "I almost dread it; but after all, the discipline
will be good for me. I have spent all my life so easily and pleasantly,
that I can hardly say I know what trouble is. You must write to me very
often, Milly, and tell me all that you are doing. I shall find time to
write to you, whatever else I have to do."
The next day saw Milly in New York, preparing for her excursion to the
seaside, and Edah in the stage-coach on her way to her father's. Her
heart almost sunk within her as she drew near to Brooksville, and saw
the village before her, but she tried to keep up good courage. Her
father received her at the gate affectionately enough, but Edah was
shocked to see how much he was altered. His eyes were red and watery,
his hands trembled, his figure was bent, and Edah thought his breath
smelt of spirits. Sam received her with a noisy demonstration of
kindness, which drew down a reproof from Susan for being so rude. Susan
herself was cold, and almost uncivil, and answered Edah's inquiries
about her mother very shortly.
"She is very unwell, indeed," she said, "and quite unfit to be troubled
with company."
"But I am not company," said Edah, good-naturedly, and taking up little
Pauline, who came to her side. "I have come to be of some use, if I
can. Sam wrote to me that mother was very unwell, and the baby also,
and I thought if that were the case, it would be more than you could do
to take care of every thing."
"I am much obliged, I am sure," said Susan, in a tone which seemed to
express something very different from her words; "but I don't know that
I have made any complaint. Do get down, Pauline; how troublesome you
are!"
But Pauline still kept her seat, and looked at her sister with an air
half of defiance, half of fear. Susan would have proceeded to force,
but at that moment she was called into the kitchen, and went out,
leaving it to Sam and Pauline to show Edah her room, which she was glad
to find pleasant in its aspect, and in comfortable order, with windows
which commanded an extremely pretty prospect. Pauline was unwilling to
leave her even here, but by alternate coaxing and scolding on Sam's
part, she was at last prevailed on to go down stairs, and leave her
sister to herself.
Edah unpacked her trunk, and took out her presents for her mother and
the children. She then dressed herself in a pretty French calico frock
and black silk apron, and went down stairs. She was passing a half-open
door, when she heard a baby cry, and a feeble voice said:
"Susan, is that you?"
"It is Edah, mother," she said, entering softly. "Susan said you were
asleep, and I did not like to disturb you."
Mrs. Champlin was sitting up in bed, holding the baby in her arms. She
was very thin and pale, and seemed hardly able to support the weight of
the puny little creature. She seemed very much pleased to see Edah, and
kissed her affectionately.
"It is very good of you, I am sure," she said, with an appearance of a
good deal of feeling, "to come and stay with us, instead of going to
your friends, but I am afraid we cannot make it very pleasant for you."
"I did not come a-pleasuring, as nurse says," replied Edah, smiling;
"but from Sam's account of things, I thought Susan must need some help,
and came to see what I could do: so let me take the baby to begin with.
You do not seem fit to hold him at all. What a tiny creature it is!"
"Very small," assented Mrs. Champlin; "he has been sick ever since he
was born. If you will hand me that little bottle of milk, I will feed
him."
"Do let me try," said Edah, bringing the bottle; "I am sure I can do
it, and do you lie down again."
She took the child accordingly, and began feeding it, not unskilfully,
while Mrs. Champlin sank back on her pillow, and watched her at first
rather anxiously, and then apparently with some amusement.
"Why, you get on very nicely," she said at length. "Do they teach
baby-tending at your school?"
"No," said Edah; "but I have played with Mrs. Wardwell's baby a good
deal, especially since I knew I was coming here, and she taught me to
feed and dress it. I thought, as you had a young baby, it would be
convenient to know, and, besides, I love the little things dearly."
So saying, she removed the handkerchief she had tucked under the
child's chin, and straightened out its clothes quite scientifically,
addressing to it, at the same time, some of that highly rational and
instructive conversation in which nurses are accustomed to deal, and
with which babies are at all times greatly delighted. She was engaged
in this manner, and in relating to her mother the incidents of the
journey, when Susan entered.
"So! You seem to have got yourself into business," she said, in a tone
which was a shade more gracious than any she had yet used. "Do you like
babies?"
"Very much," said Edah.
"I am glad of it, for I don't. I never can get on with children, and
Sam and Pauline plague my life out."
"Sam is one of the children, is he?" said her mother. "He is a whole
year older than you are."
"He is old enough to know how to behave himself, then," returned Susan;
"but he don't, and I believe he never will. Tea is ready, Edah, or
perhaps I should say Miss Champlin."
"I think, Susan," said her mother, "that I will go out into the other
room to-night, as Edah is here. I can lie on the sofa, and Sam will
draw me out in the rocking-chair."
Susan made some objections, but her mother prevailed, and was drawn
into the other room, greatly to the delight of Pauline and Sam.
"Really, mother," said Mr. Champlin, "you are getting quite smart. Edah
must be a good doctor, I think. But come, let us have our supper, for
it is past the time."
"I think sister ought to make tea, Susan," said Pauline, as Susan sat
down before the teaboard. "She is the oldest."
"Of course she ought," struck in Sam, while Mrs. Champlin looked
uncomfortable, and Susan, in a voice trembling with anger, replied,—
"Oh, of course, I am nobody, now that 'sister' has come. I am only
good for something when there is work to be done. But I am sure she is
welcome to the place, if she wants it."
"But I don't want it Susan," said Edah, gently. "I never do like
to make tea, and to-night I am very tired. Besides, Sam, I am only
company, you know."
"But you said you were not company," persisted Sam, "and you will have
to do it now, for Sue looks so cross, she will turn all the milk sour."
Susan looked more angry than ever at this provoking speech, and was
about to rise from the table, when her father, in a peremptory voice,
commanded them both to be quiet, and Susan to make the tea, adding that
their squabbles were enough to drive one crazy.
No grace was said at the table. Sam employed all his wit, which,
indeed, was not small, to annoy and provoke Susan, while she, on her
part, was sullen and silent, resisting all Edah's attempts to draw
her into conversation. Pauline asked for every thing on the table,
interrupted everybody, and regularly refused to do every thing that
Susan inquired of her. She showed great alacrity in waiting on her
mother, however, and seemed very affectionate both to her and the baby.
It may easily be imagined that the meal was not a very pleasant one
under these circumstances, and Edah was glad when it came to a close.
She produced her presents, which were received with great delight, and
even Susan smoothed her brow and seemed pleased when Edah presented her
with a pretty new dress, and a pair of nice under-sleeves, saying, in
rather an apologetic manner—
"It is not a very sentimental present, Susan, but I did not know what
you would like, and I thought, perhaps, you would not have seen any
thing like this. It is quite new in style."
"It is very welcome, I'm sure," said Susan, unfolding and admiring
it; "for I've hardly a decent dress to put on. See, mother, isn't it
pretty?"
"Beautiful," replied Mrs. Champlin, "and it will be very becoming, if
you get it nicely made up."
"I declare," said Sam, "it makes you look quite handsome, Sue."
"You are a judge, no doubt," returned Susan, but not ill-naturedly; "I
am very much obliged to you, Edah, for remembering me. I did not expect
it."
"Why not?" asked Edah.
"Ob, because nobody does; that's all. I am nobody here—only, as I said,
when there is work to be done."
"You must be very useful then, I am sure," said Edah; "when I was
fourteen, I was the last person thought of when there was work to be
done. I suspect you are a good deal before me now in housekeeping."
"Susan is a good housekeeper for her age," remarked Mrs. Champlin; "she
makes excellent cake and bread, and sews very nicely."
These compliments quite conciliated Susan, and Edah was surprised to
see how well she appeared, and how pretty she was, when her face was
not deformed by an angry flush, or an expression of sullenness. She
could not help thinking that some of her bad temper might be the result
of unfortunate circumstances, and resolved to do her best to conciliate
her and gain her confidence, and to remove the jealousy which had
evidently been roused in her sister's bosom towards herself.
When eight o'clock came, Susan informed Pauline that it was time for
her to go to bed, but Pauline declined listening, and appealed to her
mother, who decided that she might sit up an hour longer on Edah's
account, if she would promise to go to bed quietly at the end of that
time.
Susan seemed to take this permission a good deal amiss, and had quite
an argument with her mother on the subject; but Pauline had her own
way, and stayed up as long as any member of the family. Sam was deeply
engaged in one of his new books all the evening, and took but little
share in the conversation. As for Mr. Champlin, he went out immediately
after tea, and did not return till bedtime.
Edah made her long ride and her fatigue an excuse for retiring early to
her room, when she sat down to write in her journal, as she did at the
close of every day. She had just finished, and was taking up her Bible,
when Susan entered, without knocking, which a little annoyed Edah.
She drew a chair to the table, without waiting to be asked, and sat
down, saying as she did so, "I thought you were in a hurry to go to
bed. I suppose the truth was, you wanted to get away, and have a little
peace and quiet."
"Not exactly," said Edah, "though I always like to have a little time
before going to bed; don't you?"
"No," answered Susan, "not unless I have an interesting book to read.
What a pretty Bible that is! But why do you have two?"
"One is a Prayer-Book," said Edah. "I think it a very pretty one!"
"Are you an Episcopalian?" asked Susan, abruptly.
"To be sure," replied Edah: "are not you?"
"I am not any thing," said Susan. "We hardly ever have church here, and
when we do, Mr. Willson is so dull, I can't bear to hear him. I don't
like the service either: it is so long and tiresome, and I never can
find the places."
"I could soon show you about them," said Edah; "and when you come to
understand the service, I am sure you would not think it tiresome. But
what do you do on Sundays when there is no church?"
"Sometimes I go to the Methodist meeting and sometimes I stay at home.
Father never goes: he sits at home and reads the newspapers, or goes
over to Strong's. Sam goes to Raeburn to church, when he does not stay
at home to plague me. Did you ever see such a tormenting boy as he is?"
"It is a pity he has got into the way of making such speeches," said
Edah, "for he seems very intelligent and affectionate."
"You will find out how affectionate he is after a while," returned
Susan. "Your being here is a new thing now, but by and by he will tease
you just as he does me; though perhaps he may do differently, as you
have something to give him, and I have not, and even if I had, I should
be ashamed to bribe him. As for Pauline, she makes it the object of her
life to tease me, and mother always takes her part. She never spoiled
me so, I know. Do you read your Bible every night?"
"Yes," replied Edah, "and every morning."
"What is the use of reading it so much?" asked Susan. "You must know it
all by heart, I should think."
"Not half as much as I wish I did; but I find something new every time
I read."
Edah looked at her watch as she spoke, and Susan took the hint.
"I see you are wanting to get rid of me," she said, rising, "and no
wonder. What an elegant watch! I suppose Mr. Liston gave it to you. It
is a nice thing to have rich relations and friends. Well, good-night!
You need not hurry about getting up, for we are not very early risers,"
and so saying she disappeared.
Edah, left alone, turned again to her reading and prayer. Tired as she
was, she did not close her eyes for a long time, but lay thinking of
the events of the day, and of her new situation. It was certainly a
very different one from any in which she had ever been before, and she
could not but foresee a good many annoyances and trials of temper, for
she perceived that Susan was jealous of her, and she had already seen
enough of that young lady to know that she was not very likely to put
any great restraint upon her feelings. Sam and Pauline seemed to her
easier to manage, though the one was turbulent and mischievous, and
the other thoroughly spoiled. Mrs. Champlin appeared kindly disposed
towards her, and the baby was certainly an object of pity. Her father
she had hardly seen, but she thought him a good deal altered, and not
for the better.
Edah saw that she should have occasion for all those principles of
action which she had lately acquired, but she resolved to be patient
and gentle, to try to control her unruly temper, and with a prayer for
grace to do all things to the glory of God, she fell asleep.
CHAPTER III.
THE NEW HOME.
THE next day, Edah spent most of the morning in unpacking her trunks,
arranging the books she had brought with her, and so forth, all of
which was very interesting to Pauline, who overlooked the process, and
was very desirous to be allowed to help, though her mother was rather
afraid she would be troublesome.
"Shall I be troublesome, sister?" asked the little girl.
"No," said Edah, smiling, "for if you do not do as I wish you to, I
shall send you down stairs. You may stay as long as you please, if you
will be quiet and not meddle, and I shall like very much to have you
help me."
Pauline looked rather disturbed at the first part of this speech, but
finally decided to remain upon these conditions. Edah was careful to
give her enough to do, and not to put temptation in her way, and thus
the morning passed very pleasantly.
"What makes you have so many books, sister?" asked the child, as Edah
gave her a heavy dictionary to put away.
"Some to read," said Edah, "and some to study."
"I did not know that grown-up people studied," said Pauline.
"Did you not? Don't you know that lawyers have to study a great deal
before they are allowed to practise law, and doctors before they can
cure people? And a great many people study for pleasure."
"That is funny! I am sure I would not do that."
"Can you read, Pauline?" asked Edah.
"Not very well," replied Pauline; "not well enough to read stories, and
I would rather have some one tell them for me."
"But you cannot always have some one to tell you stories, you know, and
there are a great many necessary things to be learned out of books that
no one can tell you. If you would spell every day, you would soon learn
to read well, and then you could amuse yourself without being dependent
on anybody."
"There is no one to hear me now," said Pauline. "Mother has not time,
even if she is well enough, and Sue won't; and even if she does, she is
so cross I cannot do any thing."
"Are you sure it is only Susan that is cross? Don't you tease her
sometimes?"
Pauline hung her head as she said, "I don't tease her any more than she
does me."
"Then you do tease her a little?"
Pauline did not make any reply, but said, after a little, "I wish you
would hear me. I should like to read to you, and I would do just what
you wanted me to."
"I will try the experiment," said Edah, "if mother is willing, but then
I shall do so only on two conditions: one is that you shall come the
moment I call you, and the other, that you shall do just as I tell you,
while you are reading."
"Well," said Pauline, "I will. But won't you tell me stories too
sometimes, because you know it will be a good while before I can read
well?"
"Oh, yes! I will tell you a story every day that you read well, unless
something very important prevents me. But we must ask mother."
"Oh, she won't care: she lets me do just as I please always."
"Is Pauline here?" asked Susan, appearing at the door. "You must have
had a nice time unpacking with her in the room. Do come down stairs,
Pauline, and leave Edah in peace, and not be teasing her every minute:
how troublesome you are!"
"I am not troublesome: am I, sister?" said Pauline.
"Oh, no," said Edah; "she has helped me a great deal."
"I should like to see her help any one," retorted Susan: "she has never
done any thing but hinder yet."
"I'm sure I helped you shell all the beans for dinner yesterday," said
the child coloring, and beginning to cry, "and I got the baby to sleep
twice. You are just as hateful as you can be, Sue, and I will never do
any thing for you again as long as I live. I love sister a great deal
the best, and I don't love you a bit—so!"
"Hush, hush, Polly! That is very naughty to speak so to sister Susan,"
said Edah, trying to check her. "You must not do so, if you are going
to be my little girl."
"Oh pray don't stop her, Miss Champlin," said Susan, in a voice which
trembled with anger: "it may as well come out first as last. I see she
has learned her lesson already; but I must say, I think you might be
better employed than in setting the child up against her own sister. I
shall just tell mother, and see what she thinks of such goings on."
So saying, she left the room, despite of Edah's efforts to detain her.
"Now, Polly, see what mischief you have done by speaking so foolishly,"
said Edah. "You have made Susan angry at me, and worried poor sick
mother."
"I do love you the best, any way," returned Pauline, still crying.
"If you love me, you must show it by being good," said Edah, "and not
by making such naughty speeches. Susan has had a great deal to do, and
it is no wonder she is fretted sometime; and you ought to try and make
things easy for her. Now I think if you really want to be a good girl,
you will go and tell Susan that you are sorry."
After a little hesitation, Pauline said—
"I will, if you want me to, but I know she will only be cross."
"That makes no difference," said Edah; "if she is cross, you must be
the more good-natured, that is all. Now, go and tell her."
Pauline went, with some hesitation, and found Susan already relating
the story of her misdeeds to her mother, who looked anxious and
uncomfortable.
"How could you be so naughty, Pauline?" she said to her. "Did you tell
Susan you did not love her a bit?"
"Yes, mother," replied Polly; "but sister said I was very naughty, and
that I must come and tell Susan that I was sorry; so I came."
"That's a good girl," said her mother. "You see, Susan, that Edah is
not doing any thing wrong about it, and that you are quite mistaken.
Come, now, kiss and be friends."
Susan consented rather unwillingly; and Pauline, quite elated with
her victory over herself, went on telling her mother how sister had
promised to hear her read, and was going to tell her a story every day
when she was good.
Mrs. Champlin readily consented to the arrangement, thinking at the
time that Edah would soon tire of her charge.
When Pauline left the room, Susan said—
"You see how it is, mother. She wants to take the whole management into
her own hands, and rule the household just as she pleases, and that is
why she makes such a fuss over Pauline—not because she cares any thing
about her."
"For shame, Susan! You are very wrong to say so, and I will hear no
more about it. I think I am able to maintain my own authority. When I
cannot, I will ask your help. You have had a great deal of work to do
since I was sick, I know, and I give you great credit for doing it so
nicely; but I do wish you would try to get the better of your faults of
temper. Your perpetual quarrels with Sam and Pauline weary my life out,
and I feel as if I could die. But if I should be taken away, I don't
know what would become of the family, for you have no sort of influence
with Pauline. Do, for my sake, my child, try to get along a little
better."
Susan was moved by her mother's remonstrances, and promised to try and
keep the peace, if she could—a promise which she kept very well for two
days, and part of the third.
But unfortunately her batter-pudding turned out to be heavy at dinner,
and Sam, as usual, took the opportunity to make some annoying speeches.
Now, a failure in cookery is at best a trying thing, especially to a
young housekeeper, and it becomes doubly so when commented upon. Susan
lost her temper, and the more irritation she showed, the more Sam
teased her, despite Edah's efforts to stop him.
"I do not see, Sam," she said to him, when they were alone after
dinner, "how you can take such pleasure in annoying and teasing poor
Susan. It does not seem to me right or fair."
"She need not be so touchy, then," said Sam. "She swells up like a
turkey-cock if one looks at her. If she did not care any thing about
it, I should let her alone."
"Well, I do not think it is right," said Edah. "If you had a lame foot,
you would not think that a reason why people should tread on your toes,
would you?"
"You need not take Sue's part," returned Sam, evading a reply, "for she
cannot bear you. She is as jealous of you as she can be."
"I am afraid she is," returned Edah; "but that makes no difference. It
does not make me want to see her uncomfortable, because she does not
like me, and I think it is very wrong to make her so angry."
"Why is it wrong?" asked Sam, in rather a defiant tone.
"It is leading her into temptation," replied Edah; "offending her, as
the Bible says. You know our Saviour says—'Whosoever shall offend one
of these little ones'—"
"Oh, don't try to come the parson over me," said Sam, interrupting her.
"I tell you what it is, Miss Champlin, I think you take a deal too much
on yourself in this house. It is just as Sam says—you want to rule the
whole family, and if I were mother, I would not have it. A pretty story
it is, to be sure," he continued, getting more and more angry as he
went on, "for you to stay away all your life, and never come near us,
and the first moment you do come, to set every thing topsy turvy."
Edah felt the color rise in her own face, but she controlled herself,
and said gently—
"But, Sam, how you do mistake me! I have not the least desire to govern
you, but I don't like to see you doing wrong, and annoying Sam so."
"Susan can take care of herself," returned Sam, "and so can I, without
any of your help. You think because you are two or three years older,
and have some property more than we have, and some grand acquaintances,
that it is mighty condescending in you to come out here and make a
visit. But we are as good as you are, any day, and as to being walked
over by you with your young lady airs, I, for one, won't, and there's
an end of it."
So saying, he left the room, slamming the door after him.
Edah was both hurt and angry, but she tried to govern herself, and
called Pauline to take her reading lesson. But the day seemed an
unfortunate one. Pauline was beginning to tire a little of her regular
employment, and the lessons had ceased to be a novelty. She was rather
unwilling to come, and was so inattentive that Edah reproved her, and
told her that she must do better, or lose her story. Pauline did a
little better for the moment, but soon relapsed again, and was really
very provoking.
"Why, Pauline," she said, "you must do better, or I cannot hear you.
I cannot spend the time with you, unless you take pains to learn. You
don't try at all."
"I don't care," said Pauline; "I won't read if I don't choose to."
"Then you will lose your story."
"I don't care for that, either," retorted the child. "Sam will tell me
stories, if I want him to. I am not going to read any more."
"Very well," said Edah, putting away the book.
"I like Susan better than you now," said Pauline, after a little,
apparently determined to provoke a contest. "I don't like you a bit."
Edah made no answer.
"I don't think your hair is pretty a bit," after a short pause. "Mother
says you are not half as pretty as Susan."
"Mother is quite right," said Edah, smiling, though she felt annoyed.
"Susan is very handsome, I think myself."
"You only say so to plague me, but I don't care. I shall not like you
any more."
Edah rose and went to her own room, shutting Pauline out. She spent
some time in endeavoring to compose her feelings, and when she had it
some measure succeeded, she sat down and wrote a long letter to Milly.
She said not a word of any annoyances at home, but gave an account of
her journey, and of the kind reception she had met with, and when it
was finished, she put on her bonnet and carried it to the post-office
herself.
The pleasure of writing to her friend, with the exercise and the fresh
air, entirely dispelled her annoyance, and she returned home in very
good spirits. Mrs. Champlin came out to tea, and was, as usual, kind
and cordial to Edah, and Pauline had almost forgotten her pet. But Sam
did his best, by words and looks, to be disagreeable, and that is an
undertaking in which any one can succeed. Susan seemed to enjoy Edah's
discomfort, and indeed said—
"I thought you would find Sam out, after a while."
After tea, Pauline came round for her story, as usual; but after a
little hesitation, Edah said—
"You know, Polly, I cannot tell you a story, because you did not read
well, and would not mind."
"I don't care! I think you might, any way," said Pauline, bursting into
tears.
"What is the matter, Pauline?" asked her mother, rather sharply.
"Sister won't tell me a story. She promised to, and now she won't."
"I promised to tell you one, if you were good—not without," said Edah.
"You know that was part of the bargain."
"Do stop crying, Pauline," said Mrs. Champlin; "you tire and worry my
life out. If you did not mean to keep on telling her stories, Edah, you
should not have begun. It is perfectly absurd to expect such a baby
as she is to keep to an engagement, and I must say I think you take a
great deal upon yourself in attempting to govern her at all. I wish you
would leave that to me."
Sam and Susan exchanged glances of triumph.
Edah felt her color rise, and her lip trembled, as she said—
"I did not mean any interference, mother, I am sure—"
But she was interrupted.
"Do let the matter drop, and have done with it. I am tired of these
constant disputes, and they have been worse than ever since you came.
Pauline, be quiet."
"Come here, Polly," said Sam, "and I will tell you a story, without
asking you any thing for it. I am not as rich as some folk; but I can
afford to give away a story."
Edah's first impulse was to leave the room, and shut herself up in her
own apartment for the remainder of the evening; but she felt it would
be wrong to give way to the rebellious feelings which were rising in
her heart, so she restrained her tears—those provoking tears, which
would come whenever she was angry—and took up an apron which had been
begun for Pauline.
"Pray, don't trouble yourself to do that," said Susan; "I can do it as
well as not, and I would much rather. I do wish you would let it be,"
she continued, as Edah kept on with her work; "I prefer to finish it
myself. How ridiculous you do make yourself!" she added, in a tone too
low for her mother to hear, as she took the work out of her hands.
Edah could not trust herself to speak, so she resigned the sewing
in silence, and began to work at a collar of her own—Sam and Susan,
meanwhile, keeping up a lively conversation till their mother retired.
Susan made herself very active in waiting on her mother, and was very
careful not to allow Edah to do any thing either for her or the baby,
which she had undressed every night since her arrival.
Edah took a lamp and went to her own room as soon as she could.
"I will go back to Miss Anderson's to-morrow," she thought. "I might as
well have gone with Milly, for all the thanks I get for coming here."
But better thoughts soon succeeded. She could not think that she had
done wrong, as far as Pauline was concerned, for she had only kept
her word with the child, and her mother had known of the arrangement
from the beginning. At the same time, she felt conscious of having
indulged very improper feelings, both towards Sam and Susan, and of not
having made sufficient efforts to overcome them. She regretted what
had occurred very much, as she feared that she should have no further
influence either with Sam or Pauline, to whom she had become much
attached.
After a good deal of painful thought on the subject, she concluded
to remain a few days longer, and try to set matters right with her
stepmother. If she did not succeed in doing so, and if there seemed no
farther prospect of her being useful in the family, she could at any
time return to Miss Anderson's or go to New York.
She had just finished her reading, and was preparing for bed, when her
mother's door at the foot of the stairs was opened, and her father
called loudly, "Susan! Susan! Get up directly; Pauline is in a fit."
But Susan was a sound sleeper, and did not hear.
Edah threw on her wrapper, and ran down stairs to her mother's
room, where she found the poor child in convulsions, and her mother
supporting her, though herself almost fainting from weakness and fright.
Edah was one of those happy people whose courage rises with the danger,
and who are cool in proportion to the agitation of those about them,
and now she instinctively took the command of affairs on herself.
"Run for the doctor, father; but first waken Sam," she said, taking the
struggling child on her lap: "oh, here he is! Sam, you must make a fire
directly, and put on plenty of water—a good large fire, Sam—to heat
quick. Susan, take Eddy up stairs, and put him into your bed, without
waking him, if you can. There, Polly dear, sister is holding you! You
will be better presently. Don't cry, if you can help it, Susan, but
attend to mother. Has father gone for the doctor?"
"Yes," said Sam, "and I have made the fire."
"That's right. Now, if you have not a bathing-tub, get the largest
wash-tub in the house, and have it ready in the dining-room. See if
there is any mustard, and have it at hand. I know a bath is often the
first thing needed."
"How you do think of every thing!" Sam could not help saying. "Do you
think she will die, Edah?"
"Hush!" said Edah, fearing the child would understand. "I hope she will
soon be better. Here comes the doctor."
For two or three hours, Pauline lay unconscious, apparently between
life and death, and it seemed doubtful which would obtain the mastery.
The convulsions which shook her little feeble frame were frightful to
witness, and Sam and Susan were almost overcome. But Edah preserved
her calmness, and did every thing necessary, with a quiet good sense
and steadiness, which astonished the doctor, who was not accustomed to
think very highly of young ladies.
"Upon my word," said he, "you are one of a thousand. If you should
think of studying medicine, I should like to take you into my office."
"I have no such views at present," returned Edah, smiling, "but if I
ever should have, I will let you know."
At last, the convulsions became less frequent, and ceased: the little
girl seemed to return to consciousness, and to suffer less, and after
a while she fell asleep on Edah's lap. Tired as she was, she would not
move for fear of disturbing her, but persuading the children to go to
bed, she sat down in a rocking-chair, where she could rest her head
comfortably. Mrs. Champlin also fell asleep, and the house was once
more quiet.
Pauline slept till morning, and awoke almost free from pain, but weak
and languid, and disposed to be very fretful. She would allow no one
but Edah to do any thing for her: sister must rock her, and sing to
her; sister must feed her; she would take medicine from no one else,
and obey no one else. She was often restless at night, and then Edah
must take her on her lap, and sing to her till she fell asleep again.
All this was wearisome enough, especially to one entirely unaccustomed
to such labors, and the more so, from there being no servants in the
house, except a young Irish girl, who, as Sam said, was as green as
the island she came from. Edah felt this deficiency very much, and she
thought, moreover, that it was altogether too hard upon Susan, who was
growing very fast, and, of course, not very strong.
One evening, when Pauline had fallen asleep, after an unusually fretful
day, Sam came softly into the room, and whispered to Edah—
"Mother is asleep, and Sue wants you to come down stairs and get some
supper, and have a little rest. I am sure you must want it, for you are
as pale as a ghost. I will sit by Polly, and call you if I cannot keep
her quiet."
Edah willingly consented, for she did indeed feel wearied almost to
death.
Susan had got a nice supper ready, near the open window, at which the
sweet evening air came in pleasantly.
"Come, Edah," she said, "draw up the other rocking-chair, and let us
have a comfortable rest. I don't believe you have sat down to-day, and
I'm sure I haven't. My shoulders and ankles ache like the toothache."
"You are growing so fast," said Edah, gladly accepting the cup of tea
Susan handed her; "I think it is altogether too hard upon you. I wish
we had a right good girl that would do every thing in the kitchen, so
that you need have nothing to do but to wait upon mother."
"That would be nice, if it could only be done," returned Susan: "but it
can't."
"Why not?" asked Edah. "Cannot you find such a person here?"
"Oh, yes; I could find one easy enough, if that were all; but the truth
is, Edah," she continued, after a pause, "we cannot afford it. It is as
much as we can do to get along and live as we are, and we do not half
do that. Father does not attend to his business, but lets every thing
go at loose ends, and yet he won't let Sam do any thing by which he
could earn his own living.
"Mother used to sew a little before she was sick, but we had to be
careful not to let father know it. Since she has been laid up, there
have been a great many days when I have not known how to get a decent
dinner—and there you have the whole story."
Susan tried to laugh, but her lip quivered, and her eyes filled with
tears.
"I wish I had known this before," said Edah, much affected. "I saw
indeed that father was altered, and that you and mother seemed
careworn; but I had no idea it was so bad. I might have helped you as
well as not."
"You have done all we could expect, I am sure," returned Susan, "in
dressing Pauline up so nicely, to say nothing of myself. I suppose
you thought I was very cross when you came, and I know I am very
bad-tempered, but I should not be quite so bad, if I were not worried
out of my life."
"But, Susan, I might pay the girl myself. I have money enough with me,
and can get more by writing for it. If you will find a proper person,
I will agree to pay her wages, as long as I stay, at any rate. I would
have some one that can do every thing about house, and then you and I
can do all the nursing, sewing, and so on. And by and by, when they are
all well, you can go to school if you like."
Susan tried to answer, but was unable to control her voice for a minute
or two. At last she said—
"I cannot say how much I am obliged to you: I am sure I don't know what
we should have done without you. I will find some one to-morrow."
"But what will mother say?" asked Edah. "I am afraid she will think as
she did about Pauline, that I interfere too much: I felt very badly
about that, though I really think that as long as she knew from the
beginning—"
"Pshaw!" interrupted Susan. "That was not it. She happened to feel just
so, that was all. You must not mind what she says when she is worried,
for no matter how she feels, she just speaks it right out. She will be
right glad, I know, and very much obliged to you. As for father, he
won't say any thing as long as we don't ask him for money."
"Don't ask him, then," said Edah: "we can manage that easily enough. I
will pay you three dollars a week for my board, and get what is wanted
for Pauline, and that will do something towards household expenses. But
I must go back to Polly, or she will be crying."
The arrangement was communicated to Mrs. Champlin, who saw no objection
to it. And a capable middle-aged woman was soon installed in the
kitchen. The change was an agreeable one in every respect, for with
the best intentions in the world, Susan was not much of a cook, and
Biddy's ideas on the subject were very vague. Ruby-Anne cooked, washed,
and cleaned to admiration, and the whole house soon assumed a more
comfortable aspect.
Susan seemed for a while fairly shamed out of her ill-humor, and Edah
felt herself much more pleasantly situated at home than she had yet
been. Pauline improved rapidly, and in a little while seemed as well
as ever, and Mrs. Champlin appeared to be gaining strength under her
improved fare. The poor baby, however, did not partake of the general
amendment: it continued a sickly little creature, and required a great
deal of care.
"Sam," said Edah, one Saturday morning, after Pauline had quite
recovered, "do you think we could manage to go over to Raeburn to
church to-morrow?"
"I don't know," said Sam; "I suppose you could not walk over, could
you?"
"I am afraid I could not walk there and back," replied Edah. "But I
really want to go to-morrow very much, and I wish we could contrive it."
"Why do you want to go to-morrow particularly?" asked Susan.
"It will be Communion Sunday, I presume," said Edah; "it is the first
Sunday in the month, and you know I have not been to church since I
came here."
"They do have Communion the first Sunday in the month, I know," said
Sam. "I presume I could get some sort of a 'gohicle,' though perhaps
not a very smart one—not much like Mr. Liston's carriage; but I suppose
you won't mind its not being very handsome."
"I do not care what it is, so it is clean and safe," said Edah; "but I
have quite set my heart upon going."
"I will do the best I can," said Sam.
And he accordingly exerted himself to such good purpose that at
teatime, he told Edah he had engaged a horse and wagon for the next
morning.
"You will have to be ready early though," he added, laughing, "for the
horse is not what you would call a fast one, by any means."
Mrs. Champlin seemed to wonder that people should take so much pains
to go to one church instead of another, but she made no objection. She
did not know much about Episcopalians, she said, but she had always
supposed they were pretty much the same as Roman Catholics. Sam was
wonderfully taken with them, and very often went to Raeburn to church,
and sometimes she felt troubled about it, for she would not like to
have him turn out a papist.
"They are no more alike than Presbyterians and Mormons are alike," said
Sam, rather sharply; "not that ever I could see."
"You need not be so sharp, Sam," replied Mrs. Champlin, smiling. "I
said I did not know much about them."
Sam was about to return a still sharper answer, when an entreating look
from Edah stopped him, and he only muttered that he wished people would
not talk of what they did not understand.
"I like them, any way," said Pauline, in her sharp way, "for sister
says the Episcopal Church is her church, and I am going to have it for
mine too when I grow up."
"Well done, Polly!" exclaimed her father, laughing. "Stick to your
friends. But if you are a Churchwoman, you will have to learn the
Catechism, and how will you like that?"
"Sister will teach it to me, I know," said the little girl. "She has
taught me some hymns out of her church book already, and she tells me
beautiful stories out of the Bible, when I am going to sleep. Sister
will teach me the—I don't know how to pronounce it—won't you?"
"If mother is willing," replied Edah.
"Teach her all you can," said Mrs. Champlin; "no one else takes any
pains with her. I don't know what the poor child will do when you go
away, I am sure."
"Or any of the rest of us," added Sam.
"You will do as you did before," said Susan, rather sharply. "Edah is
very good to be sure, but she is not the only person in the world."
A fortnight before, Sam would have taken advantage of this speech to
provoke Susan into a regular rage, but now he let it pass, and adroitly
turned the conversation upon some new shirts she had been making for
him, declaring that he liked them better than any he had ever had. This
compliment put Susan in a good humor at once, and she was very pleasant
all the evening.
The next morning, at a little after nine, the "gohicle," as Sam was
pleased to term it, was at the door, and Edah appeared, ready dressed,
and with her Prayer-Book in her hand. She could not help laughing, as
she seated herself in the old-fashioned one-horse wagon, and thought
of what Miss Concklin would say to such a conveyance. It was clean,
however, and tolerably easy, and the old horse started off at a better
pace than his appearance had promised.
When they reached the top of one of the hills which surrounded the
village, Sam stopped to let the horse rest, and to give Edah an
opportunity of admiring the beautiful prospect spread out beneath them.
On one side lay the village they had just left, with its neat white
houses peeping out from among the trees, but, alas! with no church
tower or spire to point towards heaven. In the opposite direction lay
Raeburn, nestled in a nook of the green hills, just where two clear
brawling streams came winding down between high wooded banks to meet
the bright river, which now glanced in the sun, and now disappeared
under the shadow of the bank, as it wound from side to side of the
narrow green valley.
Here and there on the hillsides arose tall columns of smoke, showing
that the autumn "burnings" had begun, and the air was filled with the
indescribable hum and murmur of a calm day in the middle of August.
As they gazed and listened, the faint sound of the bell arose from the
distant church tower, and Sam started the old horse, who seemed to have
employed his interval of rest in taking a quiet nap.
"We shall get there in good time," he said, in answer to a question
from Edah; "they always ring the bell an hour before church."
"Is there a Sunday School at Raeburn?" asked Edah.
"Yes, a pretty good one, I believe, and Miss Annie Laurence has one at
the Mills, near her father's house—Spring Bank, as they call it. There
has never been one at Brooksville, which has always been a heathenish
kind of place from the first."
"But who are the Laurences, Sam? I have not heard of them before."
"Oh, Captain Laurence is the richest man in all this country. He owned
all the valley when he came here, about forty years ago. There was not
a house anywhere round when they settled here, and they had to send a
wagon forty miles for every bit of groceries they used. Mrs. Laurence
is the loveliest old lady—every one round here fairly worships her and
her daughters. There are two of the young ladies still unmarried, but
one of them is lame, and does not go out much, except to church. Miss
Annie goes everywhere—sometimes on her pony, and sometimes on foot, and
she knows every poor person for ten miles round. There isn't one of the
lumbermen—and they are a rough set enough—that don't take off his hat
to her, and Mrs. Laurence and her daughters have more influence among
them than all the men in the county. They are very rich now, and can do
what they please, but there was a good while before this railroad was
made that they were very much straitened. You will see them at church
this morning."
As Sam had foretold, they arrived at church in excellent season, before
the last bell had commenced ringing. As Edah was standing in the porch,
waiting for Sam, who was disposing of the old horse, she saw Mr.
Willson approaching and she was hesitating whether or not to introduce
herself, when Sam came up, and saved her the trouble.
"This is my oldest sister, Mr. Willson; the one I told you of, you
know. She has come to stay a couple of months with us."
Mr. Willson shook hands with Edah, and expressed his pleasure at seeing
her.
"So you have brought your sister to church this warm day. Did you not
find the ride rather a fatiguing one, Miss Champlin?"
"Oh, no, sir," said Edah; "it was a very pleasant one to me. I am not
much accustomed to hills, and take great delight in them. You would
have seen me at church before but for my little sister's illness. But
hearing from Sam that this was Communion-day, I felt that I must come,
if possible."
"You will take a seat in our pew, if you please, and I shall insist on
your dining with us after church, and going home in the cool of the
day."
They took their seats accordingly, and as they did so, the little bell
began its last summons. The people of the village and the neighborhood
began to drop in, and the church was soon well-filled. Mrs. Willson, a
motherly sort of personage, with two pretty daughters, looked rather
surprised at seeing a stranger in her pew, but soon guessed who she
must be, and made her very politely welcome.
Edah felt a little annoyed at the staring of the congregation, but
she reflected that they were not much accustomed to seeing strangers,
and therefore excusable. Mr. and Mrs. Laurence and their daughters
arrived just as the bell stopped ringing, and took their places in a
large square pew opposite that of the Rector. Edah was rather surprised
to see such elegant-looking people, and hoped she might make their
acquaintance before she left Brooksville.
When the service commenced, there were so few responses that Edah felt
half afraid to raise her voice as she was accustomed to do at home,
but she was encouraged by being joined by the family opposite, and
soon felt at her ease. Edah was pleased to observe how attentive Sam
was, especially to the sermon. During the Offertory, he asked her, in
a whisper, if there would be any thing improper in his staying through
the Communion Service.
"Certainly not," replied Edah.
And he resumed his seat accordingly, after having politely made way for
the youngest Miss Willson.
The number of communicants was small, and the service proportionably
short, and Edah missed those opportunities for mental devotion which
are enjoyed when there are a number of groups to approach one after the
other. She enjoyed the service very much, however, and felt as if she
collected strength for a long time to come.
She was introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Laurence after church, and received
from Mrs. Laurence a cordial invitation to visit them.
"I seldom make calls, except upon the sick," she said, "but I shall be
very glad to see you at our house, and Annie will have the pleasure
of calling in a few days. You must not go away without seeing all the
beauties of this wild country."
Edah expressed her thanks, and said she should be very happy to accept
the invitation, if possible, but added that her mother was very feeble,
and needed a great deal of attention.
The carriage now appeared, and the Spring Bank party departed, and Edah
and her brother accompanied Mr. Willson home.
"Do you intend to remain here long?" asked Mrs. Willson, at dinner.
"I did not think of staying more than six weeks when I came," said
Edah, "but at present I am rather undecided. It will depend upon the
state of mother's health."
"You had better spend the winter with us," remarked Mr. Willson. "We
can offer you no special inducement in the way of society, though
there are some pleasant people about here; but you could make yourself
exceedingly useful, if that is any argument."
"I have thought myself that I might remain here some time longer than I
at first intended, though it is very uncertain. But in what way could I
make myself useful?"
"You might establish a Sunday School in Brooksville, like Miss
Laurence's at the Saw-Mills, and perhaps you might aspire to having a
church there in time. I advise you to take it into consideration, at
any rate."
Sam and Edah arrived at home in very good season, and found Pauline
leaning over the gate watching for them. Tea was ready on the table,
and they sat down as soon as Edah had taken off her bonnet, and brushed
away the dust.
When the meal was over, Susan seated herself with a book, and Edah
employed herself in teaching Pauline a hymn, promising to sing it for
her as soon as she could say it.
CHAPTER IV.
NEW FRIENDS.
THE day but one after Edah's expedition to Raeburn, she was at work in
the little parlor, engaged in cutting out some garments for Pauline,
who was sitting conning her spelling-book, in which she had made
considerable progress sines her illness. Mrs. Champlin rarely left her
room till after dinner, and Susan had gone out to do some errand in the
village. Suddenly Pauline uttered an exclamation—
"See, sister, what a beautiful carriage is stopping here, with two
ladies in it, and a black man driving, and they are getting out! What
beautiful horses!"
Edah looked out; and recognized Captain Laurence's carriage, which she
had seen at the church door the Sunday before, and she saw that Mrs.
and Miss Laurence were preparing to descend. Hastily drawing her work
into smaller compass, and glancing at the little glass to see that her
own dress was in order, she advanced to the door to meet them, followed
by Pauline, whose ordinary shyness was conquered by her curiosity.
Mrs. Laurence had been pleased with Edah's appearance the Sunday
before, but she was not altogether prepared to find her so finished and
graceful in her manners as she now appeared.
After a few minutes conversation, Edah excused herself, and went up
stains to call her mother, but Mrs. Champlin declined descending,
and, indeed, the bare idea seemed to throw her into such a flutter of
nervous agitation that Edah did not press the matter, but went back to
her visitors.
She found Mrs. Laurence talking to Pauline, and Annie looking at the
books on the table—mostly her own property, and among which were
several French and German volumes.
"Do you read German, Miss Champlin?"
"Yes," replied Edah; "I have rather a passion for it just now, and
brought some new books with me, but, as you may imagine, I have had but
little time for reading."
"You must persuade Miss Champlin to come and help you out of some of
your difficulties, Annie," remarked Mrs. Laurence. "My girls and boys
are quite German-mad just now, but having no teacher, they do not make
very rapid progress. Have you made many acquaintances here?"
"Very few," replied Edah. "Some of the neighbors were very kind during
Pauline's illness, but I have scarcely been out at all. I should not
imagine that there was much society here, from what I have heard and
seen. I feel the want of a church more than any thing."
"Yes, it is a great pity that there is none here. Mr. Willson has
sometimes held a service in the school-house, and I believe it has been
well attended; but his health is not very strong, and he has charge of
two parishes already, so he cannot do much for Brooksville. I believe
there is not even a Sunday School here at present."
"Sam told me, Miss Laurence, that you had one at the Mills every Sunday
afternoon," said Edah, "and I have been quite desirous to hear more
about it. Will you tell me something of your mode of proceeding?"
"Oh, it is very simple. I began with about ten children who lived in
the immediate neighborhood, and who met me in the district school-house
every Sunday afternoon. Now my number has increased to forty, some of
whom live at quite a distance. We meet at three o'clock in summer, and
at two in winter, and after prayers and singing, I hear them recite
lessons of three or four verses from the New Testament, often setting
the older children to hear the younger ones, and I ask them questions,
and explain to them the lesson for the following Sunday. Then comes a
short recess, after which they recite the Apostles Creed and some part
of the Commandments, and then comes singing again. They then exchange
their books, or take their little papers, and go home. Our whole
session lasts about two hours."
"Do you not find it difficult to fix the attention of so many?" asked
Edah.
"I have had very little trouble thus far, and, indeed, I have succeeded
beyond my hopes. Many of the parents have become interested in the
undertaking, and drop in towards the close of school, ostensibly, of
course, to take Billy or Nancy home with them, so I often have quite
a congregation. I find it something of a trial to stand up and speak
before so many; but I do not like to discourage their coming, and so I
keep on, though I often wish that some gentleman would take my place."
"I think the school has done a great deal of good," remarked Mrs.
Laurence. "It has been the means of bringing a good many families to
church, and under the influence of the Rector, who could have been
reached in no other way."
"If I were likely to remain here, I think I would try to begin
something of the kind," said Edah; "but my stay is very uncertain.
Polly dear, there is sister Susan coming in: go and ask her to come
here."
Susan entered the room, after she had disposed of her bonnet and shawl,
and Edah presented her to the ladies. But all Mrs. Laurence's kind
attempts to draw her into conversation were unavailing: she preserved
an absolute silence, or replied only in monosyllables. At last, the
visitors rose to go, not, however, before it was arranged that Edah
should come over the next Saturday, and spend Sunday at Spring Bank.
"We shall send the carriage for you early on Saturday," said Miss
Laurence, "and you may expect to be attacked with grammars and
dictionaries the moment you enter the house. Poor Addison will be quite
comforted at the prospect of some relief, for I left him in a fit of
black despair over a scene in Wallenstein."
Edah laughed, and promised to render all the assistance in her power to
the distressed young gentleman, and the ladies finally departed.
"Mrs. Laurence left her kind regards for you, mother," said Edah,
entering her mother's room, "and hopes she shall have the pleasure of
seeing you at Spring Bank as soon as you are well enough."
"I am much obliged to her, I am sure," god Mrs. Champlin, rather
shortly.
"They are very condescending indeed," said Susan; "we might have lived
here to the end of time without their troubling themselves about us, if
you had not come."
"That is hardly fair, Susan," returned her mother. "Mrs. Laurence came
and called on me when I was first married, and invited us there, but
we never went, even to return their calls. I always felt as if they
were quite too grand for me to associate with, but if they have taken a
liking to Edah, I am glad of it, for it will give her some society such
as she is used to."
"Well, for my part, I don't like to be patronized," said Susan, rather
sharply.
"I am sure Mrs. Laurence's manners are not at all patronizing," said
Edah; "and certainly she did her best to be polite to you, but you
would not say a word. I was really vexed with you."
"You wanted me to display my ignorance and awkwardness as a set-off to
your elegance, I suppose," said Susan; "but I knew better."
"For shame, Susan; you are really downright uncivil to Edah."
"Edah gets plenty of flattery without my help," replied Susan. "She
would be quite spoiled, if I did not contradict her sometimes."
"Thank you, Susan," returned Edah, laughing good-humoredly, though the
color had risen at her sister's rudeness. "I don't think you will ever
do much harm in that way; if I did not know that your bark was worse
than your bite, as Ruby-Anne elegantly says, I should be really afraid
of you. But have you any objections to my accepting the invitation,
mother?"
"Not at all, my dear; I shall be very glad to have you go. The
Laurences are really excellent people, and very fond of books and all
such things, and you will enjoy yourself very much."
The week passed quickly away, as it always does with busy people, and
Edah was busy enough just now in replenishing Pauline's wardrobe, and
in helping Susan to refit hers, which was scanty enough. Edah would
have been glad to be permitted to furnish her with some materials for
new garments, but this Susan steadily refused.
"You do as much as you ought, and more than your share, in clothing
Pauline. Father knows how much I am in want of clothes, for I have told
him time and again, but he finds it pleasanter to spend what money he
gets in liquor and cigars than to lay it out for his family. It is a
sin and a shame, and it's a wonder if I don't tell him some day."
"Pray don't," said Edah; "you would only make things worse."
"I don't suppose it will do any good; but it is enough to drive one mad
to see him losing his time, and wasting what little he does earn, while
we are really suffering for the necessaries of life. But as for having
you spend all your money in buying things for us, I won't, and that's
all about it: not but that I am very much obliged to you for the offer."
After some consideration, Edah made up her mind to speak to her
father herself upon the subject of Susan's wardrobe, and she took an
opportunity when they were alone together one afternoon.
"Father," said she, "do you know that Susan has hardly clothes enough
to make her comfortable?"
"Why don't she go to work, and make some then," asked her father,
lighting his cigar.
"She has nothing to make them of, and no money to buy materials,"
replied Edah.
"Let her set about something useful, and earn them then. She is old
enough to provide for herself instead of hanging about doing nothing
from morning till night."
"Doing nothing?" said Edah indignantly; but recollecting herself, she
went on quietly. "I do not think you have any idea how much work it is
to take care of mother and the baby. It is one person's work to attend
to them, and Polly needs almost as much care just now as Eddy."
"You make a perfect fool of that child, running after her so much,"
exclaimed her father, angrily: "as for your mother, she is more
notional than any thing. If she had any energy, she would be well
enough."
Edah's temper had nearly reached the boiling point; she dared not
speak, lest she should say something very unbecoming, and prudently
kept silence.
"If Sue is so very destitute, why don't you make over some of your own
finery to her? I am sure you are well enough provided, and old Liston
has nothing to do but to buy you more, when that is gone. He can well
afford to let us have some of the money he has cheated his clients out
of."
Edah's indignation would certainly have boiled over at these words, but
on looking at her father, she saw that he was excited by drinking. She
took up her work, and was going out of the room, when he called her
back.
"Don't be in such a hurry," he said. "If the girl wants clothes, she
must have them, I suppose. There are five dollars for her, and she must
make it do as well as she can, for it is all she will get from me. If
she wants more, she must go to work and earn it."
Edah took the bill, and thanked her father, though it was rather
difficult for her to do it with a good grace.
As soon as she had composed herself a little, she showed the money to
Susan, proposing that they should go out directly, and buy what was
most needed. Susan joyfully consented, and they set out on a shopping
expedition, which was not very extensive in its range, as there were
only two shops in the place.
Susan showed a great deal of prudence in disposing of her small amount
of money, and Edah, who had never been accustomed to any exact economy,
was surprised to see how far five dollars might be made to stretch.
The rest of the day was spent in cutting out work and sewing. Sam came
in while they were busy.
"I wish you would give me some sewing," he exclaimed; "you seem to be
having such a nice time over it."
"Suppose you get a book and read to us," said Edah; "that will help us
a great deal. I can sew twice as fast with some one reading."
"That is a good idea," remarked Susan: "do, Sam, there's a good fellow,
and you shall have some pancakes and maple sugar for your supper."
Sam took his book accordingly, and the afternoon passed very pleasantly
for all parties. Susan provided the promised pancakes, which were
pronounced capital, and the reading was resumed in the evening, Edah
herself taking the book, when Sam appeared tired.
"How beautifully you read!" said Mrs. Champlin. "It is a real pleasure
to hear you."
"There, mother," said Sam, laughing, "you never said a word about my
reading."
"Oh, well! You do the best you can, and that is all one can expect; but
I suppose you don't pretend to come up to Edah."
"Indeed, I think Sam reads very nicely," said Edah, "and he has
certainly been very obliging this afternoon. But it is bedtime—"
looking at her watch: "How fast the evening has gone! Suppose," she
added, with some hesitation, "we finish our reading with a chapter from
the Bible."
"A good thought!" said her mother. "Sam, bring your sister the book."
Edah selected a chapter from the New Testament, and read it aloud. No
remarks were made at its conclusion, and after a moment's silence, the
party separated, Edah feeling quite satisfied with the way in which the
day had been passed.
Two hours later she heard her father's step at the door, and knew
but too well in what condition he was likely to be. She was about
descending to let him in, and had put on her wrapper for that purpose,
when she heard Sam go down, and by mingled force and entreaties,
persuade his father to lie down on the sofa instead of going into
his mother's room. Poor Sam! It was not the first time he had been a
witness of his father's degradation.
Edah no longer wondered at her mother's frequent irritability and
constant depression of spirits, and she resolved to do all in her
power, while she remained at home, to lighten the burden which weighed
her down. She prayed, though with an almost despairing faith, for
her father's reformation and conversion, and then lying down, she
endeavored to forget her troubles in sleep.
By nine o'clock on Saturday morning, the carriage was at the door to
convey her to Spring Bank, and bidding her friends good-by, she seated
herself in the roomy family barouche, and was soon at the door of Mr.
Laurence's substantial, old-fashioned stone house. Miss Laurence and
her brother came to the door to welcome her, and conducted her into the
parlor. Edah felt herself restored, as it were, to her native air. The
handsome curtains and carpets, the rich old-fashioned furniture, the
piano, and the numerous books and portfolios scattered about the large
apartments, all seemed like old friends.
Louisa Laurence, the lame sister, was fully as attractive in her
appearance as the other ladies of the family, and Edah felt herself at
once at home.
After a few minutes' conversation, Edah was shown to her bedroom, and
having refreshed herself by a bath and a change of dress, she descended
once more to the parlor. This room opened, with large long windows,
upon a wide piazza, from which a terraced bank descended nearly to the
margin of the river, which here rolled its clear waters in a winding
course through beautiful meadows, dotted here and there with large
trees, and speckled with grazing cattle and young horses. The view was
limited by high pine-covered hills, of no very friendly aspect, which
shut in the valley on all sides, and seemed to leave no place for the
river to get out.
The young people were soon engaged in a German lesson, and between
reading, laughing, and talking, the hours passed swiftly away till
dinner-time, when Captain Laurence made his appearance. He was a tall,
stately old gentleman, with fine manners, and a noble head and face,
and Edah was greatly taken with him at first sight.
After dinner, the youthful party sallied out to explore the grounds,
and especially to visit the spring, from which the place took its
name. This spring poured out in a copious stream from among some
loosely-piled rocks, about half-way down the natural terrace on which
the house was situated, and ran with a broad and clear but shallow
current across the meadow into the river. The spring itself was
protected from the approach of cattle by a pretty rustic railing, and
seats of the same character were placed around it, under the shade of
some fine old forest-trees that overhung the rippling waters.
"What a lovely spot!" exclaimed Edah.
"This spot, you must know, Miss Champlin, is my sister's sanctum,"
said Addison Laurence, in a tone of mock earnestness. "In this sacred
inclosure, visited only by singing birds and gentle breezes, and
serenaded by the murmuring murmur of the murmuring stream, she spends
her hours in pensive retirement, far from the vulgar cares—"
"Now, Addison, hold your peace! This tormenting brother of mine, Miss
Champlin, takes it upon him to hold me up as the most sentimental of
young ladies, whereas I am one of the most active, bustling, practical
housewives in this world, as he knows right well. But because I have
once or twice chosen to walk out here by moonlight, he represents me as
a perfect Lydia Languish."
"You do not look much like it, that is certain," retorted her brother,
laughing. "What with your long walks and your pony-rides, you more
resemble Miss Hoyden."
"If a love of moonlight be a symptom of sentimentalism, I must plead
guilty to the charge myself," said Edah. "I should like to see this
prospect as it looked by moonlight fifty years ago."
"You would have seen a wild plain," returned Addison, "and instead
of the lowing of cows and the bleating of sheep, you might chance to
be serenaded by a panther crouched in the lower limbs of that old
oak, or a chorus of wolves from the neighboring swamp. Even within my
recollection, the wolves have come down within a mile of the house, and
I well remember hearing their doleful music on many a still winter's
night."
"What is it like?" asked Edah.
"Like no other noise you ever heard. It is worth while to hear them
for once, for the sake of knowing what fearful sounds can be produced
by brutal organs. But if you love wolf stories, Miss Champlin, you
must persuade my father to tell you some of his early experiences in
this country; and now, Miss Languish, it is time we were retracing our
steps, if we are to reach home before dark."
The evening was spent delightfully to Edah, between music, lively
conversation, and the wolf and Indian stories of the old Captain, who
was delighted with having a new listener to his oft repeated tales.
Edah was much pleased with the manners of these young people towards
their parents and each other. Annie seemed to devote herself especially
to Louisa, watching her every motion, anticipating her wants, and
hardly, as it seemed, giving her time to form a wish, while Louisa, on
her part, seemed fully to appreciate her sister's kindness. She did
not, as is some times the case with confirmed invalids, receive every
attention as only her due, nor was she indifferent to the trouble she
caused to those about her. The deformity of her figure was not at all
observable, except when she walked; and as she sat in her large chair,
Edah thought she had never a more lovely picture of gentle contentment.
As the clock struck ten, the music suspended, and the work put away.
Addison brought a small table to the side of his father's chair, upon
which he placed a Bible and Prayer-Book. The servants were called in,
and after the singing of the evening hymn, in which all joined, Captain
Laurence read a chapter in the New Testament, and then all united in
prayer.
Edah's thoughts wandered a little. She could not help contrasting
the household in which she then was with that to which she must soon
return, and the wish arose in her mind that the lines had fallen to her
in as pleasant places as they seemed to have done to Annie Laurence.
"We breakfast in good season on Sunday morning, Miss Champlin," said
Mrs. Laurence, as they separated for the night, "in order that the
servants may be able to go to church, if they wish."
"And we dine in good season, that Annie may have time to go to her
ragged-school at the Mills," added Addison. "I presume, Miss Champlin,
you will be expected to visit that wonderful institution, and hear my
pious sister hold forth like a preaching woman-Friend to lumbermen and
their dirty ragged children."
"I hope to do so, at any rate, if your sister will permit me," said
Edah, feeling that she did not like the superfine Mr. Laurence any the
better for this speech. "I am very much interested in the account she
has given me of her labors there."
"Oh, there is no fear but she will let you. She is as proud of her
school as my father of his colts and young cattle—only the colts are
the more respectable of the two."
"You must not mind what Addison says," said Annie, laughing, though
Edah thought she seemed a little hurt. "He gave me ten dollars to
provide books and so forth for my ragged regiment, without my even
asking him."
"Why, as long as you persist in spending your time so, I think it is
better to do the thing creditably; and after all, it is a harmless
amusement enough. Everybody likes to have something to patronize—it is
human nature!"
"But not the nature of Mr. Addison Laurence, I suppose," said Louisa.
"Oh, I bestow it all on my horses and dogs, saving what little I find
it desirable to expend on yourself, my fair lady. But I must needs be
allowed my liberty at present, for when Dick comes home, the majority
will be so strong against ma that I shall not dare to open my mouth
from one week's end to another."
"If you keep silence for an hour at a time, it will be what you have
never done in your life before," said his mother; "and now please
to take your candle and disappear. You have illustrated yourself
sufficiently for one night."
Edah did not feel at all sleepy when she reached her room, and she sat
down to think over the events of the day. What a long day it seemed!
She could hardly bring herself to believe that she had been only twelve
hours at Spring Bank, and she began already to dread the time when she
must return to her father's house. This feeling increased as she went
on contrasting the two families in her mind, and she began to feel as
if it were impossible for her to return to Brooksville to live.
"But how foolish I am!" she said, rousing herself from her reverie. "If
this is the way I am going to be affected by the visit, I had better
have stayed at home."
Then repressing by a strong effort any further indulgence in the same
train of thought, she fixed her mind upon her Bible reading, and after
praying especially to be delivered from the temptations of wishing to
lay down the cross, she soon fell asleep.
The bell rung in good season next morning, but Edah was up and dressed
before it sounded, and when she descended to the drawing-room, there
was no one there. She was standing at the open window, enjoying the
beautiful view, and drinking in the fresh morning air, when Annie
joined her.
"I have been looking for you," she said, kissing her, "but you are
too prompt for me. Is not this prospect beautiful under the morning
sun? How strange it is that people can prefer to shut themselves up in
cities, when they can have such beautiful sights and sounds, at so much
less expense."
"But in winter," said Edah, "do you not feel it rather dismal here when
these hills are covered with snow? I should think they would then be
rather unfriendly in their aspect."
"Not to me," replied Annie. "I was born and brought up among them, and
these bristling pine tops, which look so dreary to strangers, always
seem to welcome me back, like old friends, when I have been away a
while. Before the railroad was made, indeed, we were a good deal out
of the way of society in winter, but we had a very large family at
home then, and a governess to keep us at work. If we did not get many
new books, we made the most of what we had; and though our papers and
letters were often two weeks old before they reached us, they were all
the more welcome when they came. But now that my sisters are married,
and Henry and Dick are away, we do not regret that the means of
communication are more easy."
"Then you have other brothels and sisters besides Miss Louisa and Mr.
Laurence!"
"Dear me, yes! Did you not know it? I have two married sisters living
in Boston, and two brothers older than Addison. Henry is in the Navy,
and Richard is studying in New York. He will be ordained in the fall,
and then he is coming home to make a visit. I hope you will see him. He
is very different from Addison, who pretends to stand in great awe of
him. Harry has been away so much that I scarcely feel acquainted with
him. He has a sweet little wife, who usually spends her summers with
us, but she is on the sea-coast this year. And now you have our family
picture-gallery displayed, and my exposition is ended in good season,
for there is the bell. We will go into the breakfast-room, if you
please."
All the family, including the servants, were collected in the
breakfast-room, as our two young ladies entered, and as soon as they
had taken their seats, prayers and a lesson were read by Captain
Laurence as before. Addison made his appearance when breakfast was half
over, apparently in no very good humor.
"Do you not think, Miss Champlin, that it is a barbarous practice to
have breakfast so early on Sundays?" he said, as he took his seat.
"On the contrary, it seems to me a very good arrangement," replied
Edah; "especially when one lives at a distance from church, as it
leaves the servants time to get ready."
"Much they care about it," muttered the young gentleman. "But really
now, don't you think the human constitution was originally so formed as
to require an extra quantity of sleep every seventh day?"
"I shall not dispute the point," said Edah, good-humoredly; "I can only
say it is not so with mine."
"Oh, I see the girls have gained you over to their side entirely. The
majority against me was bad enough before; it is overwhelming now. I
have no longer any thing for it, but to confess myself a heathen man
and a publican. Mamma, I am ready to rise at three, next Sunday, if it
so please you."
"Half-past seven will do for a beginning, my son; and now, if you have
finished your coffee, we will adjourn, for I see it is verging towards
nine o'clock."
The ladies rode to church in the barouche, while Captain Laurence and
his son followed on horseback. Edah was much pleased to see Sam waiting
for her in the porch, when they descended from the carriage.
"How are all at home?" she asked, as she shook hands with him.
"All about as usual," replied Sam. "I heard baby cry a good deal in the
night, and Polly has completely wearied us all, asking when you will be
home."
"Allow me to introduce you to my brother Samuel, Mrs. Laurence," said
Edah, presenting him to that lady.
Mrs. Laurence shook hands with him kindly, as did also Mr. Laurence and
Addison.
"Will you not return to Spring Bank to dinner?" asked Mrs. Laurence.
"We shall be very happy to have you do so. I have often observed your
brother in church, Miss Champlin, and have been desirous to make his
acquaintance. You must come with your sister, Master Samuel, and make
us a visit."
"And then, if you like fishing, we will find some first-rate trout
streams," added Addison; "though I dare say you know all in the
neighborhood already."
Sam expressed his thanks, not at all awkwardly, but said he must return
home after church, as he would be wanted.
Edah felt proud and pleased to see him appear so well, and to perceive
that he had made a favorable impression, for she had grown very fond of
the boy. There was a good deal of staring and whispering, as she took
her seat with the Laurence family, and she began to think she must be a
person of considerable importance.
Mr. Willson was not a remarkably talented preacher, and his manner was
not impressive; but Edah was pleased and interested with the sermon,
which was both plain and practical. She could not help thinking that
it must be very hard work to preach to such a listless, inattentive
congregation, and she thought of a remark she had once heard a
clergyman make:
"People are loud in their demands for smart preachers," he said, "but
they never reflect that preachers have an equal desire for smart
hearers."
In the Laurence family, however, he had as attentive listeners as any
one could desire.
They dined early, as Addison had prophesied, and then Annie invited
Edah to accompany her to her school, an invitation which she gladly
accepted, and they were soon on their way "across lots," as we say in
the country, preferring the green meadows and river banks to the dusty
high-road. Mr. Laurence had taken the pains to have several gates made,
and some bridges built over the little streams in the way, for Annie's
accommodation, for he was very proud of his daughter's earnestness,
though he sometimes professed to think that she carried it a little too
far.
A walk of half a mile brought them to a small stone school-house, on
the banks of a pretty rapid stream, which came down to meet the river,
and on which were built a flouring-mill and two saw-mills.
A number of children were already collected around the door and under
the trees which shaded it, and more were seen coming along the road,
or over the fields, all hastening not to be late. Annie went round
among them, calling them all by name, and inquiring after fathers and
mothers, aunts, sisters, and grand-parents, till Edah wondered how
she could remember so many different names. Looking at her watch,
she announced that it was time to begin school, and accordingly the
children flocked into the school-house, and seated themselves in an
orderly manner—two or three tall girls seeming to take a certain
supervision of the littler ones.
There were about thirty present in all. The exercises commenced by
calling the roll, to which the children responded. At the name of the
first absentee, Annie stopped:
"Has any one seen Nancy Wood to-day?"
"I see'd her as I was a-coming along," responded a little white-headed,
bare-footed Irish boy, "and she said she would not come to-day, because
her daddy was sick; but she wanted me to tell you she knew her lesson,
and would you please send her a book, and I am to tell her what is the
next lesson."
Pat seemed quite abashed at having made such a long speech, and hid his
face behind his sister as he concluded.
"Nancy shall have a book," said Annie, smiling, "and I am much obliged
to Patrick for offering to take it to her;" at which Pat held up his
head again, and appeared very highly delighted.
After the roll was called, Annie read a few verses from the New
Testament, and then the children united with her in the Lord's Prayer,
which they all repeated distinctly, and with decent propriety, which
might shame some more educated boys and girls. Then began the lessons.
Annie divided the school into two classes, and giving one to Edah,
proceeded to hear the other herself. Edah was surprised at the
correctness with which the verses constituting the day's lesson
were repeated, and still more, upon questioning them, to find them
displaying such knowledge of the Bible generally.
"It is almost their only book," said Annie, upon Edah's remarking this
to her afterwards, "and they become very fond of reading it. In my
visits among them, they often bring their Bibles to me for explanations
of difficult passages, and, I assure you, I am often puzzled how to
answer their questions."
When all the lessons were recited, Annie gave them a short recess,
saying, as she did so—
"I know I need not tell you not to make a noise, and not to go away
from the door."
At the end of ten minutes, they were again called in by the bell, and
took their seats as before, but with the addition of two or three
stout-looking men, and several women, who sat down near the door. These
were the fathers and mothers of some of the children, who had walked
some of them two or three miles, as they said, to see their little ones
safe home.
Annie took her station behind the teacher's desk, and after giving
out the lesson for the next Sunday, proceeded to explain it in simple
terms, with such illustrations and anecdotes as were likely to make an
impression on their minds. Her voice, which trembled a little at first,
soon became firm, and she seemed to forget that she had any other
listeners than the children.
Edah observed that more than one of her grown-up auditors seemed
considerably affected, especially one rough-looking man, with shaggy
beard and whiskers, and accompanied by a dog as shaggy as himself.
The Apostles' Creed was now repeated by all the children standing, and
the services closed by the singing of a hymn and the distribution of
library books, two or three of the women taking books or tracts for
themselves. The children were then dismissed, and quietly took their
way home, comparing their books and talking as they went. The bearded
man lingered a few minutes about the door, and Edah thought he seemed
desirous of speaking to her companion, so she walked to the other end
of the room, and busied herself in putting in order the library books,
which were contained in a neat case, with a lock and key.
After a few moments she heard Annie say:
"I wish you would go and talk to Mr. Willson, Mr. Van Dake. He would
gladly give you all the instruction you want, and do it much better
than I can."
"I kind of hate to!" said Long John, twisting his cap in his hands.
"The parson's always dressed so nice, and every thing about him is as
fine as a fiddle, and I am such a rough customer—"
"Did you ever know him refuse to go anywhere or do any thing for any
one?" interrupted Annie. "Don't you remember how he used to go up to
Brunker's last winter, day after day, when their boy broke his leg?"
"He did, that's a fact," said John. "The parson's a clever man, I don't
deny. The truth is, I believe, I am afraid folks will laugh to see me
running after such things."
"But that is not right," returned Annie. "'The fear of man bringeth a
snare,' the Bible says; and besides," she added, smiling, "I should
think a man who had killed a bear and two panthers, fighting hand to
hand, need not be afraid of a few people in Raeburn!"
Long John colored through his bronzed skin.
"I am a fool to mind it, and no mistake!" said he. "Well, Miss Annie, I
believe I'll take your advice, and go to the minister. I wonder what my
good old mother would say to see me in Sunday School. But better late
than never, they say," and with a bow, which was not at all awkward, he
departed, followed by his dogs, and leading his little daughter by the
hand.
"That is a curious personage," said Annie, as they walked back to
Spring Bank. "He lives in a little hut on the mountain yonder, with
no companions but this little child and his dogs, and an old but
white-headed negro woman, who is his housekeeper. At first, he sturdily
refused to let Agnes come to the school, but she finally coaxed
permission, and came with some children of their nearest neighbor—a
very decent Scotch family. After a while, he used to come and wait for
her at the door, and finally I persuaded him to come in and sit down.
Now he is as regular in his attendance as any of the children, has left
off drinking and swearing, never hunts on a Sunday, and I hope he is
in a fair way of becoming a Christian man. We must persuade Addison
to ride up there with us some time: his hut is a perfect curiosity,
and there is a splendid view from it. He found out from Addison last
spring, that Louisa was fond of painting wild-flowers, and hardly a
week has passed since then that he has not brought her a splendid
bouquet. I must show you her portfolio."
The rest of the day passed pleasantly and quietly, and the next
afternoon Edah was conveyed back to Brooksville, as she steadily
refused the pressing invitations of her friends to spend another day.
Mrs. Laurence placed in the carriage a basket containing some beautiful
fruit and other delicacies for Mrs. Champlin, and Annie sent Pauline
two or three little books, which her little nieces had left behind the
summer before.
She found all at home glad to see her, especially Sam and Pauline.
Susan was a little inclined to be sullen at first, but she relented at
the sight of the basket which Mrs. Laurence had sent her mother, and
allowed that they were indeed very kind. Pauline was pleased with her
books, and delighted to see her sister again; and on the whole Edah did
not find it so difficult to reconcile herself to her return as she had
at first feared.
CHAPTER V.
THE SHOCK.
THINGS went on very pleasantly at Brooksville for two or three weeks
after Edah's visit to Spring Bank. Mrs. Champlin's health seemed to
improve rapidly, and even poor little Eddy was, as Ruby-Anne said,
"really picking up." Edah and Susan sewed busily from morning till
night, and Sam enjoyed very much spending his spare time in reading
aloud to them.
Two or three days after Edah's return home, came a kind note from Annie
Laurence, with a basket of fresh brook-trout and delicate fruit for
Mrs. Champlin, and, best of all, to Edah a package of new books. These
volumes furnished them with reading for a number of evenings, and Mrs.
Champlin declared one Saturday night that she had never spent so many
pleasant hours since she was married, as since Edah came to stay with
them. Pauline improved rapidly, not only in reading and sewing, but
also in general good manners and behavior; and as for Sam, his mother
declared that he was growing quite a dandy.
Among all these pleasant circumstances, there were one or two drawbacks
to Edah's comfort.
The first of these was Susan's jealous temper, which every now and then
showed itself in a very unpleasant fashion. So surely as Edah differed
from her in opinion about any thing, or suggested any improvement
in household matters, or, above all, offered to instruct her in any
way, so surely did Susan take refuge either in sullen ill-humor or
provoking sarcasm. The latter was the hardest to bear of all, for
since her acquaintance with the Laurence family commenced, the arrows
of Susan's wit were usually bestowed upon them, upon Mr. Willson, and
Episcopalians in general; and it was sometimes very hard for Edah not
to retort in what she felt would be a very unbecoming manner.
Two or three times, provoked past all patience, she had done so, but
of course it made matters much worse with Susan, and added to her
other troubles the reproaches of her own conscience. Mrs. Champlin
paid very little attention to these disputes, and if she noticed them,
she generally took Edah's part, and reproved Susan for not paying
her sister more respect, which did not mend matters at all. Sam was
usually on Edah's side, though he sometimes became offended with what
he called her over-strictness, and then he was pretty sure to join with
Susan in annoying her; but his ill-humor never lasted long, and he
generally tried to make up for it by increased kindness and attention
afterwards. Pauline was, of course, entirely on her sister's side; she
was a sharp little thing, with as great a talent for making provoking
speeches as Susan herself, and Edah's hardest task was keeping the
peace between these two, and in imposing silence upon Pauline, over
whom her influence wits almost unbounded. Sometimes for days together,
Susan would be in the best of tempers, and then all was sunshine in
the house, for no one could be more pleasant than she, if she were so
disposed.
The other and greater drawback to Edah's happiness, was her father. She
could not but see, from day to day, that his degrading habit increased
upon him, that he became more and more selfish and ill-tempered,
provided less for his family, and seemed to feel less affection for
them. She now fairly dreaded to see him enter the house, especially
in the afternoon, for he was sure to bring disturbance with him. He
found fault with Susan most unreasonably, scolded Pauline, and even on
two or three occasions boxed her ears; which last, while it threw the
child into a perfect phrensy of rage and grief, irritated and alarmed
Edah to an almost insupportable degree, knowing, as she did, her frail
constitution, and strong predisposition to nervous disease. He treated
Ruby-Anne in such a way that she determined to leave them, and would
have done so but for Edah's remonstrances.
"I can't help it, Miss Edah. I'd do a great deal for you and the
children; but I won't stay anywhere to be treated worse than a negro
slave. I've got a home, thank goodness, if it is a poor one, and I'll
go to it this very day."
"And what shall we do when you are gone?" asked Edah. "I know you have
had a great deal to bear, Ruby-Anne, but I believe you have had no more
than Susan or I."
"That's a fact too!" said Ruby-Anne, pondering. "And it's harder for
you, of course. I'm sure I wonder how you get on with things as you do.
Well, Miss Edah, I guess I'll try and keep the peace a little longer
for your sake. There ain't many like you in the world, that's certain;"
and so Ruby-Anne, who was really a good-natured and conscientious girl,
consented to stay, to Edah's great relief.
She dared not say a word to her father about his habits, for the most
distant allusion to the subject put him into a fearful passion, and the
only consequence was that he either came home entirely intoxicated, or
remained out all night. Edah would have preferred the latter, but his
continued absence always alarmed Mrs. Champlin to such a degree, as to
cause her three or four days of intense suffering.
It usually fell to Sam to let his father in and get him to bed, and a
hard time the poor boy had of it. On one of these occasions, as he was
trying to prevail upon him to retire quietly, without disturbing his
mother, Mr. Champlin became irritated, and struck him such a blow that
it knocked him down, and discolored his face for some days.
Under these circumstances, Edah felt greatly the want of a friend in
whom she could confide, and of whom she could ask advice; and having by
this time become very well acquainted with Mr. Willson, she determined
to seek such a friend in him. Accordingly, she rode over to Raeburn one
day with a neighbor, intending to spend the day at the parsonage, in
accordance with an invitation from Mrs. Willson.
Mr. Willson usually spent most of the morning in his study, and it
was there that Edah sought him. Her rather timid knock at the door
was answered by a cordial invitation to enter, and she found the
Rector in his study gown and slippers, comfortably seated in his great
armchair, and enjoying the luxury of a new review. Mr. Willson was a
man of considerable tact and penetration: he partly guessed the cause
of Edah's trouble, and gently and easily led the way to the expected
confidence. It turned out as he had anticipated. Edah told her story,
and begged for advice.
"I hardly know what to say, my dear child," said Mr. Willson, in a
gentle, fatherly way that Edah felt to be very consoling. "It is a
very difficult subject. The habit is not so recently formed with your
father, as you suppose, but has been growing upon him for some years.
At the time when I first began to think that he was going down hill,
he was a tolerably constant attendant at church, and even came to the
Communion three or four times a year. I took what I thought a favorable
opportunity, and remonstrated with him on the subject; but though he
admitted that he now and then took a glass with a neighbor, and perhaps
sometimes a little too much, he laughed at the idea of his being in any
danger of ever drinking to excess. My own temperance principles were
not as ultra then as they have since become. I forebore to press the
subject, and I think for some time my remonstrances had some effect,
and he did better: but the amendment was very short. Again I attacked
him about it; and this time he grew very angry, told me I was meddling
with what was none of my business, and has never to my knowledge
entered the church door since. I have often tried to speak with him,
but he always avoids me."
"It seems a hopeless case, indeed," said Edah wiping the tears from
her eyes, "but it seems too hard that nothing can be done to save him
from destruction. It is killing my mother, too. I sometimes fear that
it will be the death of her outright, or that her mind will give way
entirely. I am sure I do not see what is to become of us if it goes on
much longer. What do you suppose was the beginning of it, Mr. Willson?"
"I cannot tell, my dear. There has been a great deal of hard drinking
in this part of the country, and some of our finest men have fallen a
sacrifice to it. How does your brother feel about it?"
"It seems to me that indignation is the strongest feeling with him,"
replied Edah. "He is angry with father for so degrading himself, and,
above all, for his harshness to my mother and the children. I have
never said a word to him on the subject."
"That may, perhaps, be the wisest course."
"But, Mr. Willson, cannot you suggest some way to help us out of our
difficulty? Cannot you try remonstrating with my father again?"
"I can try, my dear," replied Mr. Willson, "but I have little hope of
any good resulting from it. When a man once becomes enslaved to this
debasing appetite, he is as if possessed by an evil spirit, and it
seems as if nothing short of a miracle could save him. In the mean
time, I need not recommend you to be earnest in seeking for strength
where alone it is to be found. I believe you have already learned where
to look for it."
"I trust so, sir, and indeed I have found, more need of seeking that
fountain than ever before. I think I have prayed more in the last month
than in all my life."
"And have you not found your prayers answered?"
"In some sense, sir, I have. I have found strength to overcome
temptation, and have often had it removed from me, and my way made
plain when it seemed the most hopeless. It often seems to me that my
prayers are directly responded to and that I have a sense of the direct
absolute presence of my God and Saviour. I am afraid you will think me
fanatical, Mr. Willson."
"By no means, my dear Edah. Such a sense of God's presence is what we
should most earnestly seek for in our prayers and all our devotions;
and when we lose the sense of His nearness to us, we should give
ourselves no rest under the loss, but anxiously, by repentance and deep
humility, and by carefully examining ourselves, seek to attain to it
again. As to giving you any father advice, I hardly know what to say.
I need not bid you keep yourself as busy as you can, for I know you
do that already. Be not too careful in spirit, but strive to commit
all your cares to God, as to a faithful Friend and tender Father. Make
diligent use of all the means of grace in your reach, above all praying
without ceasing. As to your father, I shall endeavor to see him, and
talk with him, though I fear he will only repulse me. For yourself, you
are in the path of duty—that strait and narrow path which leadeth unto
eternal life, and I can only counsel you to persevere, looking not to
an earthly but to a heavenly reward."
Edah returned home, greatly comforted by her talk with the Rector,
and by her pleasant chat with kind, motherly Mrs. Willson and her
two pretty, sprightly daughters. To these young ladies Edah was glad
to find she could be of service, and thus make some return for the
kindness of their parents. They were intelligent, lively girls, who
were trying to learn to draw under the disadvantages of having no
teacher, and of often being unable to procure suitable patterns. Edah
was very fond of drawing, and excelled especially in sketching from
nature, a pursuit for which the picturesque hills and woodlands around
Raeburn and Brooksville afforded ample scope, and she was glad to place
her portfolio at the service of Annette and Lucy, and to give them such
instruction and assistance as they needed most. She would gladly have
included Susan in her instructions, but Susan declined, on the plea of
having no time.
Mr. Willson kept his promise to Edah by seeking an opportunity to
converse with her father. Much to his surprise, Mr. Champlin received
what he had to say with a civil indifference. He was aware, he said,
that he had sometimes taken more than was good for him—quite as much so
as his best friends could be. He knew that the love of pleasant society
had sometimes led him into excesses, but he knew, also, that he had his
own trials, of which Mr. Willson was not aware. When a man had no peace
or comfort at home, he naturally went elsewhere to seek it, and for
that, those who drove him from home were responsible in a far greater
degree than he was.
Mr. Willson, however, not being disposed to admit the force of any of
these excuses, Mr. Champlin went on to say that he was sorry he had
caused any discomfort at home, as he supposed he might have done; and
as Mr. Willson's sympathies seemed all enlisted on the side of his wife
and children, he would assure him that their rest should no longer be
disturbed by him. This was all Mr. Willson could get out of him, and
he finally left him, completely in the dark as to what Mr. Champlin
intended to do.
Two or three days after Mr. Willson's remonstrance, Mr. Champlin came
home to dinner, and announced that important business required him
to start for New York by that evening's train, which passed through
Raeburn about seven o'clock. He spent most of the afternoon in packing
his trunk, a work about which he would accept of no assistance, and
having hired a neighbor to carry him over to the station, he bade his
family farewell, as it seemed with unusual tenderness, even coming
back, after he had gone out to the wagon, to kiss his wife and the baby
a second time.
Edah long remembered the way in which he pressed her hand, as he
said—"You are a good girl, Edah: take care of your mother and the
children when I am gone."
He gave Susan fifteen dollars, and bade her be careful of it; shook
hands with Sam, and then drove off at a rapid pace, looking back as far
as he could see the house, till a turn in the road hid it from his view.
"Father is as affectionate as if he were to be gone a year, instead of
a week," said Susan.
"There is something curious about his manner, too," replied Sam,
to whom she made this remark: "I never saw him so at all. I don't
understand it."
"What is the use of troubling yourself to account for father's whims?
You know he is as capricious as the wind. There is one comfort about
it—Edah will stay till he comes back."
"Oh!" said Sam. "I didn't suppose you would be very anxious to keep her
here."
"That is just the way," returned Susan: "you think because I am not
always running after Edah, and hanging about her, as you and Polly are,
that I don't care any thing for her, but you are greatly mistaken. I
like her just as well as you do; and if any thing were the matter with
her, you would see that I do."
"I think she would be glad to compound for a little common civility
now," said Sam, "for really, Sue, whether you know it or not, you are
not half civil to her. It isn't very often that we want people to do
grand things, or to make great sacrifices for us, but we feel the need
of kindness and politeness every day and all day long."
Susan made no reply, and the subject was dropped.
Mr. Champlin had said before his departure that he might be absent
about two weeks, and promised to write to his wife during the time, but
no letter came.
The time drew near which Edah had set for her departure, and she began
to make preparations for her return to Miss Anderson's, though she
determined not to go until her father was again at home. The family
had by degrees come to be very dependent upon her, and Mrs. Champlin
especially felt as though she should not be able to live without her.
As for Pauline, she could not hear of sister's going away, without a
passion of grief, and Edah began to have serious thoughts of taking the
child back to Miss Anderson's with her, when she received a letter from
Milly with the intelligence that her father had concluded not to let
her return to school again, and claiming the fulfilment of her promise
to spend the winter with them. Of course she could not for a moment
think of taking Pauline there with her. If she had been an ordinary
child, Edah might have felt more at ease about leaving her; but Pauline
was no common child: her thoughts and feelings were far in advance of
her years, and her affections possessed more intensity than belongs to
many grown-up persons. Then she was, unfortunately, far superior in
natural abilities to those about her.
Mrs. Champlin was a kind-hearted and well-meaning woman, but she
was without much cultivation, either mental or spiritual, and her
words and actions were directed almost entirely by the impulse of
the moment, whatever that impulse might be. Her naturally kind and
gentle disposition had been fretted and soured by constant illness and
suffering, and still more by domestic troubles; and the irritation
she would not or dared not manifest towards the direct cause of her
distress, was very frequently bestowed upon the other members of the
family. Such a mother could be no fit guide for an irritable and
delicate child, whose little head was constantly filled with thoughts
and questions altogether too grave for her years, and the force of
whose passions was as much above what it should be, as her strength
was below. Mrs. Champlin had, in fact, almost no influence with her
children: they were fond of her, and often assiduous in waiting
upon her, but they never dreamed of obeying her unless it suited
their own convenience. Edah was the only one of the family who ever
thought of consulting her upon her movements, and Mrs. Champlin often
felt painfully the contrast between the careful deference of her
stepdaughter and the careless independence of her own children.
While Edah was revolving in her own mind what it was best to do, she
was most agreeably surprised by a visit from her guardian. She was
deeply attached to Mr. Liston, with whom she had spent almost all her
early years, as well as her vacations since she had been at school, and
he on his part loved his ward better than any thing else in the world.
Mr. Liston was a straightforward, honorable, steady man of business,
who never owed a penny that he could not pay on the instant, and never
took the slightest advantage of any one. He went to church regularly
once every Sunday, and read the papers the rest of the day, gave
bountifully to charitable objects of every kind, without ever troubling
himself to inquire into their merit, was a perfectly inoffensive
neighbor, and a judicious and faithful friend to all his employees and
dependents. He had made the most of Edah's moderate property, and no
one doubted that she would be his heiress. His only brother had lately
died in India, and it was some business in relation to his estate which
now called him to that distant country, for which he intended to set
out as soon as he had made the necessary arrangements for the comfort
and security of his ward during his absence.
Mr. Liston stayed two days in Brooksville, lodging at the so-called
"hotel," and held many long conversations with Edah about her plans and
wishes, which conversations ended with his leaving it entirely optional
with her to return to Miss Anderson's for another year, or to spend the
time with her friends in New York. Edah thought, though he did not say
so, that he would prefer the former arrangement, and asked him if it
were not so. Mr. Liston admitted that it was.
"I shall not be away more than a year," he said; "and on the whole, I
would prefer that your entrance into society—an absurd institution, my
dear, but one to which we must all pay some deference—should be made
under my own eye. Maria Concklin is a kind creature, but she is not
over-wise, and Mr. Amory is as much out of the world as the stuffed
elephant at the museum. Still, as this plan has been of long standing,
and any alteration of it would be a great disappointment to your
friend—a very nice girl, she seems—I am willing that you should spend
the winter there. How much longer do you intend to remain here?"
"'Till my father returns," replied Edah. "I had no thought of staying
any longer; but mother is so unwell, and the poor baby so sickly, that
I do not like to leave at present."
"Very well, my dear; act your own judgment about it. I shall leave a
suitable allowance for you in Mr. Amory's hands, which he will pay
to you quarterly, and I shall expect you to keep strictly within it,
incurring no debt, however trifling. You know that is the one thing,
about which I have always been positive. I have given him directions
not to advance a single penny, so if you use it up too fast, you will
have to wait for more till next quarter-day. And now, I must bid you
good-by."
"So soon!" said Edah.
"So soon!" replied Mr. Liston. "I did not intend to sail under two
weeks, but circumstances have occurred to alter my plans. If any thing
should happen to me, my affairs are all in Amory's hands, and he will
take my place to you. So farewell, my child, and write to me very
often. You will hear from London. God bless you!"
Edah knew very well how much her guardian disliked a scene, and she
restrained her tears till he was out of sight, making herself amends by
a regular school-girl fit of crying afterwards.
She could not help thinking her guardian unusually strict in regard to
money matters, and puzzled herself to think what could be the reason.
The fact was, Mr. Liston had thought it very probable that Edah's
father would want to borrow money of her, and he determined to put it
entirely out of her power to lend him any. Then a few days afterwards,
she received a note from Mr. Liston saying that he was just going on
board the steamer, and should write again as soon as he landed in
England.
Mr. Champlin had been absent nearly two weeks, when one afternoon Sam
came up from the post-office, bringing a letter for his mother.
"It is from father, and there is money in it," said he; "I do not
believe he is coming home after all. There are heaps of things for you,
Edah. I declare, I wonder how girls can write so many letters. You have
certainly doubled the revenue of our post-office since you have been
here. I am sure you cannot find sense enough to fill up all these pages
of fine writing."
"And there is something for you, which is more than you deserve, after
your ungallant speech," said Edah, handing him some numbers of popular
magazines which Milly had sent her, and then becoming absorbed in the
perusal of her own letters. She was so intent upon the contents of
an epistle from Mr. and Mrs. Wardwell that she took no notice of her
companions, till she was roused by a sort of hysterical gasp from her
mother, and a shriek from Pauline, and saw Sam spring forward just in
time to prevent Eddy from falling to the floor, as Mrs. Champlin sank
back in her chair, in a violent fit of hysterics.
Throwing down her letter, she sprang to her aid, and having quieted
Pauline by giving her the baby to hold, she took the first means at
hand of restoring her mother to consciousness, without having any idea
of what had caused her agitation.
Mrs. Champlin recovered for a moment, but it was only to fall into
another fit, more violent than the first, and Edah, becoming seriously
alarmed, dispatched Sam for the doctor, and with the assistance of
Susan and Ruby-Anne, got her upon the bed.
Doctor Longford happened to be passing near the house, and came in
almost immediately. He administered such restoratives as he thought
proper, and when his patient became in some degree quiet, called Edah
into the other room, and asked her if she had any idea what had caused
the seizure.
"Not the least, sir," replied Edah. "She has been remarkably well for
several days past."
"I think it was something in father's letter," said Pauline, who, after
her first fright was over, had devoted herself to the baby. "She was
reading it when she made that noise first."
"Where is the letter?" asked Edah.
"There, on the table, and the money that was in it. I laid them all
together."
"Read the letter, Sam," said Edah, relieving Pauline of her charge.
Sam glanced his eye over it, and then, with a flushed face, he said, in
a tone of extreme bitterness—
"He has finished up the matter now. He has gone off to California."
"Gone!" exclaimed Susan, who had come into the parlor, leaving
Ruby-Anne with her mother. "He has not really gone, has he?"
"Gone for good!" said Sam. "Hear what he says:
"'MY DEAR WIFE—
"'Before this reaches you, I shall be on the sea, far on my way to
California, or somewhere else, when I shall be out of the way. I am
aware that I have been nothing but a burden to you for a long time, and
that the whole family will look upon my going as a relief. I send you
some money—all that I can spare, and shall let you have more, if I get
it myself. You won't see me again until I come home a rich man. If you
had made things comfortable for me at home, I should never have been
driven to the tavern, and so have been ruined; but I forgive you, and
hope you will be happy. The children must go to work and earn their
living, and Edah may do something to help you—she is rich enough. I
tried to borrow some money of old Liston, but he would not let me have
a cent. Good-by, and God bless you!'"
"It was worth while to put that in at the end, to be sure," said Susan,
bitterly. "I don't care; I am glad he has gone!"
"Hush, Susan, love! Don't speak so," said Edah. "Remember he is our
father, after all. I can hardly believe that he is really gone."
"I can," replied Sam. "Don't you know, Sue, we noticed his manner the
day he went away, and he has taken all his clothes. What is to become
of us now, I wonder?"
"How much money has he sent?" asked Susan.
"Twenty-five—no, forty dollars," replied Sam, counting it over. "That
will last a little while, and we may get something out of the office
and lumber-yard, though I doubt it. I presume his debts cover all that,
and more too."
"We will not trouble ourselves about that, just at this moment," said
Edah. "We have enough to do to take care of mother. I am afraid this
will be altogether too much for her."
"And to charge her with it!" exclaimed Susan. "That is the worst of
all. I should think he might have left that out, at any rate."
"It is the nature of men to throw all the blame of their own faults
upon their wives," remarked the doctor. "They have all done it, from
the first man down. But I must look in at your mother again before I
go."
For two or three hours, Mrs. Champlin alternated between violent
convulsions and insensibility, but by degrees she became more quiet,
and finally sank into a deep slumber.
The kind old doctor took his leave, promising to call the first thing
in the morning.
Pauline, who had quietly cried herself to sleep on the sofa, was
carried up stairs and put to bed. Edah persuaded Susan to retire and
take the baby with her, and the house was again quiet.
CHAPTER VI.
THE RESOLUTION.
FOR several days and nights Mrs. Champlin continued very ill, and her
life was almost despaired of. Edah and Susan took the principal care of
her, though the neighbors were very kind in offering to watch; but Mrs.
Champlin was so unwilling to have any one with her but her own children
that they feared the presence of strangers.
The news soon spread through the little village that Mr. Champlin had
deserted his family, and gone off to California. He had departed in
debt to half the village, and the indignation of the little public was
extreme against him. Edah paid some bills which had been incurred for
necessaries out of her own pocket, but she absolutely refused to have
any thing to do with his tavern and grocery bills, which far exceeded
the others in amount.
Mr. Champlin had not been content with spending all the ready money
he could lay his hands on, but he had also run large scores at the
principal tavern in the place, to pay which, and to raise a little
ready money for his journey, he had given a mortgage upon his household
furniture, and the landlord threatened to levy upon it immediately.
Mr. Willson had come over as soon as he heard of the distress of the
family, and to him Edah confided all her troubles. He did not, at the
time, suggest any remedy. But the next morning, Captain Laurence's
light buggy and young horses were seen stopping at the door of the
Eagle—a very unusual sight—and Captain Laurence himself held a long
private conference with Mr. Scott. Nothing further was heard from that
personage by the Champlin family, who puzzled themselves in vain to
account for the change. But Mr. Scott knew his own interest too well
to disoblige Captain Laurence, and when the latter requested that the
mortgage should be made over to him, Mr. Scott was fain to consent,
making himself amends by some very hard swearing as soon as the old
Captain was well out of hearing.
Mrs. Champlin's bodily health gradually improved, and in about three
weeks she was able to be about for part of the day, as usual. But it
became by degrees apparent that the shock had had its dreaded effect
upon her mind, already somewhat enfeebled by sickness and trouble.
She was not, perhaps, actually insane, and a stranger might sometimes
talk with her for an hour without perceiving any thing out of the way,
but her children saw the difference in her increased irritability,
which made it sometimes utterly impossible to satisfy her in her fits
of nervous fear, when she could not bear to be left alone a moment,
and above all, in her indifference to Eddy, so utterly opposed to the
solicitude with which she had watched over him from his birth. The
girls were now obliged to take the whole care of him, as if he were
left to his mother, she would often forget him altogether.
Susan came out nobly under the trial. She seemed to forget herself
entirely and devoted herself to her little brother with a patience and
wisdom not to be surpassed by Edah herself. Sam, poor boy, was for
a time quite overcome and broken down. He felt keenly his father's
disgraceful conduct and shameful desertion, and it seemed as if he
could hardly endure to look anybody in the face.
In the midst of her grief and perplexity, Edah found some consolation
in the active sympathy of Annie Laurence and her mother, and the
affectionate counsels and prayers of good Mr. Willson. Between Annie
and Edah there had grown up a strong friendship, rendered doubly firm
by their community of tastes and pursuits. Edah could not, of course,
leave home to go to Spring Bank, but there were not many days in the
week when Annie's active little brown horse was not to be seen standing
at the gate of Mr. Champlin's house; or that Mrs. Laurence's black man
Jube—her prime minister as she was wont to call him—did not come over
with a basket on his arm, containing something for the invalid.
But if this friendship was a great comfort to our young heroine, she
had a source of anxiety which altogether outweighed it—this was the
state of her sister's health. Susan had grown up very fast, and, as is
often the case, her strength did not keep pace with her growth, and,
moreover, she had been entirely overburdened with work much too hard
for her, and with anxieties far beyond her years. For some time she had
appeared quite unaffected by her labors, but since Edah's coming had
relieved her of some care, and a great deal of her hard work had been
taken off her hands by Ruby-Anne, she seemed to droop at once. She grew
very thin and pale, and was troubled with a hard, dry cough, and Edah
discovered by accident that she had had two or three slight attacks of
bleeding at the lungs—very slight, indeed, they were, and Dr. Longford
made light of them, when Susan was finally persuaded to consult him;
but Edah was alarmed, nevertheless, and watched her anxiously from time
to time.
One day, after Mrs. Champlin seemed quite to have regained her former
not very high standard of health, and things were going on in the
household pretty much as they had done before the great shock, Edah
received a letter from her friends in New York, pressing her to come to
them immediately.
"I would not urge you," Milly wrote, "while stepmother was so ill, and
while it seemed doubtful how your sister's case would turn out, but
now that she is as well as usual, and the doctor says that Susan is in
no danger, I cannot see what there is to detain you longer among the
stumps and aborigines of Brooksville. They certainly have no particular
right to claim your services, and I think that I have, both on account
of our long-arranged plan, and of our intimate friendship. You can
certainly find no society in Brooksville at all suited to you, except
the Laurences, and they live so far off that I think you cannot see
much of them. Besides, I have another reason to offer as an inducement
for you to come to us speedily. My father has promised, if you get here
in time, to take us on an autumnal trip to the White Mountains. I shall
expect to receive a letter by return of post, saying when you will
come."
Edah read this letter once and again, and felt that the time was come
when she must make a final decision. It was true, as Milly said, that
they had a strong claim upon her. She had promised to be with her
friend through the winter, and her guardian did not object to the
plan. She could not tell what he would say to her spending the winter
in Brooksville. It was true, as Milly urged, that she would have no
society where she was. There were the Laurences, but she could not
expect to spend much time with them, even if they remained at Spring
Bank through the winter, which Annie had told her was very uncertain.
The winters in that region were very severe, and Louisa's lungs had
been delicate for some time. There was talk of their going South, and
in that case they would be away from Spring Bank till late in the
spring.
Edah had no fears for her own health; she had scarcely been sick a
day in her life, and her strength, instead of diminishing, seemed
to grow with what she had to do; but she thought of the long dreary
winter, the absolute want of any companionship or sympathy such as
she had been accustomed to, of books, of every thing, in short, which
she had usually looked upon as rendering life desirable. She thought
of the trials of temper and patience she would have to endure; of
the daily and hourly tax upon her strength, her time, her income;
of the few and vulgar people who would constitute her only society.
She did not think—no, scarcely at all—of the good profession she had
professed before so many witnesses; of the resolution she had made at
the beginning of her Christian course—to live no more to herself, but
to devote her time, her talents, her means to the service and glory
of God. She did not remember the sign of her baptism—the sign of the
Cross—the symbol of self-denial and disinterestedness. She thought
only of her own trials and perplexities, on the one hand, and of the
enjoyments promised her, on the other. She looked at the matter, not
through the eyes of prayer, but of her own self-love and self-interest,
and in this view she had almost resolved to return to her friends in
New York.
While she was yet pondering, afraid to decide irrevocably, and
conscious in her own heart that something was wrong, she was aroused
by the sound of a horse's feet, and looking out, she saw Mr. Willson
fastening his horse to the post before the gate. She was always glad to
see Mr. Willson, and now hastened to meet him. He shook hands with his
usual cordiality, and entered the sitting-room, where Edah's desk was
lying open, with writing materials ready for use.
"So you are writing letters," said he.
"Not exactly," replied Edah; "only thinking of writing. I have just
received a letter from my friends in New York, urging me to come to
them directly, as they are planning a tour through New England for next
month."
"And have you decided to go?" asked Mr. Willson, looking, as Edah
thought, a little grave.
"Why, no, sir—not exactly; but it is an old plan of ours, and I have
never thought of it in any other way than as entirely settled."
"Do your friends in New York 'need' you?" asked Mr. Willson, with a
little emphasis on the word "need."
"Oh, no," said Edah; "they are as pleasantly situated as people can be."
Mr. Willson listened quietly, while Edah went on urging all the reasons
by which she had almost convinced herself that it was her duty to go,
and when she seemed to have arrived at the end, said quietly—
"You seem to have considered one side of the question, at any rate, but
now what of the other? What will they do here when you are gone?"
This was just the side which Edah did not wish to consider, and she
said, rather hastily—
"I do not know, Mr. Willson, that I am called upon to renounce all my
own pleasures and engagements for the sake of the family here. I gave
up a good deal in coming at first."
"Very true," said Mr. Willson; "so you did! Perhaps you gave up as much
as could reasonably be expected of any Christian. I confess, however, I
did not think so much of pleasures and enjoyments as of usefulness and
duties. I thought these were the chief concern of the children of God,
and not enjoyments and pleasures."
Edah felt keenly the tone and look with which these words were
accompanied, and the rebuke contained in them came home with power to
her conscience. She colored deeply, and was silent.
Mr. Willson went on in a milder tone:
"Your Christian principles have had, as yet, very little to try them.
Your trials and temptations have been comparatively small. It remains
now to be seen how much they are worth!"
"Do you think, then, Mr. Willson, that a Christian has no place in
society, or that there is any thing wrong in her taking such a place?"
"I think the place of a Christian is where there is the most work to
be dons in his or her Master's service. We are to do our duty in that
state of life to which it pleases God in His providence to call us, and
if we would fight under His banner, it must be in the station which He
assigns us. But permit me to ask you, Miss Edah, have you made this
subject—this decision—a subject of prayer?"
"No, sir."
"Then let me urge it upon you not to decide upon any course till you
have done so. Ask counsel, not of your own erring judgment, or still
more erring will, but of the oracles of God. Ask with a determination
to submit to the will of God, as it shall be made known to you. Do not
answer this letter now. It will do your friend no harm to wait another
post, and in the mean time, seek the enlightenment of the Holy Spirit
in humility and sincerity, and, trust me, you will find some new light
thrown upon your course. Promise me that you will do this."
"I give you my word, sir, that I will. I will not answer Milly's letter
till the day after to-morrow."
"That is well; and now let us talk of something else. How is your
mother?"
"She is pretty well to-day; as well, I suppose, as we can hope to see
her."
"Do you think she will see me?"
"I presume she will be glad to do so," replied Edah; "she has several
times asked when you were coming again."
She left the room to speak to her mother, and found her descending to
the parlor.
"I was just coming to look for you," said Edah, pleasantly. "Mr.
Willson is here, and asked for you."
"I was coming to see him, at any rate," replied Mrs. Champlin. "I
concluded of course that he would ask for me, though you seem inclined
to take his visits, as you do Miss Laurence's, entirely to yourself.
No, thank you," declining Edah's proffered arm to help her down the
steps; "I am not quite as feeble as you and Susan would wish to make
out. I am not quite superannuated yet."
Edah saw that her mother was in one of her fits of irritability and
suspicion, and made no reply.
Mrs. Champlin entered the parlor, and seating herself, conversed with
the Rector in a tone and manner which would certainly never incline
a stranger to think her mind affected. She was very polite to Mr.
Willson, urged him to stay to tea, and inquired after the health of
his family, all with perfect propriety, and Mr. Willson could not help
believing that the children must be mistaken in thinking her at all
deranged. He declined the invitation, much to Edah's regret, and as
soon as he was gone, Mrs. Champlin resumed her complaining tone, not
only to Edah, but to Susan, who had entered with the baby in her arms.
"Yes, when Miss Laurence or Mr. Willson comes, you take their visits
entirely to yourself, and never seem to think of referring them to me.
You make me a perfect nobody in the house, both of you. Susan spends
her whole time waiting on that baby, who is perfectly spoiled with so
much tending."
"I am sure, mother," said Susan, "I do not attend to the poor little
fellow more than he needs. You would not have me leave him to cry,
would you?"
"Hush, Susy!" whispered Edah.
"What shall I hush for?" returned Susan, turning quickly upon her. "I
have as much right to speak as yourself."
"Certainly she has!" joined in Mrs. Champlin. "And it is very
unbecoming in you, Edah, to stop her. You take great airs upon yourself
in ordering Susan about so: it is very improper in you;" and so on,
till Edah was able to make some excuse for escaping from the room.
She paused in the hall, to try and check the tears which flowed in
spite of herself; and a moment after, Susan came out.
"Don't cry, Edah!" she said, going up to her kindly. "I am sorry I
spoke so, but I can't bear to have any one order me so."
"I did not mean to order you," replied Edah; "only I think when mother
gets into that way of complaining, it is best not to make her any
answer. You know she would not do it if she were herself."
Susan sighed.
"What shall I do when you are gone?" said she. "I shall never get on as
you do."
"I am not gone yet," said Edah; and then wishing to change the subject,
she asked, "how is your cough to-day?"
"Oh, it is well enough: I don't think it was any thing but a cold after
all."
Edah felt uncomfortable and ill at ease all the evening, and it
was harder than ever to have to listen to Mrs. Champlin's peevish
complaints. She was glad when she said she was tired, and announced her
intention of retiring early, for Edah felt a strong desire to be alone.
At last all was quiet in the house. Pauline was fast asleep, and Edah
was at liberty to sit down with her candle and her Bible, to think
about what Mr. Willson had said, and to make a final decision. But
before considering the subject of her return to New York, she fulfilled
her promise to Mr. Willson, by kneeling in prayer, and entreating the
influence of the Holy Spirit to guide her in the decision she was about
to make. She prayed in faith, truly believing that her thoughts would
be rightly directed, and then, with a very different spirit from that
in which she had first read her friend's letter, she sat down to think
the matter over again from beginning to end.
"I need not think of the advantages of going to New York," she thought,
"as Mr. Willson says I have considered that thoroughly enough. Now let
me look at the other side, and think where I can do the most good. I
suppose I might find something to do in New York. I could take class
in Sunday School for one thing. But there is no Sunday School at all
here, and perhaps I might get up one like Annie's at the Mills. Mr.
Willson said something about it when I first saw him. That, however, is
a secondary consideration; I must think about them here at home first.
"What would they do without me? In the first place, what would they
have to live on? Sam says he has about fifty dollars beforehand, and
that he means to try and get a place to earn something; but it is
doubtful how much he could earn. Mr. Liston has left me an allowance of
three hundred a year, and that would go a good way towards supporting
the family, if they could have the whole of it; but if I were to be
in New York at Mr. Amory's, I should be obliged to dress somewhat as
they do, and that and other expenses would use up every cent. If I stay
here, I can make all my last winter's dresses answer, cloak and bonnet
and all; and the fifty dollars that I shall receive at Christmas, with
what little we have now, would almost carry us through the winter, I
think.
"Miss Concklin would say they have no claim on me for support; but
what of that, so long as they need it? I should not feel that I
had any right to be living in luxury, while they wanted even the
common necessaries of life. Then, if I stay here, I can be educating
Polly, and training her, I hope, in the right way, and influencing
Sam. Perhaps my being here may make all the difference between his
growing up a Christian or not. I am certain that he takes more and
more interest in such things now, and I am afraid if I go away, he
will return to his former carelessness. I cannot feel that I have any
influence over Susan in that way. Sometimes I think her jealous lest I
should rule her in some way, which makes her more opposed to religion
than she would be if I were not here. Still I know she depends upon me
in a great many ways, and a great deal more than she is aware of, and I
am afraid she would get on at all with mother as she is now, if I were
not here to keep the peace between them. I do not think she is very
well either, and if I were away, the work she would have to do might be
quite too much for her. Then there is mother—she has learned to depend
entirely on me, especially since father went away; no one else can do
any thing to suit her, when she has one of her fretful turns, and she
cannot bear me out of her sight. What would she do with no one but poor
Susan to depend upon?
"I wonder what Mr. Wardwell would say? I have a great mind to write to
him; but I know very well what he would think. How many times I have
heard him say that a Christian has no right to live to himself, or to
seek for pleasures of any kind out of the path of duty! Could I say or
think that I was in the path of duty, if I went to New York to enjoy
myself in Milly's society, and that of her friends, knowing all the
time that I was needed here? But what would Mr. Liston say? I know very
well, he did not much want me to go to Amory's, or into society at all,
till he came home: he spoke of my going to Miss Anderson's again, but
after all, he told me to act according to my own judgment. I do not
think he would be displeased. No, my place is here! I wonder now, that
I could ever think of going anywhere else. Milly will be disappointed,
but I am sure she will see on consideration that I am right."
The next morning Mrs. Champlin had slept off her ill-humor, and was in
excellent spirits: every thing was as it should be—the breakfast was
excellent—Ruby-Anne was the best of girls—Susan the most excellent of
nurses, and nothing went wrong or could go wrong in the whole world.
Edah knew by experience that this mood would not last long, but she
was thankful for even this short respite, and made the most of it, by
keeping her mother amused and diverted as much as possible.
After breakfast, Mrs. Champlin went into the kitchen to have a gossip
with Ruby-Anne, and Edah sat down to answer her friend's letter.
"They are expecting you in New York, I suppose," said Susan; "when do
you go?"
"I do not go at all," said Edah; "that is, if you will keep me here."
"Not going!" exclaimed Sam and Susan in a breath, while Pauline uttered
a scream of joy. "Why, I thought you had decided to go long ago!"
"So I did," said Edah; "but I have undecided again, and now I am
decided the other way. I have a great desire to see how these hills
look in winter."
"That isn't the reason you stay, though," remarked Pauline; "it is
because you think we can't do without you; and you are the dearest girl
in the world: isn't she, Sam?"
"To be sure she is, Poppet! Every one knew that long ago."
"I am sure," Susan said, with some constraint, "I don't want you to
give up all the pleasure of your winter in New York, for the sake of
staying with us here. I am sure you would much rather be there; and
I don't want you to be feeling all the time as if you were making a
sacrifice for us."
"Now, Sue," exclaimed Sam, "that is downright ungracious. Of course it
is a sacrifice for Edah to stay here, but if she is willing to make it,
I think the best return we can make is to take it kindly."
"I am not fond of being sacrificed to," said Susan. "If Edah is going
to feel all the time how much rather she would be there than here, and
how good she is in staying here instead of going there, I would rather
she went."
Edah could not help feeling very much annoyed at this speech, but she
controlled herself, and said gently—
"If I made up my mind to stay here, I hope I should be more sensible
than to spend my time thinking how much better off I should be
somewhere else; and as to feeling good," she added laughing, "I will
try not to show it, if I do. But I am almost afraid you don't want me,
after all."
"I should be very glad to have you, I am sure," replied Susan,
apparently ashamed of what she had said. "I do not know, as Sam says,
what we should do without you, especially mother, for I can do nothing
to suit her lately."
Thus it was decided finally that Edah was to stay, and she dispatched
an answer to Milly to that effect. She also wrote to Miss Anderson to
send her her clothes and other matters she had left at W., and began to
consider herself settled for the winter. Mr. Willson smiled approvingly
when he heard her decision, and told her he had felt no doubt how she
would conclude, if she took time enough.
"You must now begin to consider how you can make yourself most useful,
and do the most good. I think I must constitute you my curate in this
place, and let you lay the foundation of a church here."
These words were not lightly spoken, nor lightly heard. From that
moment, Edah began to consider what she could do towards establishing a
church in the hitherto destitute village of Brooksville.
CHAPTER VII.
THE DAY OF SMALL THINGS.
EDAH now considered her plans for the winter as settled, and began
to make her arrangements accordingly, for she was very much given to
making a systematic division of her time, and giving to each hour its
regular employment. She thought that by rising early enough she could
perform all her household duties before breakfast, and be free to sit
down immediately afterwards with her books or her work, or to instruct
Pauline, who had become really fond of study, and was making very good
progress.
She found many interruptions, however, to this plan. Mrs. Champlin
often exacted the whole of her attention, or some of the neighbors
would drop in to spend an hour or two, or sometimes Susan would take
a perverse fit, and persist in interrupting her just when she was the
most engaged. She sometimes found it hard not to be irritated under all
these hindrances, especially as she grew more and more interested in
her studies; but she made great efforts, and felt that she was really
gaining very much in regard to temper. She forced herself to lay down
her books cheerfully, and to attend to Mrs. Champlin's long stories
about nothing, and what was still more difficult, she obliged herself
to bear with perfect gentleness all her complaints and insinuations,
which sometimes put Susan, and even Sam, entirely out of patience.
Still, with, all her interruptions and hindrances, she continued to
have a good deal of time, and really made good progress in her studies.
She did not forget Mr. Willson's remark about the Sunday School, and
was anxious to make a beginning, but she did not exactly know how. She
thought it over and over, and at last decided to do nothing till she
could ask Mr. Willson's advice.
One day, two of the neighbors' children came in to play with Pauline.
They were pretty little girls of ten and eleven years old, and Edah,
who had taken a good deal of interest in them, was always glad to see
them. Pauline, who was very assiduous in entertaining her visitors, was
on this occasion showing them the new hymn-book that Edah had given
her, when Sarah Bell proposed that they should sing some of the hymns.
Nothing could please Pauline better. They sang one after the other, and
Edah joined her own sweet and cultivated voice to those of the children.
"Sister," said Pauline, "I wish you would sing that chant out of the
Prayer-Book that you sang the other night—the one you said they sang in
church."
"The Gloria in Excelsis, do you mean," asked Edah; "the one that
begins—'Glory be to God on high'?"
"Yes," replied Pauline. "Now, listen, girls."
Edah sang the glorious old chant, and the children listened with
breathless attention.
When she had finished, Abby Bell said, drawing a long breath—
"I never heard any thing like that. It seems as if it took me right up
into the sky. Do you know any more such hymns, Miss Champlin?"
"They are not hymns—they are chants, Abby," said Pauline, proud to
display her superior knowledge. "Sister says they always sing them in
her church, and some day she is going to take me there."
"I wish there was a church here," said Sarah Bell. "In B—, where we
lived when I was a little bit of a girl, there was a church and a
Sunday School, and Abby went all the time."
"Miss Champlin," asked Abby, "why can't 'you' have a Sunday School—just
for us children, you know? There would be Pauline, and Sarah, and I,
and I know Lizzie and Kitty Smith would like to come, and Mary Crampton
and her little brother. It would be so nice."
"Oh, do, do!" exclaimed Pauline. "It would be just as nice as it could
be. Do, sister, won't you?"
Edah smiled.
"But what should we do for books?" she asked.
"Oh, we could do without just at first, and perhaps we could get some
after a while," said Sarah. "We could learn lessons in the Testament,
at any rate, and you could explain them to us, and we could sing. It
would be delightful."
"Do you think your mother would be willing?" asked Edah.
"I know my mother would, and I am sure Lizzie Smith's mother would like
it," said Abby. "May I ask her, Miss Champlin?"
"You may," said Edah, after a moment's consideration; "and if they are
willing, you may come here next Sunday, at two o'clock."
There was a little whispering among the children, and then Abby said,
with some hesitation—
"Miss Champlin, may we ask the little Fisher children? They are poor,
you know, and their father is a bad man, but their mother is a good
woman, and they are nice little things. They live on the hill, back of
our house."
"Certainly," said Edah; "ask them by all means. I wish, Abby, that you
would come round on Saturday afternoon and tell me how many there are
likely to be, that I may make arrangements accordingly."
Abby promised to do so, and the children went home full of their plan,
and impatient to put it into execution.
The next day Edah had an opportunity to send to Raeburn, and she
wrote a note to Mr. Willson, mentioning her project, and asking some
directions as to beginning. She was agreeably surprised on the return
of her messenger to receive about thirty books, new and old, suitable
for a Sunday School library. Mr. Willson gave her his advice as to the
course best to pursue, warning her against attempting too much, and
giving the plan his cordial approbation.
"Did you see any one else at Raeburn?" asked Edah of Mr. Bell, who had
executed her commission.
"I saw Miss Laurence at the parsonage, and some one else was there that
I'd as soon have expected to see a'most anywhere else, and that was
long John Van Dake. They say he is getting to be a real steady fellow.
But I say, Miss Champlin, what's this about the Sunday School? The
children are so full of it they don't know whether they are on their
heels or their heads, hardly."
Edah smiled, and explained the project to Mr. Bell, who approved of it
entirely.
"I like the notion very well," he said. "I'm not sure but I should like
to come myself, though I suppose you wouldn't take me. The young ones
shall come, if 'she' is willing, and I know she will be."
Mr. and Mrs. Bell had a habit of speaking of one another as "he" and
"she," as if there were no other he and she in the world.
Towards evening of the same day came over Jube, with the usual basket,
and a note from Annie:
"I am sorry to tell you, my dear Edah," she wrote, "that the matter
is decided, and we are really going away for the whole winter. If it
were not for my mother's health, and for the sake of poor Lulu, who,
we hope, will be benefited by the sea voyage, I should not know how
to feel reconciled to it. Mrs. Millar will stay in the house and keep
things in order, and father says he shall leave the key of the library
with you, so the old place will not be quite deserted; and, moreover,
Dick will be up several times in the course of the winter, if he stays
in New York. My superfine brother Addison is going to Europe, where, I
presume, he will acquire a new stock of airs and graces wherewith to
astonish the natives and more thoroughly to disguise his native geed
sense and kindness of heart. I send you some packages of tracts, of
which Dick has supplied me with a perfect magazine, and which you may
find useful. We are counting on one more visit from you before we go."
On Saturday afternoon came over Abby Bell, her eyes sparkling with
delight.
"We are coming, Miss Champlin—all of us. Sarah and I, and Kitty and
Lizzie Smith, and Mary Crampton, and Polly Fisher; and Jane and Selina
Bostwick will come too, if you will let them. They are quite big girls,
you know, and Selina can sing beautifully."
"We shall have quite a school," said Edah. "I must be sure and have
seats enough provided. I think we will meet in the kitchen, and then
we shall not disturb mother, and you must be very careful to come
punctually."
Edah was both surprised and ashamed at the reluctance she felt to
mentioning her plan to the family, but she felt that it was necessary
to do so. Mrs. Champlin wondered that she should put herself to so much
trouble, and thought she would soon be tired of it, but she was in a
good humor, and made no substantial objection. Susan thought it would
be very disagreeable to have the children running in and out all day
Sunday.
"But they will not be running in and out," said Edah; "they will only
come in at the side-gate, and go quietly into the kitchen, and as
quietly go away again."
"What good will it do them?" asked Susan. "Do you suppose it will be
any better for them than if they read their Bibles at home?"
"Perhaps not, if they read them," replied Edah, "and yet I think it may
give them rather more interest in the matter, and they will have their
little books and tracts too."
"From which they will derive great benefit, no doubt; Sunday School
books are usually so very entertaining and instructive! However, if you
like to amuse yourself in that way, I don't know why you should not,
only I don't think those Fisher children will be very nice playmates
for Pauline."
"They will not be playmates for her at all," said Edah. "I do not
propose to have any play in school, and after school they will go home."
"Now, Sue," said Pauline, "you are only talking so, just to be
contrary, you know."
"There," returned Susan, "that is a good beginning. If you teach them
all as good manners as Pauline has acquired, you will be a benefactor
to the community. For my part, I think—"
Susan stopped short, and Edah, seeing that she was a good deal out of
humor, thought it best to drop the conversation for the present. She
took an opportunity when she was putting Pauline to bed to tell her how
very improperly she had spoken.
"You do a great deal of harm," said she "and make me a great deal of
trouble, when you talk so, and you know you would not like to have any
one speak so to you."
"I don't think!" said Pauline, hanging her head.
"But you must think! 'Don't think' is youngest brother to 'Don't care,'
and does quite as much mischief. You must think, and you must ask God
to teach you to curb your tongue."
Pauline promised to try and do better. She was really improving very
much in every respect, but the habits of her little lifetime were not
to be conquered all at once, and every little slip she made was noted
and commented on by Susan, because she knew very well that it annoyed
Edah. It is a strange pleasure certainly which some people take in
seeing others do wrong, especially those who are trying with all their
might to do right. This was not always the case with Susan; but certain
it is, that there were times when it was her greatest delight to see
Edah's color rise and her eyes flash, and to see her utter some hasty
retort or angry sarcasm, and it really seemed as if she lent all the
energies of her mind to bring it about.
On Sunday afternoon at two o'clock, the children made their appearance,
for the most part shy and silent enough. They were all nicely dressed,
with the exception of Polly Fisher, who was, however, clean and neat.
She was a mild-looking little morsel of a child, with large gray eyes,
and "lint-white hair," and Edah thought there was something very
prepossessing in her almost infantine countenance: she was surprised to
learn that Polly was twelve years old. Selina and Jane Bostwick were
dark, pale girls of thirteen and fifteen, with good manners, but very
silent and shy. Mary Crampton and the little Smiths were nice little
children about nine or ten, and Pauline was the youngest child present.
Ruby-Anne came in just as the children were taking their places.
"Law sakes! What a nice little school!" she exclaimed. "I suppose you
will take me too, won't you?"
Edah would rather have preferred not having any grown-up spectators
at first, but she did not see how to avoid it in this case, and Ruby
took her place with the rest. After a few words spoken to the children,
Edah requested all present to kneel and join her in the Lord's Prayer,
and when this was concluded, she read a collect or two from her
Prayer-Book. Mr. Willson had sent her among other things, half a dozen
hymn-books, and when the prayers were finished, she selected a hymn,
which was sung to a familiar tune. Jane and Selina had sweet, though
uncultivated voices, and Ruby-Anne joined with the rest.
"Children," said Edah, when the hymn was finished, "why have we come
together here this afternoon?"
There were several answers. "To have a Sunday school," said one. "To
learn about God."—"To study the Bible," said others.
"Those are all very good answers," said Edah. "We have come to have a
Sunday School, to study the Bible, and I hope to learn something about
God and our duty. I think the best way to begin will be to read over
some verses, as of course you have not learned any lesson to-day, to
talk them over, and then you can learn them for next Sunday. We will
begin with the second chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel, and take seven
verses for our first lesson; but first, can any one tell me what is the
meaning of the word Gospel?"
"I believe it means good tidings," said Selina, modestly, after a pause.
"That is quite right. When the angel came to the shepherds on the
plains of Bethlehem, he said, 'I bring you glad tidings of great joy,
which shall be to all people.' But why is the Gospel good news?"
"Because it tells us how to be saved," said Pauline.
"Yes, because it tells us of a Saviour. It tells us how good God was
in sending His only Son into the world, to die for us that we might
be saved if we believe in Him and obey Him and love Him. We wish to
understand that good news, and to know all about it. Suppose your
father were in some distant place—in Europe, for instance—and he should
write you a letter, telling you that you might come and see him there,
and giving you directions how you must come, and promising you money
for the journey—you would be very anxious to understand the letter
properly, would you not?"
"'I' should," said Mary Crampton.
"Well, this is what Christ does in the Gospel. He tells us that if we
will, we may meet Him in heaven; He tells us how to come, and promises
us His Holy Spirit to help us on the way. But suppose any child should
get such a letter from her father, and should just put it away on the
shelf, and think no more about it—suppose, too, that unless she did
attend to the letter and go to meet her father, she would certainly
starve to death in a little while, or be carried away and made a slave
of. Would you not think her a very strange child?"
"I don't believe any child would be so foolish as that," said Mary
Crampton.
"You think not, Mary. Yet this is just what people do who neglect the
Bible—who put it away on the shelf; and take no pains to understand it."
"But people are not starved to death because they don't understand the
Bible," said Pauline.
"Not in this world perhaps, but in another world, my dear; have you
forgotten that? Our lives do not end when we stop living here and our
bodies are buried in the ground, do they? What becomes of our souls
then?"
"They go to heaven," answered little Jemmie Fisher.
"All of them?" asked Edah. "Do the souls of all sorts of people go to
heaven, Jemmie?"
"Only Christians go to heaven," said Selina Bostwick.
"And what becomes of the others?"
"They are lost," said Selina solemnly, after a pause.
"Yes," said Edah, "unless we learn the way to heaven in this world and
set out in that way, we shall never find it, and the sooner we set
out, the more sure we are of reaching the end of our journey. It is to
learn about that way that we come here this afternoon. But it will do
us no good to learn the road, unless we set out in it; we must remember
that: a great many people know the way, who I fear never take one step
forward therein. Now we will read over the lesson for next Sunday, and
see if we understand it."
The lesson was accordingly read—a verse by each child in turn; and
Edah gave such explanations as she thought necessary. She did not like
to keep them too long at first; so she made her remarks as brief as
possible. All the children, except Jemmie Fisher, could read pretty
fluently, and he made out tolerably, by dint of spelling, and being
told the hard words by his sister. Edah gave them a short recess,
telling them not to go away from the door or make any noise, and she
was glad to find that they obeyed her. After they had taken their seats
again, she said—
"Children, there are some words which I wish you to learn to repeat
altogether. They are called the Apostles' Creed, and they tell what all
Christians believe. I will say it all for you, and then we will repeat
it sentence by sentence till we learn it. The meaning of the word Creed
is belief."
She repeated it slowly and seriously; then taking the first clause,
she said it with them three or four times, till they seemed to know it
perfectly.
"I used to know that when I was a little girl," said Ruby-Anne. "I
guess I'll say it too; it will kind of help them along."
"Do, if you please," said Edah, and accordingly Ruby-Anne's voice
chimed in with those of the little ones. In the course of half an
hour the older ones had it perfectly, and then Edah dismissed them,
after singing another hymn, and giving them their library books. They
all went home, feeling very nicely, and Edah herself was greatly
encouraged by this favorable beginning. She thought it very likely
that she would have more trouble as she went on, but she did not
mean to be discouraged. She was especially pleased at being able to
keep the attention of the children fixed, and at finding them all so
well-behaved, and looked forward with much pleasure to meeting them
again.
The next Sunday all the children made their appearance, with the
addition of two or three new faces, and Edah was gratified to find that
they had not only learned the words of their lesson, but also that they
remembered and comprehended her explanations. She pursued the same
course as before, and with the same success, and there seemed now a
fair prospect of the school's flourishing, and being useful not only
to the children, but to herself. She was surprised to find, when she
sat down to think over the verses of the lesson, how very indistinct
her own ideas were on the subject, and how much of study and meditation
were necessary in order to put them into an available shape.
She was careful not to fatigue her pupils by too many explanations; but
instead of their being in a hurry to get away, she found them rather
unwilling to go, and very desirous to hear "some more."
This week was destined to be one of trial to Edah. In the first place,
the Laurences set out on their journey. Edah had expected to miss them
very much, but she was not prepared to find such a blank in her daily
life as their departure created. It made her feel desolate not to be
expecting to see Annie, or to hear from her, or to ride over to Spring
Bank herself. She felt that there was no one left to her.
She had, it is true, formed some acquaintances in the village,
particularly with Mrs. Bell, the mother of Abby and Sarah, and with
Miss Gilmore, a useful, painstaking maiden lady, Selina Bostwick's
aunt, who was much interested in her plans for the Sunday School, and
promised to help her whenever she needed assistance; but still they
were not very cultivated people, and knew nothing of many of the things
which interested her. Mrs. Bell, in particular, thought it very strange
that any one should take so much pains to learn a foreign language,
when there were so many books in English yet unread, and she could
hardly believe that any one whose mind was so much taken up with books
and such things could have any attention left for household duties. She
was obliged, however, to confess, when Edah laughingly brought in for
her inspection a shirt which she had just finished for Sam, that she
could not have made it better herself.
Captain Laurence, who was a good deal of a book-collector, had, as
he said, made her free of his library, and she was at liberty at any
time to carry home whatever volumes she wanted—a precious privilege
in a country where books were by no means as plenty as blackberries.
Edah took up a course of history with Sam, who had become very fond of
reading aloud, and she hoped to make it profitable to both of them.
Moreover, she had herself become very much interested in some of our
most excellent old English divines, and she was especially delighted
with the Scripture Meditations of glorious Bishop Hall, which she
studied until she knew them by heart. Still, all these advantages could
not make up for the loss of the society of her friends, and she missed
them more and more every day.
A few days after their final departure, she was out in the yard, when
her attention was attracted by an old negro who was lingering near the
gate, and she went out to speak to him. The old man seemed to have some
difficulty in getting out what he had to say, and hesitated, till Edah
said, good-naturedly—
"What is it, Uncle Jake? I am sure there is something on your mind yet."
"Well, missy, that's a fact. You see I didn't like to trouble missy,
if I could get along without, but it's mighty hard times, and this old
feller don't make out very well."
"But I don't understand you yet, Jake? Do you want me to help you in
any way?"
"No, missy; I don't ask nothing of nobody, only to be paid. You see,
missy, I used to work for Mr. Champlin, time and again, hauling boards
and driving, and so on, and sometimes he paid me, and then again he
didn't; but I didn't get nothing for most a year before Mr. Champlin
went away—that's a fact. So I got Mr. Bell to draw off the 'count,
'cause I always kept a 'count, and here it is. You see, missy, I knew
there was a good deal going out, and I didn't like to disturb the
family; but I'm mighty poor this fall—that's a fact."
Edah took the account. It seemed all fair enough, and the amount was
fifteen dollars. She knew that Mr. Bell would have had nothing to do
with it unless it were all right, and she felt sorry not to have known
of it before.
"You must be paid at once, Jake, of course. I wish you had called
before, though I am much obliged to you for your consideration. Walk
into the kitchen and sit down, and I will get you the money."
"Missy is very kind. I guess I will sit down, for this old feller gets
tired mighty easy, now-a-days."
Edah was startled, on counting over her stock of ready money, to see
that it would take half of what she had in hand to pay Jake. It was
more than two months to Christmas, when she would receive her next
instalment, and what were they to do in the mean time?
"Do you ever work for Mr. Strong, at the Eagle, Jake?" she asked, as
she gave the old man his money.
"Yes, missy—sometimes."
"What sort of a man is he?"
"Well, he's a hard man, that's a fact—a regular skinflint, he is. I
never see his match for that. Missy had any trouble with him since
Captain Laurence paid up the mortgage?"
"Captain Laurence paid up the mortgage! What do you mean, Jake?"
"Don't missy know? Laws sake, I's sorry I said a word."
"But what is it, Jacob? I must know all about it," said Edah.
"Well, missy knows Strong was agoing to take Miss Champlin's things,
and the old Captain he heard of it, and he come over and wanted Strong
to make over the mortgage to him. Strong swore he wouldn't at first,
but he knows which side his bread's buttered, and he dusn't offend the
old Captain, you see, so finally he let him have it, and the Captain
paid him the money; and if old Strong didn't swear tall, when the old
Captain was out of hearing, it's no matter. Real gentleman the old
Captain is, missy—none of your new-come-up folks, they ain't. My oldest
boy and girl was brung up there. Missy's seen my Jube and Sally at the
Captain's, I expect."
"Are Jube and Sally your children, Jake? I did not know that. You must
be glad to have them in such good hands."
"Yes, missy, thank the Lord, they's well brought up. Jube is a good
boy, and helps his old daddy a sight, he does. I's a deal to be
thankful for, that's a fact. Well, I thank you, missy, and bid you
good-morning. If you have any little jobs to do, Jake will be glad to
do them for you."
"Sam," said Edah that night, "old Jake says that Captain Laurence took
that mortgage, and paid Strong the money. Did you know any thing about
it?"
"No, indeed!" replied Sam, looking perfectly confounded. "Do you
believe it, Edah?"
"Why, Jake says he was there at the time, and that Strong did not
want to let him have it, but that he dared not offend him, and so the
Captain paid the money."
"How should he know any thing about it?"
"Perhaps Mr. Willson told him. You know he knew all the circumstance;
for he was here the same day, and we talked it over with him."
"And the Captain was at Strong's the next day, I know. I remember
seeing the young black horses standing there, hitched to the post.
That's the reason we have heard no more from Strong. But what do you
mean to do about it?"
"It must be paid in some way," said Edah. "I would not pay Strong, if
I could help it; but now the debt is to Captain Laurence, and that is
quite another thing. It must be paid at some rate."
"It ought to be, certainly; but I declare, Edah, I don't know how. I
have only twenty dollars left."
"And I have only twelve, since paying Jake. I shall not have any more
till Christmas, and then only fifty dollars. But come in here—" they
were standing at the door of Edah's room—"and I will tell you what I
have been thinking. Talk low, so as not to wake Polly."
Sam sat down accordingly, and Edah went on: "Do you know whether they
have found a teacher for the school yet?"
"I know they have not," replied Sam. "I heard them talking about it at
the post-office to-night."
"Do you think they would let me take it?"
"You!" exclaimed Sam, with so much vehemence that Polly started in her
sleep. "I guess they would, and be glad of the chance; but you would
not think of doing it, would you?"
"Why not?" asked Edah. "Don't you think I am competent to teach a
common school?"
"But would you be willing to do it? Just think how it would take up
your time, and hew tired you would get. You would have to give up your
Spanish and drawing almost entirely; and then to have to teach and
manage all sorts of children—boys and girls, rough and smooth, just as
they come."
"I have thought of all that," said Edah. "As to the children, I have no
fear but that I should manage them, for I am fond of children, and they
almost always like me. It would be hard work at first, but I should get
used to it, I presume. As to the Spanish and drawing, I should have to
give them up, to be sure, but they are not of so much consequence. I
shall never feel easy a moment till this debt is paid."
"What in the world are you talking about?" asked Susan, putting her
head in at the door.
"About ways and means," said Edah. "Come in and join the committee,
will you? I thought you were asleep."
"So I was, till your talking waked me. And what about ways and means?
Ways to spend money, and no means of getting it, is what it signifies
in our case usually; but what new call is there for money?"
Edah explained what she had heard.
Susan listened in silence, and then said, in a voice which struggled in
vain to be calm—
"Captain Laurence is very kind, but I almost wish he had let it alone.
I should not care whether Strong ever got a cent of it or not, but now
the case is altered. I don't like the idea of Captain Laurence losing
by us. How much is it?"
"About one hundred and thirty dollars."
"We never can pay it in the world," said Susan.
"I am not sure of that," replied Edah. "Sam says that they have not
yet engaged a teacher for the district school, and he thinks they
would take me, if I applied, and in that way I could earn something. I
suppose they would give me, at least, twelve dollars a month."
"Sixteen," said Sam. "I heard them say they would give sixteen, if they
got a teacher that suited them."
"Well, sixteen dollars a month would go a good way, if well managed,
and then I could save my allowance towards the debt, and in time we
could get enough."
Susan tried once or twice to speak, and then, bursting into tears, she
said, through her sobs—
"I declare it is a perfect shame—you just support the family now, and
when it comes to paying father's whisky debts besides—for they are no
better—I think we had better break up, and go to the poorhouse at once."
"You forget, Susy, that I am going to spend the winter here," said
Edah, smiling, and trying to speak gaily, though the tears stood in her
own eyes, "and I should not like to spend it in the poorhouse at all.
And after all, what harm will it do me to teach a few months? A great
many girls do it from choice; and besides, Sue, you forget that it will
give me a chance to extend my Sunday School—my pet, as you call it."
"I believe that is at the bottom of it, after all," said Susan, trying
to laugh in her turn; "but it does seem a perfect shame that you should
have to give up all your own tastes and studies for the sake of earning
money for us. If I were in your place, I would just go off to New York,
and leave the family to its own devices."
"I don't believe you would do any such thing," interrupted Edah.
"I have been trying to think of some way in which I can earn
something," continued Susan, "but I don't see how I can. I am pretty
good at sewing, and I thought I could get some dresses to make; but I
cannot sew lately, it gives me such pain in my side, and makes me cough
so."
"You must not think of such a thing," said Edah, earnestly. "You do
enough, and more than enough, in waiting upon mother and taking care of
Eddy, and you could not be more useful in any other way. Well, then,
since the committee approves of my plan, I shall make the proposition
to Mr. Bell to-morrow. I am sure of his good word, at any rate. And
then I shall be the school-ma'am, and you will all have to be very
respectful to me. I shall allow no liberties, I assure you."
"And what will become of your drawing and Spanish, and your
history-reading, and all that?" asked Susan.
"The drawing and Spanish will have to wait a while," replied Edah; "the
history will go on as usual, as it only occupies the evenings. Perhaps
I may contrive a little time for drawing, but if not, I must do without
for the present."
"Well," said Susan, "all I can say is, I should like to know how you
came by your disposition. You did not get it by inheritance, I am sure
of that."
"If you will believe me, Susan," replied Edah, earnestly, "I have
got whatever there is of good in me from my religious principles. It
is to these, and these alone, that I owe any power of good, or of
self-sacrifice. I used to think of nothing but myself, and my own
pleasure; and now, though I know I often fail, I also know that my
greatest desire is to do the will of God, and to glorify Him."
"I am sure you do it," said Sam.
Susan made no remark, but she kissed her sister good-night with unusual
affection.
"One thing more before the committee rises," said Edah. "Don't say any
thing about it to mother till it is all settled and decided. She might
object, and make it difficult to arrange matters. I do not exactly like
to act without consulting her either, but, as she is now, I think it
will be best. So we will keep it all quiet till I have seen Mr. Bell
and the committee."
"You don't know what a queer dream I had last night," said Pauline, at
breakfast. "I dreamed that Sam, and sister, and Susan were all in our
room talking about keeping a school for Captain Laurence, and that Sue
cried about it. Wasn't it curious? It seems to me just as if they had
really been there."
CHAPTER VIII.
NEW LABORS AND NEW PLEASURES.
THE next day Edah went over to see her fast friend Mr. Bell, who was
one of the school committee. He was much astonished by her offer to
take the school at sixteen dollars a month, and at first could hardly
believe she was serious; but when she assured him that she was really
desirous to undertake it, and that she was ready to begin immediately,
he promised to use all his influence in her favor; and with this
promise Edah was quite content, for she well knew that his voice was
all-powerful with the school committee.
Accordingly the next morning after breakfast, Mr. Bell dropped in.
"Well, Miss Champlin," said he, "we had a meeting last night, and
talked it over, and we agreed to let you have the school, but they want
you to begin right away next Monday. I told them I didn't know how that
would be."
"I am willing to begin at once," replied Edah.
"There's another thing," said Mr. Bell; "you don't know any Latin, do
you?"
"Yes," replied Edah; "I have read Virgil, and I have been well drilled
in the Latin Grammar."
"There now—I told them it was probable you did. You see there are
Bostwick's boy and girls, and my nephew, Bob Raymond: their folks
want them to learn Latin. Now if you'd teach them maybe half or three
quarters of an hour after school, they'd be perfectly willing to give
you a dollar a week more."
"Very well!" said Edah. "I presume I can teach them all they want to
know."
"Well then," said Mr. Bell, rising, "I don't see but it's all settled
out fair and square. Some of them wanted you to board round; but I told
'em you couldn't do that, on account of your ma's health. You'll find
some of the children rather rough customers, but I reckon you will get
along. There's Bob Raymond—his folks have nations of trouble with him,
but there ain't any need of it. He'll stay three months at a time with
me, as good a boy as you'd wish to see. It is with children just as it
is with horses: some folks seem as if they put Ned into them the minute
they touch them—'tain't so much in the horses as it is in the driving."
Edah had now the hardest task of all on her hands, and that was to
communicate to her mother the intelligence that she had engaged as a
district school teacher. At first, Mrs. Champlin would hardly believe
her, and when she assured herself that it was really so, she was
indignant beyond measure.
"You, the daughter of Frederick Champlin, and the niece of John Liston,
to be teaching ragged children in a district school! A fine occupation
to be sure! And what am I to do while you are away from morning till
night, with no one to speak to, and not a soul to do any thing for me?"
"There will be Susan and Ruby-Anne, you know," said Edah gently.
"Susan indeed! Susan is a child, a perfect child! She is no company for
me at all. But you all of you think of every thing else before you do
of me."
"I don't suppose Edah would teach a district school for the pleasure
of it, mother," said Susan, unable to keep silence any longer; "it
would be a great deal pleasanter for her to stay at home, and study her
Spanish and draw."
"Why doesn't she do it then? You don't pretend to tell me that with
all the money your father sent home before he sailed, there is any
necessity for it."
This was one of Mrs. Champlin's favorite ideas; she considered the
meager supply sent by her husband perfectly inexhaustible. "But you
must do as you please. I shall say no more about it, only I do think
it is rather hard that I am made a perfect cypher in my own house, and
that my own children rebel against me."
Upon this complaint Mrs. Champlin rung the changes for the whole day,
till Edah's ears and heart ached with hearing it. Had she not been
perfectly satisfied that she was taking the right course, she would
have found this state of things perfectly intolerable.
Mrs. Champlin commonly slept all the afternoon, and while she was
asleep, Edah took her work and went down to Miss Gilmore's, hoping
to find a little rest and refreshment in the society of her kind and
sensible friend. Miss Gilmore was sitting in the kitchen cutting
carpet-rags, and though rather distressed at the litter around her, she
made Edah cordially welcome.
"Do tell if it is really true that you are going to take the school?"
she asked. "I heard it for certain, but I can hardly believe it."
"It is really true," replied Edah; "I am going to begin next Monday,
and I want you to advise me about it, for I know you have taught."
"The best advice I can give you," said Miss Gilmore, "is to do the very
best you can, and then trust to Providence for the result. But if you
want to know how to make the most of your time, I can tell you how I
used to do."
She then went on with a detailed account of her mode of proceeding, to
which Edah listened with great interest.
"You see I am old-fashioned in my notions," she said in conclusion;
"but after all, it seems to me that children learned as much when
I was young, as they do now. I know when I was thirteen years old,
I could read and write, and had been through Murray's Grammar and
Pike's Arithmetic, and understood them too, and that is more than many
children can my now-a-days."
"I wanted to ask you about one thing," said Edah—"having prayers in
school. It seems to me the only right way, but I believe they have not
usually done it here."
"About that I would do just as I thought right. I don't think any one
would object to it. You could read prayers, I suppose?"
"I think so," replied Edah; "the plan I had in mind was this: first to
have all that are able read a chapter in the Testament, and then join
in the Lord's Prayer, followed by some short form of prayer. What do
you think of it?"
"It seems a good plan enough, unless they would get so tired of a form
as not to attend to it, and I don't think there is much danger of that.
I don't doubt, my dear, but you will do very well, and be the means of
good in this place. Your little Sunday School has done much already:
the children all talk about it, and I presume a great many more would
like to come, only they are shy."
"I almost wonder that no such thing has been done here before," said
Edah.
"It is rather singular; but the fact is, there has been no one to take
hold of it. There are hardly any pious people here, for one thing: not
more than eight families in the place make any pretensions to religion,
and they are very lukewarm, and take but little interest in it. There
has never been any thing like a church here. Sometimes Mr. Willson, or
some Methodist minister, preaches in the school-house, but not often. I
wish it was different, with all my heart; and now that a Sunday School
is really started, and the few that go take so much interest, I should
not wonder if it was the beginning of better days: at any rate, we will
hope and pray that it may be so."
The next Monday morning Edah was ready early, and went over to the
school-house in good season. It was beautifully situated, being built
just upon the side of a hill, shaded by large trees on one side, while
upon the other, the ground descended abruptly to the bed of a brawling
mountain stream, which almost made an island of the village in its
circuitous course. The deep hollow, as it was called, was a favorite
play place with the children, who found the earliest spring flowers on
its precipitous sides, birds' nests in the bushes, and curious pebbles
and small petrifactions in the bed of the stream. About half-way down
the bank, one of the copious springs, so common in that part of the
country, issued from under the roots of an old cedar, and ran gaily
down into the brook below.
The school-house itself was built of stone, and with its surroundings
of trees and rocks formed a very pretty picture. There was no one in
the room when she entered, but it had been carefully swept and dusted,
and a bunch of late flowers in a broken flower-pot was placed upon the
desk. Standing by that desk, Edah offered a silent prayer that she
might have grace to fulfil all her duties, and that she might be made
the instrument of much good to those under her care.
The children dropped in, one after the other, or three or four at a
time, all shy and awkward enough, and replying in monosyllables to the
questions put to them by the new school-ma'am. The greater part of them
were young, but there was quite a class of great grown-up boys and
girls, some of whom looked older than their teacher.
When nine o'clock came, Edah took her place on the platform, and rang
the bell, and the little crowd immediately took their seats in a kind
of disorderly order. She waited a few minutes till all was perfectly
still, and then said—
"I am very glad to meet so many pleasant faces here this morning. I
hope and believe that you have all come prepared to do your best, to
learn your lessons well, and behave well. I am pleased too, to see so
many large boys and girls, and I presume I shall find them a great
assistance. But as no undertaking can be expected to prosper which is
not commenced with the blessing of God, we will begin all our mornings
with prayer. I wish all present who have Testaments would open to the
second chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel."
There were a few glances of surprise interchanged, but the books were
produced, and the places found.
"We will read round once two verses to each," continued Edah, "and then
you will all kneel and join with me in repeating the Lord's Prayer."
The verses were read round accordingly, and all knelt in a very orderly
manner, but only a few voices joined in the prayer: these were Edah's
Sunday scholars, one of the older girls, and Bob Raymond.
She was not unprepared for this result; but she had resolved beforehand
to persevere till the experiment was fairly tried. She knew she could
depend upon her Sunday scholars, and she hoped the rest would fall
in by degrees. The oldest girl in the school, whose name was Martha
Cowles, was a communicant of the church at Raeburn, a pleasant,
unassuming young woman, with mild dark eyes, and very prepossessing in
her appearance.
The first day was spent in arranging classes, ascertaining the
acquirements of the pupils, and making acquaintance with them. In one
of the boys Edah was especially interested, not from any personal
beauty, or attractiveness of appearance, but quite the reverse. John
Downing was a pale, sullen, dark-haired boy, about fourteen years old.
He had good features, and might have been called handsome, but for
the settled expression of discontent and ill-humor which deformed his
countenance: he seldom smiled or looked up, and Edah could not help
thinking that with his sullenness there was also an expression of
habitual unhappiness. He seemed rather backward in his studies, and
when he was placed in a lower class than the other boys of his own age,
the gloom on his face deepened till it was painful to look at him.
Edah resolved to take the first opportunity to attract his confidence,
and win his love. The opportunity soon presented itself, though in
rather an unexpected manner. One afternoon Jack was complained of by
the little ones for pinching them, pulling their hair, and otherwise
annoying them. He denied these accusations at once; but Edah was very
quick-sighted, and soon saw with her own eyes the offence repeated.
"You will stay a little while after school to-night, John," said she.
"I must have a talk with you about this matter."
Accordingly, when the other children were dismissed, John remained in
his seat, looking tenfold more dogged and sullen than ever.
When all were gone, Edah turned the key in the door, and took a seat
beside him.
"It seems to me, Jack," she said, gently, "that you are a very unhappy
boy."
Jack looked up in some astonishment at this address, so different from
what he had expected, but dropped his eyes again on meeting Edah's
serious but kindly glance.
"It seems to me that you are very unhappy," she went on. "I hardly ever
see you smile or laugh, and you seem to have no friends. Why is it?"
"Nobody likes me," replied Jack, speaking suddenly, after a pause of
some minutes. "There ain't anybody in the world that can bear me. The
boys all hate me, and my father treats me worse than a dog. He wishes I
was dead, I know, and I wish so too, I do," he concluded; and bursting
into a passion of tears, he laid his head down on his folded arms, and
sobbed almost hysterically.
Edah put her arm round his neck, stroked his head, and tried by
caresses and kind words to compose and reassure him.
"I know I'm the worst boy that ever was," he said, after another pause,
"but how can I help it! Father never speaks to me except to find fault,
and never touches me except to whip me; and ma's pretty much so. They
never seem to notice when I try to do right; but just as sure as I go
wrong, I get a whipping. It's just so in school."
"Did I ever whip you, Jack," interrupted Edah, "or find fault with you
when I could help it?"
"No, not you—there ain't many like you; but all the teachers we have
had before have done so; and they always told father, and then I'd have
to take it again. Well, I am hateful, I know. Sometimes it makes me
feel as though I'd like to do all the mischief I can, and then I plague
and tease folks, right and left."
"And does that make you feel any better?"
"No, I don't know as it does. There don't any thing make me feel
better. I believe there was some good in me once, but there ain't any
now, and I don't expect there ever will be again."
"Jack," said Edah, "do you believe that I am your friend? Will you
believe me if I tell you that I am really anxious to befriend you, and
make you happy?"
"Yes," replied Jack, after some deliberation. "If you said so, I should
believe it, though it don't seem as if any one really could care for
me."
"And will you follow my advice, and do as I want to have you?"
"Yes. I will try, any way."
Edah paused for a moment, and then said, in a still more serious and
affectionate tone—
"Jack, do you ever think that you have a Friend in heaven, who can do
more for you than any earthly friend—who loves you, and is ready to
help you, as soon as you ask Him?"
"Miss Champlin," said Jack, looking at her earnestly for the first
time, "do you really believe—now really and truly—that God cares
anything for such a boy as I am?"
"Certainly I do, my dear; as truly as I believe I am sitting here. I
know it is so, and if you ask Him, He will give you help."
"How?"
"He will show you some way out of your difficulties, and will give you
strength to bear them better, and to be a better boy. For there is
no doubt, Jack, that a good many of your troubles are owing to your
own faults. You say that people don't like you; but is that strange?
Did you expect to make Jemmy Fisher like you by pulling his hair? Or
yesterday, when you threw Bob Raymond's cap up into the tree, was that
the way to make friends with him? In both these cases you had no sort
of provocation: is it strange that the boys do not like you when you
tease them so? Now the first thing for you to do, is to get over this
bad habit of teasing and annoying others. Try to think what you can do
to please people instead of contriving ways to injure them, and you
will soon find an alteration in their feelings towards you, and of
yours towards them. The best way of learning to like those around us is
to do them good.
"Now if you will take my advice, you will begin to-morrow morning
with thinking what you can do to please Bob and Jemmy, and make them
some amends. I know you can contrive some way, if you try: don't be
discouraged, if you don't succeed well at first, but keep on trying. Be
diligent in your studies, and see if you do not have a pleasant day.
And first of all, ask God to give you the help you need, to be a better
boy, and you may be sure He will hear you, and be glad to see you
making an effort to reform, whether any one else is or not."
"I'll try," said Jack, after a moment's thought; "but I know they will
only laugh at me."
"Never mind it if they do; try all the more, and by and by they will
see that you are in earnest, and they will be glad to help you. Now run
home, and don't stop by the way."
The next day Edah was on the watch to see the effect of her lessons.
Jack came to school in excellent time, and was very industrious and
quiet all the morning.
At noon a good many of the children were gathered around the door, and
Jemmie Fisher, who had a great talent for tumbling, contrived to fall
off the steps with his slate in his hand. He was not much hurt, but the
frame of the new slate, alas! was broken, and came off.
"Never mind, Jemmie!" said Jack, taking it out of his hands. "I'll mend
it for you. Don't cry, but run and find me a little bit of hard wood."
"What's going to happen now?" exclaimed Bob Raymond, who was rather a
thoughtless boy. "I think the world must be coming to an end when Jack
Downing offers to help any one."
The angry words, "Mind your own business—" came at once to Jack's lips,
but did not pass them. He controlled himself, and said pleasantly
enough—
"Better late than never, you know, Bob!" And then adding, "I wonder
what that young one is about," he went in search of Jemmie.
"Bob," said Selina Bostwick, "suppose you had fallen down on the ice,
and were trying to get up, and every time you got up, a little some one
gave you a shove, and pushed you down again. I guess you would think it
was rather mean, wouldn't you?"
"Of course I should," returned Bob; "but what of that?"
"That's just what you did to Jack just now. Now it seems to me, if he
is really trying to do better, it would be kinder and more generous to
help him than to hinder him."
"It wasn't quite fair, Selina, that's a fact," said Bob, coloring; "but
you see I was taken by surprise. However, I'll try to make it up to
him, somehow."
"Well, Jack, how have you succeeded?" asked Edah, when school was out
at night. "Have you had a pleasant day?"
"Yes, ma'am," replied Jack, smiling; "a great deal pleasanter than
yesterday. It was hard work to begin though, I tell you, and I'd like
to have spoiled all when Bob Raymond laughed at me. But I didn't
though, and I know he was sorry he laughed, for he offered to lend me
his ball of his own accord afterwards."
"I see you have made a good beginning," said Edah, "and what you have
now to do is to keep on, and try to do better every day. But you cannot
do this in your own strength, and as sure as you try, you will fail
again and again. It is only the strength which God gives that enables
us to stand against temptation and to do right."
"I did say my prayers last night and this morning," said Jack, looking
down; "but I could hardly believe it would do any good. It didn't seem
as though there was any one to hear me."
"But have you not found it easier to be good since?"
"Yes, I think I did; and, Miss Champlin, when Bob laughed at me, I was
just going to say, 'Mind your own business,' when I remembered what you
said, and I don't know whether it was a prayer or not, but I wished He
would help me, and then I found I could answer pleasantly. But I can
hardly believe that He really did."
"I can," said Edah, "and I believe He will help you more and more, the
more you ask Him. But you must try to have faith. I shall always like
to have you ask me any questions, or tell me any thing that puzzles
you, and I will answer you as well as I can."
Every one noticed the change in Jack from this time. He was frequently
sad, and even gloomy when he came to school in the morning, or when it
was time to return at night; but he was obliging, kind, and gentle,
especially to the little ones, and to Edah his devotion was unbounded.
She was indeed his first and for some time his only friend, but he was
soon to have others raised up for him. Bob Raymond related to his uncle
the change that had come over Jack, and told how sorry the boys felt
for him when he came to school with his face so pale, and his eyes all
swelled with crying.
"I suppose," said Mr. Bell, after a little reflection, "if I was to
take Jack for an apprentice, you and he'd raise Ned together, wouldn't
you?"
"We would try not to," returned Bob, laughing. "I wish you would take
him, Uncle Joshua, and see if something couldn't be made of him."
"I want a boy," continued Mr. Bell, "and I don't know but I might as
well have him as another. Well, don't say any thing just now, Bob, but
let me see about it."
Mr. Bell saw about it accordingly, and in the course of a week Jack
was established as an apprentice in his workshop, and boarding in his
family. The Bells were very plain people, and not very rich, but they
were kind to each other, and the children were governed on a very
different plan from any to which Jack had been accustomed. It was like
a heaven on earth to him. He lost his gloomy frown and downcast look;
his eyes grew brighter, his manners frank and open, and though he had
some pretty serious faults, Mr. Bell pronounced him, at the end of his
three months' trial, a pretty good boy.
Edah had little trouble in her school. She possessed that quiet dignity
of manner which seems to take obedience always for granted, and
which goes so far with children. Moreover, she was their friend and
counsellor in all their plans and amusements, was always ready to hear
and advise them in their little troubles, and she even went so far as
to assist at the construction of a playhouse in the cavity formed by a
jutting rock, which sheltered a deep recess in the hill-side.
When Mrs. Downing heard of this last performance, she at once
prophesied the downfall of the school. Whoever heard of a school-ma'am
playing with the children, and having any authority afterwards?
But as Edah's authority suffered no diminution whatever, and the
children were undeniably well-behaved, she was obliged to content
herself with the declaration that children were not so managed in her
time.
Meantime, the Sunday School flourished till it seemed likely to
out-grow the kitchen. The numbers were now increased to twenty, and the
children seemed to take more and more interest in their lessons, often
doing more than was required of them, and very seldom less. Of course
the Sunday exercises formed a subject of conversation among the school
children during the week, and almost all the scholars became interested
in it. Edah felt that she could not possibly take any more children at
home. Her mother had begun to make many objections to having them there
at all, and for two or three weeks her mind had been much troubled
about it. She could not bear to think of giving up her little flock,
and yet she felt that it was not right to annoy her mother by having
them in her house against her wishes.
One day, after she had been revolving the matter in her mind, and
trying to see her way out of her difficulties, three or four of the
elder girls came to her in recess, and with some hesitation requested
to be admitted into her Sunday School.
"I should be very glad, indeed, to have you," said Edah, "but the truth
is, I have no room for you. It rather disturbs my mother now to have so
many children about, and I do not exactly know what to do with those I
have already."
There was a good deal of disappointment expressed in the faces of the
girls, but, as if struck with a bright thought, one of them said—
"Miss Champlin, why could you not have the Sunday School here? Then
there would be room enough for as many as wanted to come."
"Do you think the trustees would be willing?" asked Edah.
"I don't see why they shouldn't. They always let every one preach and
lecture here, and all the town meetings are held here. Oh yes, I am
sure they would."
"Then we should want fires, you know, and that would use up a good deal
of wood. How should we manage about that?"
"I don't know," answered Martha Cowles. "Some of the trustees would be
willing we should have what wood we wanted; but there's Mr. Downing
would grudge the very water out of the spring. I dare say we could
manage it somehow."
Edah promised to take the plan into consideration, and see what could
be done. She saw at once that it would greatly enlarge her labors, and
that she should need an assistant; but she knew Miss Gilmore would help
her at any time, as well as Martha Cowles, who was a well-instructed
girl, and truly pious. It seemed like taking a great deal on herself,
young as she was; but she already succeeded so well in teaching, that
she had no fears upon that score, and she finally decided that if she
could get the use of the school-room, she would see what she could do.
She mentioned the plan at tea.
"I should think you had enough to do already," said Susan. "You will
make yourself sick before winter is over, and then what will become of
us?"
"I do not look much like being sick just now," said Edah, smiling, and
glancing in the glass. "I shall not mind the fatigue at all, if I am
not needed at home. What do you say, mother?"
"You might as well be there as here, if you are going to have them at
all," said Mrs. Champlin, peevishly. "We do not see you now from one
week's end to another. For my part, I like to have people attend to
their home duties first, and I think if you were to spend part of the
time that you give to the children in attending to me, you would do
quite as well."
"But you are always asleep when I am with the children on Sunday
afternoon, mother."
"I do not sleep all the week, do I? You are away from morning till
night. But I do not mean to object, for I know very well that I am
nobody. It is very foolish in me to pretend to any authority, for no
one regards me. It was not so when your father was at home," &c., &c.
"Can you manage to do without me on Sunday afternoons, Sue?" asked
Edah, as soon as she had an opportunity.
"Oh, yes," replied Susan. "It is only because I am afraid you will make
yourself sick that I care any thing about it. Mother always sleeps all
the afternoon, and Eddy is as good as can be, poor little fellow," she
added, looking tenderly at him, as he lay in her arms.
"You used to say you did not like babies," observed Edah.
"I don't like babies in general, but no one could help loving Eddy, he
is so good and so helpless. I don't believe he will last much longer:
he grows lighter every day."
In the course of the evening, Edah went in to have a talk with Mr.
Bell, and found him quite ready to give her all the assistance in his
power. He offered at once to provide all the wood that would be wanted,
and Jack Downing claimed the privilege of making the fires. Miss
Gilmore also was ready to assist her. She would not consent to assume
the general direction, but proposed taking the younger children under
her care, and Edah assigned another class to Martha Cowles.
Pauline at first demurred at being placed in Miss Gilmore's class,
but she was easily brought to give up the point when she heard Edah's
reasons, and thus all was settled.
On Saturday morning, Edah announced the arrangement to the scholars,
and invited all who wished to attend the Sunday School to be present at
two o'clock next day.
About two-thirds of the school accepted the invitation. Edah divided
them into three classes, giving the younger children to Miss Gilmore
and Martha, and taking the older girls and boys herself. She felt a
degree of repugnance to taking the lead with an elder person present,
but as Miss Gilmore positively refused the office of superintendent,
she was obliged to assume it. Of course there were not books enough for
all the children, and some of them looked a little disappointed, till
Edah told them she hoped to have some more books before long. She had
three or four dollars of her own, which she had laid by to purchase
some new Spanish books, and this she now determined to devote to the
library, trusting that more funds would be provided in some way.
Every thing passed off very pleasantly: the children were orderly and
attentive, and seemed desirous to learn, and Edah returned home very
well satisfied with the success of her experiment.
CHAPTER IX.
THE CHRISTMAS SERVICE.
EVER since the departure of the Laurence family, Edah had been in
the habit of going over to Spring Bank now and then upon Saturday
afternoons, to get such books as she wanted out of the library, and to
practice upon Annie's piano. Mrs. Millar, the housekeeper, knew when
to expect her, and always had a comfortable fire in the parlor, and
Edah greatly enjoyed these solitary afternoons. It happened once in the
beginning of winter, that three weeks passed without her being able to
ride over as usual. Susan was not very well, Mrs. Champlin was more
infirm and fretful than usual, and Edah remained at home all the time
that she was out of school to assist in taking care of Eddy.
One Saturday afternoon, about a week before Christmas, Mr. Bell came
in, with his greatcoat on, apparently prepared for a drive.
"Come, Miss Champlin," said he, "wrap yourself up, and ride over to
Spring Bank with me. 'Miss' Bell will come in, and sit with your ma."
"Do," said Susan; "the ride will do you good, and you can get us some
new books."
Edah was doubtful about it, but finally yielded to Susan's urging, and
went out with Mr. Bell, who left her at the gate, and went on his way
to Raeburn, promising to call for her about six o'clock. She went into
Mrs. Millar's room, which she found empty, though there was a good
fire. The library key was not in its usual place, and Edah supposed
that Mrs. Millar was engaged in dusting the books; and as soon as she
had laid aside her cloak and bonnet, and warmed her feet, she went in
search of her.
She was not in the library, however, though the room was open and
warmed, nor in the parlor, where there was also a good fire; and
Edah, presuming that she was engaged in some other part of the house,
selected what books she wanted, and then going into the parlor, she
sat down to the piano. She had been playing some time, when in turning
round for a music-hook, she caught a glimpse of some one in the
adjoining apartment, the folding-doors of which were half-open.
"Is that you, Mrs. Millar?" she called. "You see I have taken
possession of the premises."
There was no answer, and on looking around again, she was surprised and
somewhat startled to see a young gentleman standing in the door, and
regarding her with a look of some amazement. She rose at once from the
music-stool, and the stranger, advancing at the same time, said very
politely—
"Permit me to introduce myself. I am Richard Laurence, the brother of
Annie and Louisa, and you, I presume, are Miss Champlin, of whom I have
heard so much."
The instant he spoke, Edah had guessed who he was, and though a little
confused by the unexpected meeting, she responded with civility to the
address of the stranger.
"You must have been rather astonished to find that a stranger had taken
such unceremonious possession of your sister's instrument," said she.
"You see I have been foraging in the library also."
"Not altogether surprised," replied the stranger. "I had heard of
you from Annie and Louisa before I came, and from Mrs. Millar since.
Moreover, I missed a favorite edition of Bishop Hall from its place,
and on applying to the library list, found it credited to Miss
Champlin, with other books equally solid in their character. I think
you must be fond of grave reading, to judge from your selections."
"I am so," replied Edah smiling; "I have always had a partiality for
big books and old books ever since I can remember; and moreover I have
been reading history with my brother this winter. But when did you
arrive, and when have you heard from Annie?"
"I came yesterday, and I heard from Annie the day before. They have
arrived at their destination, and find themselves very comfortably
situated. Louisa seems, on the whole, to be improving, and my mother
and father are well, but Annie, poor child, is desperately homesick.
She regrets her leisure, her studies, and above all her little Sunday
School. I hear that you are making a successful experiment of the same
kind at Brooksville."
"I have done very well thus far," replied Edah, "though we are sadly in
want of books."
"You must be supplied in some way," said Mr. Laurence; "I will try to
procure a library for you when I return to New York. Do you have any
preaching?"
"There has been none since I came," replied Edah. "Mr. Willson is
unable to take any more duty on his hands than he has at present, and
there is no one else. I wish you would stay and preach for us."
Mr. Laurence smiled.
"I have thought of it myself," said he. "I am entirely at leisure just
now, and can as well as not remain here till after New Year's. I think
I will place myself at Mr. Willson's orders for a few weeks to come."
"I wish we could have a Christmas Service," exclaimed Edah. "Why could
we not? Or if not upon Christmas-day, at least the day after. It falls
upon Saturday, this year, you know; why could you not preach for us the
next Sunday? I will have the school-house trimmed properly—the children
will enjoy that; and it will be like living in a Christian land again."
"I see no objection to it," replied Mr. Laurence, after a moment's
consideration; "but I must first consult Mr. Willson. Do you think we
could get a congregation together?"
"Oh, there is no doubt of it, I think. The children would all be
interested, I know, and they would bring their parents. I will talk to
my good friend Mr. Bell about it, and see what he says."
Mrs. Millar was delighted that Miss Champlin should have chanced to
come over while Mr. Richard was there. She insisted on getting tea
for her before she left, and produced her richest cake and choicest
sweetmeats upon the occasion.
Edah enjoyed very much her conversation with Mr. Laurence, and she
could hardly believe it when Mr. Bell told her that he had been
detained in the village an hour later than he expected, and that it was
after seven o'clock.
Mr. Bell cordially approved of the idea of having service in the
school-house, though he expressed a fear that there would not be many
responses. He undertook to have the notice published properly, and
promised that Jack and Robert should have the horse and wagon to go
after the evergreens necessary for the Christmas decorations, upon
which Edah had set her heart.
"I really think I will make an effort to go to church, if Mr. Laurence
comes to preach," said Susan, when they were talking the matter over.
"Perhaps I shall find him more enlivening than Mr. Willson, who always
puts me to sleep."
"I should like to hear him too," remarked Ruby-Anne, who was in the
room. "My folks will expect me home to stay over Christmas, and I'll
get pa to hitch up, and fetch us over. I should like to hear what sort
of a sermon Dick Laurence would write."
"I presume he will write a very good one," said Edah: "he appears very
intelligent;" and thereupon she fell into a reverie, which lasted for
some little time.
The next afternoon Edah announced to the children that there would be
preaching in the school-house the following Sunday morning. She said
she hoped all who understood the service would be prepared to unite
audibly in the responses, and as for those who did not, if they would
apply to her, or to Martha Cowles, they would be glad to afford all the
explanations necessary.
The result was, that a great many old Prayer-Books were hunted up
during the week. Martha enjoyed giving the necessary instructions about
finding places, and so forth, in which she was greatly assisted by Sam,
and by Selina and Jane Bostwick, who had been used to attending church
regularly; and thus before Sunday came a pretty fair proportion of the
congregation were prepared to unite understandingly in the services.
Early on Friday morning the evergreens were drawn, no objection being
made to dismissing the school for that day, as Edah professed her
willingness to make it up at the end of the quarter. Boys and girls
united their efforts, and worked with such hearty good-will that before
dark the trimmings were all put up, the litter cleared away, the floor
washed, and Edah, as she looked around, felt very well satisfied
with the result of her labors. The children, of course, were in fine
spirits, and thought nothing had ever looked so pretty before, and they
were all delighted with the idea of going to church on Sunday.
On Saturday morning—Christmas morning—the same old horse which had
brought the evergreens was again put in requisition to convey Edah and
Sum to Raeburn to church. The morning was so fine and mild, and the
sleighing so good, that Edah thought she should run no risk in taking
Pauline; and the little girl was seated, warmly wrapped up, on a stool
at her sister's feet, delighted with the ride and the prospect of going
to church.
She behaved as well as possible, joining her little voice in the Lord's
Prayer and the Creed, as well as in the psalms, for she had now learned
to read perfectly well, and she was also greatly interested in the
Communion Service, which Edah had explained to her beforehand.
Mr. Laurence was in the chancel, and Edah was well pleased when he
ascended the pulpit. His manner was pleasant, and his delivery much
finer than Mr. Willson's, and, better than all, his sermon was just
such as Edah desired to hear. She only hoped he would preach the same
one at Brooksville the next day. There were almost twice as many
communicants as usual, and some who had never been at the Table before:
among them our friend Long John, whose appearance excited almost as
much wonder as if one of the bears for which the valley was formerly
celebrated had taken his place with the congregation.
This was the first Christmas Communion which Edah had ever attended,
and she enjoyed it very much. As she contrasted her feelings of to-day
with those of a year before, and thought how she had been occupied at
that time with dress and other worldly and foolish trifles, she could
hardly believe that she was the same person, and she felt for the first
time the force of the Apostle's declaration, "If any man be in Christ,
he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things
are become new."
"Shall you be with us all day to-morrow, Mr. Laurence?" asked Edah, as
they met in the porch after service.
"If you wish it," replied Mr. Laurence. "I have a great desire to see
your school in operation."
"Then will you please give notice in the morning that the school will
meet as usual at two o'clock?"
"Certainly," said Mr. Laurence; "but will you not be present yourself?"
"I think not in the morning. Sister Susan will wish to go, and some one
must stay with mother. I shall be at Sunday School, however, and shall
be very glad to resign into your hands my office of superintendent."
"That is more than I bargained for," said Mr. Laurence, smiling, "but I
suppose I must not refuse."
Susan was at first rather unwilling to accede to the proposition that
Edah should stay at home and take care of Eddy while she went to
church; but she yielded at last, and took Pauline with her, to whom
Edah had given some special charges about behaving well. Edah enjoyed
her morning at home very much. Eddy was good and quiet, her mother was
absorbed in a new book, and she was able to read, as well as to study
the noon's lesson, as she always made a point of doing. Being fully
occupied, the morning passed quickly away, and she was rather surprised
when the family returned.
"How do you like Mr. Laurence, Susy?" she asked.
"Oh, very well," replied Susan. "He reads beautifully, and his sermon
was very well written, indeed—different from any thing we have had
before. On the whole, I was very glad I went."
"I wish Mr. Laurence would stay and preach all the time," remarked
Pauline.
"Maybe he will," said Sam. "I heard Mr. Bell and Mr. Bostwick talking
to him about it, and he said he would take it into consideration."
"What in the world should he come here for?" asked Susan. "They could
not pay him any salary, at least not what he would consider any thing,
and there will be places enough where he will be wanted. I don't see
why he should stay here."
"Perhaps to do good," remarked Edah.
"Pshaw! Do you think a young man of such talents and prospects is going
to bury himself in such a place as this for the sake of doing good? I
presume he will want to be paid for all he does."
"Any one who heard you talk without knowing you, Sue, would think you
the most selfish of mortals," said Sam, smiling. "Happily we all know
better."
"Thank you," returned Susan; "you are in a complimentary humor, Master
Sam. I am sure I, for one, would be very glad to have Mr. Laurence
stay, and if he wants to go on a mission to the heathen, he could not
find a better field than Brooksville. You would have been delighted,
Edah, to hear the way in which the responses were made. Sam and Bob
took the lead, and the rest, followed very well. I think they did
better than they do at Raeburn."
When Edah entered the school-room, a little before the appointed
time, she was surprised to find the room full. The children occupied
their usual places, every one of her day-scholars being present,
from the oldest to the youngest, while a number of the elders were
seated near the door, upon chairs provided by those who lived near the
school-house. In a few minutes Mr. Laurence made his appearance, with
Mr. Bell and Mr. Bostwick. He made some brief remark, the children sung
as usual, and then joined audibly in the Confession and the Lord's
Prayer. This over, the business of the school commenced, and the
room was filled with the hum of voices reciting collects, hymns, and
Scripture verses.
Mr. Laurence walked from class to class, conversed both with children
and grown persons, asked questions, and interested himself in all that
was going on. When the lessons were over, and the books distributed as
far as they would go, he again took his place in the desk, and made
some remarks on the lesson that had just been recited, asking a number
of questions, which were readily answered by the children.
Before dismissing the school, he announced that he should preach again
the next Sunday, and in the mean time he should be glad to meet any
who desired an opportunity for personal religious conversation at Mr.
Bell's house, on Wednesday and Friday.
"Does he mean any of us scholars, Miss Champlin, or only the grown-up
people?" asked one of the boys, in a whisper.
"Children or grown persons either," replied Mr. Laurence, overhearing
the question; "any one desirous of personal religious instruction.
Shook I decide to remain here for any length of time, I intend to form
a Bible Class for older persons in connection with Miss Champlin's
school, and shall be glad to receive into it as many as wish to join."
He then dismissed the school with prayer.
The villagers were all delighted with the services of the day, and the
prospect of their continuance, and the proposition to form a Bible
Class met with universal favor, though Mrs. Downing and one or two
others hinted that it was a great piece of presumption in Mr. Laurence
to pretend to be capable of instructing older Christians than himself.
Mrs. Downing thought it would be a great shame if the Sunday School was
to be taken out of Miss Champlin's hands, after she had got it up and
done so much for it, forgetting that she had thought Miss Champlin very
much out of her place in presuming to superintend a Sunday School at
all.
But the dissenting voices were few in number. Most of the influential
men in the little village were rejoiced at the prospect of having a
church among them at last—some from a genuine love to the cause of
Christ, some because it offered a way of getting rid of the time which
often hung heavily on Sundays, and still others because it would add to
the desirableness of the place as a residence, and thus raise the price
of property.
Miss Champlin herself was not distressed at being deprived of her
sceptre. I will not say that she had not felt some slight emotion
resembling jealousy at finding herself reduced to play a subordinate
part where she had so long been first, but the feeling passed away
almost without being recognized, and she was thankful from her heart
that the little seed planted by her hands in doubt and weakness was
likely to become a flourishing tree.
The next Sunday the school-house was again filled. And Ruby-Anne
offering to remain at home to take care of Eddy, Edah and Susan both
went to church. The sermon was an excellent one, having an especial
reference to the New Year. Every one was pleased; and when Mr. Laurence
announced that he had decided to accept the invitation tendered to him
by a committee of citizens and remain with them for a year, there was a
general interchange of glances of congratulations. Notice was given of
the formation of the Bible Class, and when the time came, Mr. Laurence
found a goodly number assembled to meet him. The Sunday School, too,
was so full that it was decided, after some consultation, to employ
mere teachers, and accordingly three new classes were formed, and
committed to the care of Mr. Bell, Mr. Bostwick, and Mrs. Stevens.
The want of books was a serious evil, but it was hoped that it would
in time be remedied. Some of the men were already talking of a
subscription for the purpose, and Mr. Laurence promised, if they would
raise a certain sum, to see what he could do for them in New York. It
would have been quite as easy to procure all that was necessary, but
he well knew that what costs nothing is worth nothing. He knew that
a library paid for by themselves would be worth twice as much as one
bestowed gratuitously.
CHAPTER X.
LETTERS.
_From the Rev. Richard Laurence to a Friend._
"I RECEIVED your letter a week ago, my dear friend, and with it another
containing a call from the vestry of Christ Church in P. You mention
the probability of this call, and say very confidently—'I suppose we
shall see you among us soon, before Lent commences.' What will you say
when I tell you that I have declined the call to P., and accepted an
invitation from the inhabitants of Brooksville to preach for them a
year in the district school-house? Now, imagining you to have exhausted
all your exclamations, I will tell you briefly my reasons for so doing.
"But passing over all other reasons, I come to my principal one, which
you know we always put last. The vestrymen of Christ Church will easily
find some one else who will suit them as well as I should, for such
places do not go a-begging, but what will become of these poor souls
here if I leave them? They cannot pay, at the outside, more than two
or three hundred dollars salary. I have some doubt whether they will
do even that, and no one who has not other resources could live on
such a sum. By the almost unassisted efforts of one young girl, a
Sunday School has been established, without books, without maps, almost
without teachers, but still an efficient and flourishing school. By
the same agency an increasing interest in the things of God has been
awakened in the community, and the ground has been made ready for the
seed. It may indeed be said of her, 'she hath done what she could.' The
question now is, shall this ground be left for the occupation of the
devil, or shall it be made as the garden of the Lord? Shall the seed
already sown be left to die for want of care, or shall it be nurtured
and watered?
"You will perhaps tell me I might do much more good in P. I doubt it.
That is a common phrase in these circumstances; but I think those who
use it overlook the fact, that all souls are of equal value in the
sight of God, whether rich or poor, cultivated or ignorant, refined or
vulgar; and it is just as necessary that these souls should be saved
here as those in P. The Word of Gad may be as faithfully preached in
a district school-house as in a Gothic church, and while there are
many able and willing to enjoy the one, there are but few that can or
will serve in the other. I am fully aware of the advantages I resign
in giving myself up to this work: I have considered them all, and I
am content with my choice. When you were thinking of going to China
with Bishop B., you did not hesitate a moment from the thought of the
inconveniences you were to suffer, though you would have resigned much
more than I shall do in staying here. You counted all things but dross
in comparison to Christ's work and service; and why should I not do the
same?
"'With whom hast thou left those few sheep in the wilderness?' would be
the question continually sounding in my ears if I should, for the sake
of my own gain or pleasure, accept this call to P., and I could not
answer with David, 'What have I done? Is there not a cause?'
"In short, I have made my election, and am satisfied with it, and God
willing, I will devote my time and my talents to building up His Church
in this place. I hope to meet you in New York next week, and to talk
more fully upon this and other kindred matters."
_From Milly to Edah._
"I take the opportunity of Mr. Laurence's return, my dear Edah, to
send you a package of books and other matters, which I hope may prove
acceptable. We have found your friend a very pleasant guest, and
the more so, because he could tell us all about you. And first and
foremost, what is the reason of your teaching school, and why have
you kept it a secret from us so long? Father thought the allowance
Mr. Liston made would be amply sufficient for all your wants in such
a place as Brooksville, and thinks you must have some other reason
than want of funds. Aunty is sure that it grows out of some of your
Quixotic notions about doing good, and is quite certain that you will
ruin your health by so much labor, but Mr. Laurence assures us that you
are as well as possible. For my part, I cannot understand it at all,
but presume you have some very good reason. Don't forget to tell us all
about it when you write.
"You do not know how much we were all interested in the account Mr.
Laurence gave us of your little school, though indeed it seems to have
grown into a large one. Who would have anticipated, when you began
with teaching three or four children in the kitchen at home, that it
would have been the commencement of a church, as it seems likely to
prove? What an encouragement not to despise the day of small things!
Father was very much pleased, and I imagine he put some funds into Mr.
Laurence's hands for you, though I am not sure. I send my contribution
in the shape of a large package of Scripture and other prints, cards,
&c., for the instruction and entertainment of the infant department.
How I should like to look in, and see you at work! I must tell you, by
the by, that I have a class in Sunday School myself, and enjoy it very
much. Father was rather unwilling at first, but I persuaded him to let
me begin, and as I am most undeniably fat and rosy, he is content to
let me go on.
"I have discovered a new way of making myself useful to him: his German
clerk has left him suddenly, and he finds it difficult to supply his
place at once, so I have taken up his pen, and daily indite most
interesting documents relative to domestic cottons, prints, &c., &c.,
rather to the scandal of Aunt Maria, who considers such pursuits vain
and frivolous, compared to the creation of worsted cats and dogs, and
delicate crochet collars. I am very wrong to laugh at Aunt Maria, who
is very kind to me, but I cannot help grudging the time she spends on
such things.
"Father has become quite reconciled to my precise ideas, as Aunt Maria
calls them, and not only gives me free choice to do as I please, about
dressing and going out, but even admits that I am in the right. He
finds it very pleasant to have me at home in the evening, ready to play
for him, or talk to him, or read to him, as he happens to be in the
humor. He is fond of music, and really an excellent judge. I take pains
to practise and to learn all the new music to please him, and he says
I improve every day. Is it not a happy thing for me that late hours
and parties really do not agree with me, and that I grew thin and pale
under them?
"I hope to hear further accounts of your enterprises and undertakings,
and that you continue to succeed as well as at first. Pray write me
all the particulars you can think of, and especially how you get on at
home, where, from some things dropped by Mr. Laurence, I should think
you must have rather troublesome times.
"As ever, my dear Edah, truly yours,
"MILLY."
When Mr. Laurence returned from New York, he brought with him, not only
the prints and cards sent by Milly, but a good Sunday School library of
about two hundred volumes, fifty small Prayer-Books, an equal number
of Testaments, and a large, plainly bound, but well-printed Bible and
Prayer-Book for the desk. The school-house began to be crowded both
morning and afternoon, and a Wednesday evening lecture was also well
attended.
Almost every one was pleased with Mr. Laurence's plain practical
discourses, as well as with his winning manners; and it was a pleasing
sight to see the children crowding round him, after the Sunday School
was dismissed—each anxious for a word, a look, or a shake of the hand,
and no one going away ungratified. Every one, from Mr. and Mrs. Stuart,
who were decidedly the aristocrats of the little place, down to poor
Joe Fisher, who was drunk five days out of seven—every one felt the
influence of the young minister's kindly and polished manners, which
were the same to all. His bow of recognition was as kind and as elegant
to Mrs. Stuart's servant as to Mrs. Stuart herself, and not an old
woman or little child in the village, but found him ready to enter with
an unfeigned interest into all their troubles, spiritual, temporal, and
domestic.
He even conciliated Mrs. Downing, who considered the Episcopal Church
as identical with the Church of Rome, and held with Fanny Fern's Deacon
that a man who cannot take the curl out of his hair has no business in
the ministry. Mrs. Champlin liked him when she was in a mood to like
anybody, and sometimes when she was not. Susan held out for some time,
but was at last vanquished by his genuine interest in and sympathy for
poor Eddy, who would put out his little wasted arms to him whenever
he appeared, and had been seen to laugh and crow like other children
at being held up to pat his gentle horse. As for the boys, they were
enlisted to a man on the side of the new minister, and woe to the
unlucky wight who ventured to assert that Mr. Laurence was any thing
but perfection.
At home things went on very much as usual. Edah rose early, and thus
gained an hour or two before breakfast for her own purposes. This time
was usually consecrated to study, and she was surprised to see how
much progress she made. The family breakfasted rather late on Mrs.
Champlin's account, and Edah was usually obliged to hurry from the
table directly to school, from whence, if the weather was bad, she did
not return till five o'clock, taking her luncheon with her, and staying
an hour after school to hear some extra classes by which she added
something to her salary.
Meantime, Susan waited upon her mother, sewed, and took care of
Eddy, who was now eight months old. Mrs. Champlin had happily taken
to reading, which was a great relief to her daughters as well as to
herself. Mr. Laurence took care to keep her well supplied with books
of one sort and another, and as she generally took several naps in the
course of a page, one volume lasted her a long time. Thus Susan was
left to pursue her own reading and studies as she pleased.
After tea, Sam commonly read aloud, while the girls occupied themselves
with their sewing or knitting. Sometimes Edah drew a little in the
evening, but not often, as she found that it tried her eyes. A chapter
in the Bible usually concluded the reading, and the family retired
early. On the whole, Edah found herself decidedly more comfortable
than when her father was at home. For one thing, Susan's temper was
much less irritable than formerly, though she now and then had a fit
of her old perversity, when she delighted in teasing all about her,
particularly Edah, whose naturally warm and hasty temper was not so
subdued by all her efforts as to be proof against these attacks,
especially when they were directed through Pauline. She was often
provoked to hasty retorts and angry remonstrances, for which she
afterwards suffered severely, and at such times she could not help
wishing that she had accepted Milly's invitation, and left the family
to their fate. These untoward events did not, however, occur very
often, and they became more and more infrequent.
Pauline was to Edah a source of almost unmixed pleasure. There was
no denying her improvement both of mind and body since she had been
under her sister's care. She had formerly been indulged by her father
in eating every thing to which she took a fancy, whether hurtful or
not; thus she was in the habit of drinking strong tea and coffee twice
and sometimes three times a day, and of eating an unlimited amount of
spices, pickles, and sweet things. Her mother well knew that these
things injured her, but she had not sufficient fortitude to cross her
inclinations, even if Mr. Champlin would have permitted her to do so.
It was the same with going out and going to bed—Pauline did as she
pleased, except when her father now and then took a fit to govern her,
which he did always harshly, and almost always unjustly, and thus the
poor child's life was passed in a condition of continual contradiction
and discomfort.
Of course the habits formed by such a state of things were not to be
overcome in a day. Pauline was often fretful, sometimes selfish and
sometimes shy; but her affection for Edah was unbounded, and her own
good sense showed her that she was much more comfortable when she was
guided by her sister than when she was left to her own devices. By
degrees Edah coaxed her to leave off the tea and coffee, substituting
warm milk and water, well sweetened, and served in a beautiful china
mug procured expressly for her, and consecrated to her sole use.
Proper precautions enabled her to take out of door exercise without
getting cold: regular employment and suitable hours of repose did the
rest, and Pauline was in a fair way of becoming as well and hardy
as other children. Reading opened to her a source of inexhaustible
delight. Her active mind exercised itself upon all it received, and her
sisters were often amused and sometimes puzzled by the sagacity of her
questions—questions which it was impossible to answer satisfactorily to
the mind of a child, or indeed to answer at all.
"I don't know, my dear," or "You must wait till you are older,"
were answers which she often received, and which always annoyed her
excessively.
"I wish I knew every thing under the sun," she exclaimed one day,
rather petulantly, after receiving one of these unsatisfactory answers
to some grave metaphysical query—"I wish I knew every thing there is to
know."
"Then you would have nothing to learn," said Susan, "and you would take
no more pleasure in reading. What would you do then?"
"I would write books," returned the little lady, without a moment's
hesitation, "and explain things to other people, and I would never tell
anybody that they were too young to understand."
Sam had improved almost as much as Pauline in the same time. He was now
a tall, manly boy, looking upon himself as the head and protector of
the family, and consequently despising all childish things. Mr. Stuart
had taken him into his store, where he received a tolerable salary, and
soon made himself a favorite, not only with his employer, but with all
who dealt with him. He took a certain pride in dressing and behaving
like a gentleman, and Susan never complained now of his teasing her,
though it must be allowed that she sometimes put his good temper and
forbearance to pretty severe trials. He was very much attached to Mr.
Laurence, and a great favorite with that gentleman, who exercised great
influence over all the boys in the village.
Bob Raymond was also growing up tall and manly, and he and Jack
Downing, who still lived at Mr. Bell's, constituted themselves a sort
of body-guard for Edah. They did her errands, made her fires, carried
her to and from school on stormy days, and were never weary of devising
ways and means to give her pleasure.
Mr. Downing could not avoid expressing his wonder that Mr. Bell had
so little trouble with Jack, at the same time that he governed him so
little. He did not believe the boy had ever had a whipping since he
left home.
Eddy alone of all the little family did not seem to partake of the
general improvement. He did not thrive at all, with all Susan's care
and nursing, but continued the same puny, sickly little creature,
seldom laughing and playing like other children, not often crying, but
lying still and silent in the arms of whoever would hold him, with his
large gray eyes wide open, apparently musing on his unhappy condition.
He was afraid of almost all strangers, and cried if he were left alone,
but otherwise he was very good, and very little trouble, though a
constant source of anxiety. Of late, he had begun to be troubled with
a cough, and some difficulty of respiration. The doctor did not think
it worth while to disturb him with medicine; but upon being pressed for
his opinion, said frankly that nothing would do him any good. He might
linger for a few months longer, or even a year or two, but he would
never be well, and his death might take place at any time.
The evening of the day on which he gave his opinion, Edah and Susan
were sitting together by fire-light—Edah knitting and looking at the
fire, and Susan holding her poor little pet who was asleep in her arms,
both sisters seemingly absorbed in their own meditations. Suddenly
Susan said—
"Edah, don't you think Eddy ought to be baptized?"
"I was just thinking of that very thing," returned Edah, rousing
herself from her reverie. "I think so certainly, and I have always been
anxious to have it done, but I did not know how you would feel."
"I suppose I should have laughed at any one who had proposed such
a thing six months ago," said Susan, musingly; "but I feel very
differently now. I should like to have the dear little fellow—" She
paused, and then went on abruptly: "I suppose you don't see any change
in me, do you, Edah?"
"Yes, I do," replied Edah; "you are hardly like the same person that
you were when I came here. I think you are very much improved."
"But you think there is room for improvement still?"
"There is room for improvement in everybody," said Edah, smiling. "I
suppose you don't pretend to be an exception to the general rule."
"But when I tease you about your church, and about Mr. Laurence, and
Pauline, don't you wish I was in the Red Sea?"
"No," said Edah. "I wish you would not do it, certainly, because it
makes me uncomfortable, and very often makes me do wrong, and I don't
think you are any happier for it yourself. But, Susan, you are not half
as fond of teasing people as you used to be. Don't you remember how you
and Sam used to quarrel when I first came here?"
Susan smiled.
"Sam is growing a fine fellow, isn't he? I only hope he will not be led
into bad company, or any thing of that sort."
"I do not think there is much danger," replied Susan; "he has seen
enough of that to last him all his life. But about the baby—what do you
suppose mother will say?"
"I hardly think she will object," said Edah; "and if she does, Mr.
Laurence has so much influence with her that he will soon bring her
over. I think we might have Polly baptized at the same time. Oh, Sue,
if you would only join them!"
Susan shook her head.
"Not now. I may perhaps come to it in time, but not at present. My head
is too full of other things; and besides, I am not prepared. I should
have to be very different from what I am now."
"How different?" asked her sister.
"I don't know that I can tell you—different entirely. I must learn to
put more constraint upon myself. I must be better, in short. But, as I
said, I cannot think enough about it just now to make up my mind. When
will you speak to Mr. Laurence about Eddy?" she added, rather hastily,
as if to change the subject.
"To-morrow," answered Edah. "He told me he was coming here, and I will
ask him to mention it to mother."
"Don't say any thing to him about me," said Susan, quickly. "Now
promise, Edah, that you won't."
Edah could not avoid giving the promise, though she did it with regret,
for she was anxious that Mr. Laurence should converse with Susan. She
could only hope that he would have sufficient penetration to perceive
the state of her mind, and himself introduce the subject of personal
religion.
Mr. Laurence called the next day, and being informed of the affair,
undertook to persuade Mrs. Champlin to consent, in which he succeeded
with but little trouble, for, as Edah had said, his influence with her
was almost unbounded. That day week was the one fixed upon for the
service, as Edah wished for some little time to instruct Pauline, and
prepare her mind to appreciate its solemnity and importance. In this
she succeeded beyond her hopes. Polly was much interested and very
serious: she asked a great many questions, both of Mr. Laurence and
her sister. Several times Edah found her at prayer by herself, and she
could not help hoping that the child of her love was indeed meetly
prepared, by the Holy Spirit's gracious influences, to become in Holy
Baptism, "a member of Christ, the child of God, and an inheritor of the
kingdom of heaven."
CHAPTER XI.
"OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN."
FROM the day when Eddy's baptism was decided on, he seemed to decline
rapidly. He grew weaker and thinner, lost what little appetite he had,
and though he suffered apparently less than usual, it was evident to
all who saw him that his end was fast approaching. Susan now never left
him, day or night; and though her health suffered from the fatigue and
anxiety, she would allow no one to take her place, or do any thing
for him. Edah was desirous to dismiss her school, and remain at home
all day, but Susan would not hear of it, and as there was indeed no
absolute necessity for her presence, she was content to submit to her
sister's judgment, though she scarcely expected, each morning when she
left home, to find the child alive when she returned. Mrs. Champlin did
not realize Eddy's situation, and seemed not to consider him in any
danger; in fact, she troubled herself very little about the matter,
though she thought it very disagreeable to have the house kept so
still, and to see so many serious faces about her.
When the day fixed upon for the service arrived, Eddy seemed a little
better: he noticed things around him, took a little food, and even
smiled, and made an effort to put out his little hands when Mr.
Laurence appeared. Two or three of the neighbors came in, among whom
were Mr. and Mrs. Bell, with Bob and Jack, and Miss Gilmore. The
service was very solemn and touching indeed, as Mr. Laurence performed
it, and did not distress or even disturb the sick child, though he was
usually very sensitive to the presence of strangers. Pauline behaved
perfectly well, and seemed to comprehend the nature and importance
of the service in which she was engaged, repeating the Lord's Prayer
distinctly, and saying the answers to the questions after Edah in a low
whisper.
The scene was a very affecting one. Mrs. Bell and Miss Gilmore wept
without restraint; Mr. Bell was scarcely less moved, and Mr. Laurence
himself was obliged to pause several times in order to control his
voice. Susan was apparently the least agitated of the party: only her
pale face and compressed lips, and the intensity of her attention to
her darling, showed how much she felt.
A few minutes after the conclusion of the ceremony, the doctor came in,
as he usually did twice or thrice a week, to inquire how the sick child
was.
"He seems rather better, I think," said Susan, in answer to his
inquiries. "He has eaten a little to-day, and seems to take more notice
of things. I hope he is better."
The doctor examined his pulse and skin, and as he rose from doing so,
he exchanged a glance with Mrs. Bell, which told her the truth. The
child was dying. He called Mr. Laurence out of the room, and said in a
low voice—
"You must prepare them for a change. He will not last more than a few
hours longer."
"Will you not inform them yourself?" asked Mr. Laurence.
"No," replied the doctor, gruffly, and clearing his throat: "it is not
my business, but yours."
"Do you think," asked Mr. Laurence, "that the service in which we have
just been engaged, can have shortened his life?"
"No; oh no! He was marked for death three days ago, and I am only
surprised that he has lasted so long. Make it as easy as you can, for
that girl Susan's sake. I will look in again in half an hour."
The doctor departed, and Mr. Laurence returned to the parlor, pondering
in what way best to discharge the painful duty assigned to him. But the
moment he opened the door, he saw that it was no longer necessary.
Susan had either guessed the truth, or she had been informed of it
by Mrs. Bell. As pale as death itself, and almost as still, she was
sitting immovable, with her eyes riveted upon the face of the dying
child, utterly heedless of any other object, even of her mother, who
was rolling and struggling in one of her frightful hysterical attacks.
Pauline was kneeling by Susan's side, with her face buried in her
dress, now and then casting a look at her little brother, and evidently
making a strong effort to control her grief, lest it should add to her
sister's.
Sam and Edah were endeavoring, in vain, to prevail on their mother to
retire to her room. Mr. Laurence saw at once that he could be useful
here, and going up to Mrs. Champlin, he requested her, in a kind but
peremptory tone, to take his arm and retire, at the same time assisting
her to rise. She obeyed him as submissively as possible, and, with
Sam's assistance, she was conveyed to her own bedroom, where they left
her in charge of Mrs. Bell, and returned to the parlor.
The doctor was there, but nothing could be done. Eddy lay apparently in
a stupor, his eyes closed, his breathing gentle and soft, but evidently
growing shorter: he did not seem to suffer at all, and his face was
calm and composed. For several hours he lay in this state, with but
very little change; but about sunset he moved restlessly, and opened
his eyes, which wandered around the apartment, apparently searching for
something, till they fixed themselves on Susan's face. An ineffably
sweet smile lighted up his wan countenance, and, with a gentle sigh,
the spirit took wing. The sacred sign of baptism was hardly dry upon
his forehead, when his soul entered the presence of Him who said,—
"Suffer little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not, for of
such is the Kingdom of Heaven."
With many tears and sobs, the children gathered around the body of
their little angel brother, but Susan sat quiet and tearless: she
seemed perfectly stunned. Only when Miss Gilmore would have taken her
darling from her arms, she roused herself, and said, with a kind of
fretful impatience—
"Don't move him, Miss Gilmore, you will hurt him." Then, as if
recollecting herself, she continued gently, "I will do all that is
necessary myself, if you please: I would much rather."
Miss Gilmore hesitated, but the doctor, in a whisper, advised that she
should be humored in her wish, and she desisted.
Susan washed the little body, dressed it in its prettiest white frock
and cap, and, after arranging the little crib in which Eddy usually
slept, she laid him carefully down as if he had been alive. She then
suffered Edah to lead her to her room, and was persuaded to lie down.
The intelligence that all was over was communicated to Mrs. Champlin
with all due precaution, but she received it very quietly, merely
observing that she had expected such a result, as the poor, dear child
had been sickly from his birth. She seemed somewhat affected at the
sight of Pauline's tears, and even took some pains to comfort her,
assuring her that her little brother was now an angel in heaven, and
that she would see him again if she were a good girl.
The next day but one was fixed upon for the funeral, which was from the
house. Mr. Laurence had brought his father's coach for the use of the
family, and Mr. Willson drove over in his open carriage, while a number
of the neighbors came in wagons and on horseback.
Mr. Laurence and Mr. Willson read the burial service, and at the solemn
words, "I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord," Susan's
tears flowed for the first time. Edah was rejoiced to see her weeping,
for her perfect calmness had alarmed her friends who almost feared
for her reason. She wept abundantly as the service proceeded, and
especially at the grave, where her emotion seemed almost overpowering.
It was, indeed, a sad change from her gentle care and watchfulness, to
the cold ground covered with ice and snow; from the soft cradle and
warm covering, to the narrow coffin and the rattling earth.
She returned from the graveyard tolerably serene and composed, but her
tears burst forth again on entering the sitting-room, from which Eddy's
crib had been removed, for the first time, in many months. Edah had
gone directly up to her mother, and Susan was alone with Pauline. The
little girl stood by her sister's side, afraid to speak, yet anxious to
administer some consolation. At last she put her arms round her neck,
and said, very softly—
"Susy!"
"What, dear?"
"Isn't Eddy an angel in heaven now? Mother says so."
"Yes, Polly, I hope he is."
"Then when you go to heaven, you will have a little angel of your own,
won't you?"
Susan seemed struck by these words. She took the little girl on her
lap, kissed her, and asked—
"How came you to think of that, Polly?"
"I don't know. I was thinking about it last night, and wondering how
it seemed to Eddy up there. Perhaps he will come to meet you the first
thing when you get there!"
"Perhaps I shall not go there," said Susan, diverted from her own
thoughts for a moment.
Pauline seemed struck by this supposition, and hesitated a moment with
a puzzled look. "Oh! But I think you will, for the Bible says, 'Where
your treasure is, there will your heart be also.' You know you always
called Eddy your treasure!"
From that hour might be dated the beginning of a thorough understanding
between Susan and Pauline, and the change was a happy one for both
of them. Pauline was no longer exposed to be unjustly found fault
with and opposed by her sister, as had formerly been too often the
case, and Edah found her plans for Polly's benefit no longer thwarted
by unreasonable interference on Susan's part. Susan was indeed much
altered every respect, and if her old perversity now and then appeared,
it was only in flashes, and seldom continued long. She was very sad for
a long time, and there were days when she scarcely spoke from morning
till night; but these gloomy intervals grew less and less frequent, and
she returned gradually to her former busy habits.
There was nothing now to keep anybody at home on Sundays, except when
Mrs. Champlin was more than usually unwell; and Susan was finally
prevailed upon, after a good deal of urging from Edah and coaxing from
Pauline, to join the Bible Class, which had increased till it numbered
nearly thirty members, all grown-up people; but a beginning once made,
she became very much interested, and never failed to attend when it was
possible.
It had now become a matter of course to have service twice a week in
the school-house, and many of those who at first ridiculed the idea of
a congregation being collected in Brooksville, would have been much
at a loss what to do with their Sunday mornings if Mr. Laurence had
ceased to ride over from Spring Bank. The school-house was becoming
overfilled, and there was talk of holding the services elsewhere, if a
suitable place could be found—a matter about which there seemed to be
some difficulty. Mr. Laurence was unwilling to make a change unless it
were decidedly for the better, at the same time that he foresaw that
some of his most cherished plans must be given up, unless some other
place than the school-house could be procured.
In the midst of the considerations upon the matter, it happened that
quite a number of those interested were one evening collected at
Mrs. Champlin's. Bob Raymond and Jack Downing—now as inseparable as
Damon and Pythias—had come in, as they often did, to hear the evening
reading. Mr. and Mrs. Bell followed, ostensibly to see what had become
of the boys. Mr. Bostwick happened to be passing, and seeing Mr. Bell
enter, he remembered something that he wished to say to him, and came
too. Sam was about to lay aside his book, but the gentlemen begged him
to go on, and he continued accordingly.
In the very middle of a paragraph, Bob, who was industriously working
away at a fishnet at a corner of the fire, suddenly dropped his needle,
and exclaimed, as if by a sudden inspiration,—
"I know what we can do!"
Sam stopped reading, and Mr. Bell, who had for some time appeared in
imminent danger of going to sleep, opened his eyes wide, and gazed at
his nephew in some astonishment.
"Do about what?" asked Sam, laughing.
"About the church," returned Bob, no ways abashed. "I know a plan that
will suit exactly if we can only get a little money to fix it up."
"If ifs and ands were pots and pans," said Mr. Bell—"But go ahead, Bob.
What plan do you mean?"
"Well, you know Mr. Champlin's old office—not the last one he had, but
the old land company's office, don't you? It isn't used at all now, and
some of the windows are broken, but in the main it is as good as ever.
Now, 'if' the partitions were taken out, and the walls mended, and 'if'
there was a pulpit and fixings, what's the reason it would not make a
nice little church?"
Mr. Bell and Mr. Bostwick looked at each other.
"Considering who brought you up, you are a pretty smart boy, Bob. I
shouldn't wonder of it was the best idea started yet. What do you say,
Brother Bostwick?"
"Well, I don't know," said Mr. Bostwick; "it depends on
circumstances—on how much rent we should have to pay, for one thing. I
suppose Stuart would let it go pretty cheap for such a purpose."
"I reckon he would," replied Mr. Bell, "particularly as he hasn't got
a cent out of it these five years. The walls and roof are good, as Bob
says, the glass is mostly broke out, and I think likely a good deal of
the plaster is off; but, amongst us, I reckon we could get up enough to
put it in pretty decent order. We should have to make a calculation,
and find out how much it would take, and then see how much we could
get towards it. 'Twould be a first-rate situation, that's a fact, and
I reckon it would hold about twice or three times as many as the old
school-house."
The reading was now laid aside, and the subject discussed in all its
bearings, and the more it was talked about, the more feasible it
appeared.
Mr. Bostwick thought he could furnish the mason work which would be
needed, and he was sure his brother-in-law would be willing to do, at
least, part of the painting. It was thought probable that Hildreth
would give part of the lumber necessary, and let them have the rest
cheap. They might depend upon the old doctor for something, though he
would grumble at being asked, and perhaps refuse at first. Strong would
do nothing to help them, and would hinder them if he could; but his
power was on the wane, and he was as afraid of the old Captain as he
was of—Well! On the whole, it was considered, as Mr. Bell said, to be
the best thing started yet.
"And what shall we do for it—we boys, I mean?" asked Jack, who had
hitherto been a silent listener to the conversation.
"As much as you like," said Mr. Bell. "I'll give you your time from now
till April—all the time you are out of school, I mean, of course, and
you can give your work. You are pretty smart at the tools, both of you,
and if Mr. Laurence is willing, you shall try your hands at pulpit and
reading-desk."
"Capital!" exclaimed Bob. "When shall we begin, uncle?"
"Not before to-morrow," said Mr. Bell; "and now as we have pretty much
disgusted the subject, as Mr. Warner says, I move we go home, for it is
getting time for honest folks to be abed. Good-night, young ladies, and
remember, if we get this scheme of Bob's agoing, we shall expect you to
turn to and do your share."
CHAPTER XII.
"ARISE AND BUILD."
THE next day after the conversation related in the last chapter,
Bob's scheme was again talked over, and after a consultation with Mr.
Laurence, who cordially approved, an informal meeting of the principal
church-goers was called, and the plan laid before them. There were
various opinions about the matter. Mr. Stuart thought it would be an
odd thing to turn an old office into a church. He had never heard of
such a thing being done, but he saw no special objection, and if they
wanted the building, they could have it rent free.
"So far, so good," said Mr. Bell; "but it will need some fixing up,
besides pulpit, seats, and so on."
"Oh, you must do that yourselves. I cannot give you the house gratis,
and repair it into the bargain."
"Of course not," returned Mr. Bell; "nobody calculated you would.
That's got to be done among the rest of us; Bostwick and I have been
down to look at it, and made a rough calculation about what will be
wanted, and we make out that a hundred and twenty dollars would fix it
first-rate. Now, then, how is it going to be done?"
"That's the rub, I guess you'll find," said Mr. Crampton, the painter.
"Money ain't very plenty around here just now."
"Them that can't give money can give work," replied Mr. Bell, "and them
that can't give work, can give good-will. Here's Brother Bostwick, now,
says he'll do all the mason work that's wanted, and that's something.
I will give the carpenter's work, and what of that sort needs to be
done, and I reckon you, Crampton, can do the painting and set the glass
without breaking yourself, can't you?"
"WELL, I can, and more than that, if I've a mind."
"Let's have that first, any way. Carpenter's work, mason work, and
painting—we are getting on well. We shall want about fourteen or
fifteen hundred feet of good lumber—perhaps more."
"I'll give you a thousand feet, and let my team draw it," said
Hildreth, who was one of the wealthiest men in the place, "and after
that, if you want more, I'll see about it. I'm no great things of a
church-goer myself, but my wife is, and I'd do as much, if it was only
to oblige Miss Champlin, who I take to be the principal getter-up of
the business, and who is one of the finest young women I know. She has
had a hard row to hoe since she came home, I expect."
"You might say so, if you knew," replied Mr. Bell; "but they get along
wonderful well, considering. Well, I don't see but we've got all we
want, except a little ready money, and that we must come at some way or
other. I think, friends, we should be justified in making a beginning
as it is, and them that thinks so, please signify it."
The vote was unanimous, and they were just going to disperse, when Mr.
Crampton said—
"Here's Downing coming; let's see what he'll say."
Mr. Downing entered accordingly, and after going lightly over the
proposed plan, Mr. Crampton asked him what he would contribute.
"Not a red cent!" replied Mr. Downing, with emphasis, and with a frown
which made his gloomy countenance still more repulsive. "I'll never
give the first penny as long as young Laurence stays here. He isn't the
kind of minister for my money. I'd as soon have Charley Strong himself."
"Charley Strong! Pray what has he to do with Mr. Laurence?" asked Mr.
Bell.
"Just this," answered Mr. Downing. "No longer ago than last Wednesday,
I saw Mr. Laurence and Charley Strong walking arm-in-arm all the way
from Stuart's store up to the school-house, talking as fast as you
please. More than that, I know well enough that the last time Laurence
was over here, Charley Strong rode home with him, and he has stayed
there, or about there ever since, to my certain knowledge. Now you
can do as you please; but a minister who don't know how to choose his
company any better than that, is not the man for my money, no matter
whose son he is."
"Hem!" said Mr. Bostwick. "Did you ever happen to hear in all your life
of a certain person who went to dine with a man not over and above
respectable, and who kept company not over and above respectable, and
what some folks said about it?"
"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Bostwick," returned Mr. Downing; "but
if the man pretended to be a minister, and the company was no better
than the one we were speaking of, I think folks had a right to talk."
"Of course they had, and I'll tell you what they said. They said, 'He
received publicans and sinners, and eateth with them.' Mayhap you can
remember now what kind of an answer they got."
Two or three of the men laughed, and Mr. Downing looked rather taken
aback, while Mr. Bostwick continued: "Now some folks think that men who
wear the kind of coat Richard Laurence does, should be as much like
their Master as they can. Charley Strong is a hard case, and no wonder,
considering how he has been brought up; but he has got a soul to be
saved as well as the best of us, and the Lord that bought him paid as
much for him as He did for you and me, Mr. Downing—just as much. And
if He was to walk through the towns of this county, as He did through
them towns of old, He'd be as likely to talk to such poor fellows as
Charley, or even Joe Fisher, as He would to you and me. I'm not an
educated man myself, but I was brought up by pious parents, and thank
the Lord I've known Him this many a year, and my experience of Him is
that He is just as ready to save the worst sinner as He is the smartest
feeling Pharisee."
"Amen!" said Mr. Bell, emphatically.
"That's well said, Bostwick," said Mr. Stuart, "and I think you have
the right of it. Who knows what might be done for such kind of people,
if Christians would only take them up and befriend them, and try to
help them along. I have not seen Charley so steady since he was ten
years old as he has been for the last two weeks, and if he was anywhere
but at home, he might do well enough yet; but what can you expect
when his father gets his living by selling the very poison that is
destroying his only son?"
"If my memory serves me, you once sold liquor yourself, Mr. Stuart,"
said Mr. Downing, with a sneer.
"God forgive me, I did," replied Stuart earnestness; "and I would cut
off my right hand to be able to repair the mischief I have done. But
that's neither here nor there. Come, Downing, I know when you come
to reflect, you won't think the worse of Laurence for trying to do
something for poor Charley."
"Why perhaps not, if that's the view you take of it, though I can't
say I think it looks very well. But after all, Laurence is a regular
dandy in his dress and ways. Just look at his fine black coat and white
cravat, and his hair curls like a girl's. To be sure it always did curl
when he was a little boy."
"That is indeed a misfortune," said Mr. Stuart, gravely; "but then
isn't a curly-haired minister better than none at all?"
Downing smiled in spite of himself.
"Come, I see you are going to help the matter along after all. How much
are you going to give us?"
"There's a dollar for you," replied Mr. Downing, "and that's all you
get from me, I can tell you."
"That will do for a beginning; and now, as we seem to have finished our
business, I move that this committee do adjourn. When do you calculate
to begin, Mr. Bell?"
"Right off," answered Mr. Bell. "I am going to set my boys to pulling
down the partitions, and mending the fences to-day. I've given them
their time to work for the church, and they are so pleased, you'd think
they were going to preach in it themselves."
"It has been a first-rate thing for the children, that's a fact,"
remarked Mr. Hildreth; and with these words the meeting adjourned.
There was great rejoicing among the "women folks," when it was
understood how matters had gone, and it was agreed that they would do
their share towards fitting up the church decently. The very children
were anxious to help, and more than one little boy and girl vowed
secretly to devote the hoarded contents of his or her savings bank to
the same purpose.
The work was commenced at once, as Mr. Bell had said. The green about
the door was nicely fenced, and cleared of all encumbrances, dusty
partitions were torn down and carried away, piles of new boards and
stacks of bricks made their appearance, and Mr. Laurence never passed
that way without rejoicing over his work, and praying for an increased
blessing upon the flock, over which he trusted the Holy Ghost had made
him overseer.
Mr. Bostwick gave it as his opinion that the house might be ready for
occupation in about three weeks; that is, about the commencement of
Lent, which fell very late this year. Mr. Laurence was very desirous
that this should be the case, as his heart was set upon a series of
Lenten services, which could not well be holden in the school-house.
Charley Strong, the young man whose companionship had been so strongly
objected to by Mr. Downing, was the only son of the tavern-keeper with
whom my readers have become acquainted in the early part of this story.
He was a tan, handsome young man, very well educated, and, when sober,
very well bred. He had grown up, as Mr. Stuart said, under the very
worst influences possible. His father had begun by indulging him in
every thing, right or wrong, to which he took a fancy, and laughing at
those who warned him of the danger of this course. His mother—a good
and pious woman—died when he was about five years old—of a broken heart
it was said. Charley was brought up in the barroom, and saw, smelt, and
tasted liquor from morning till night. What wonder if he acquired a
taste for it? What wonder if the taste became a raging passion, which
deprived him of reason, and threatened to destroy him, body and soul?
At seventeen, Charley was sent to college, from which he returned in
disgrace, and before he had been at home a week, he ruined a valuable
horse belonging to his father, by over-driving him in a fit of
intoxication. From that time, their quarrels were constant: the father
seemed to lose all affection for his son, and though he allowed him to
take his meals and sleep at home, he showed him no other kindness, and
never spoke to him without abusing him for an idle, drunken, ungrateful
vagabond.
Now and then, when unable to beg or borrow the means of satisfying his
raging appetite, Charley would do a little work, and several times he
had been known to keep sober and industrious for a week at a time;
but with the temptation ever before him, how could he be expected to
withstand it? These fits of abstinence were sure to be followed by fits
of drunkenness long and violent, and every one worse than the other.
He had lately had one or two attacks of delirium tremens; he grew pale
and thin, and was troubled with a distressing cough, and every one said
that he would not last much longer. And is it not a fearful thing to
say in such a case? Is it not fearful to think of a young man, of fine
talents and good disposition, capable of almost any amount of good,
going down to a drunkard's death bed—a drunkard's grave—a drunkard's
eternity?
Richard Laurence had known Charley well at one time. They had been boys
at school together, though Richard was several years the oldest, and
there had been a degree of intimacy between them, until the time that
Richard finally decided to consecrate his talents to the service of
the Church, and went to the city of New York to pursue his studies for
the ministry. Even when the most degraded, Charley had retained some
sense of shame at his abasement. He kept himself as much as possible
out of the sight of his former friend, and, unless he was too much
intoxicated to recognize any one, he would go two miles out of his
way to avoid meeting him. Richard had tried in vain to bring about an
encounter—Charley kept determinedly out of his way.
It chanced one Wednesday evening that he was passing near the
school-house, now lighted up for evening service, just as his former
friend was alighting from his horse at the door. In his haste to
escape, he stumbled over a stick of wood, which had been left in the
way, and fell; and before he could recover himself entirely, Richard
had seized his hand, and was expressing his delight at the meeting, in
a voice, the cordiality and sincerity of which did not admit of a doubt.
"Come, Charley," said Richard, after a few minutes conversation, "you
have never yet heard me preach. Come in and listen, if it is only for
the sake of old times at school."
Charley laughed and hesitated, and was finally persuaded to enter.
There was no little nudging and whispering among those already
assembled as he took his seat; and some persons looked a little uneasy,
but it was soon perceived that he was entirely sober.
The lecture was upon the parable of the prodigal son, and was almost as
direct and simple in its character as a lecture could be. Every one in
the room felt that he or she was directly addressed by the preacher,
and a very evident solemnity and seriousness was diffused throughout
the congregation. Charley felt himself so much embarrassed by his new
situation that he could think of nothing else for a while, but his
attention was gradually directed from himself and fastened on the
preacher.
"How well he writes!" he thought. "If he had been preaching before the
most fashionable and literary congregation in New York, he could not
have taken more pains with his discourse."
But his attention was soon directed from the manner to the matter of
the lecture. He had never been able in all his degradation to destroy
either his conscience or his affections; and now that he was perfectly
sober, every word of the beautiful parable of the prodigal son came
home to his heart. He felt himself to be the very prodigal of the
story. Had he not wasted his substance, destroyed his health, lost his
reputation, and was he not now feeding on husks, lower than the swine,
hopeless in this world, and hopeless in the next? He knew all this
before, and why should he come here to be told of it? He almost made
up his mind to rise and leave the house, when the preacher went on to
another branch of his subject.
"And he arose and came to his father, and while he was yet a great way
off, his father saw him, and had compassion on him, and ran and fell on
his neck, and kissed him."
These words fell with strange force on the ear of the besotted
drunkard; they seemed to bring with them, I know not what, of light and
consolation. He began to feel almost as if his case were not hopeless;
as if "he" might at some time arise and go to his Father, and be met
with words of love and forgiveness.
But when the preacher went on to enlarge on the love of God towards
penitent sinners, and His yearning over them even when a great way off;
when he spoke of the price paid for all; of the wonderful sacrifice for
sin; of the fountain opened for all uncleanness; of the grace ready and
waiting for the chief of sinners, Charley no longer cared or thought
where he was, or who saw him. He bowed his head on his trembling hands,
and tears—genuine tears of repentance—streamed from his eyes: he wept
almost aloud.
He was not the only one who did so; more than one hard hand dashed away
the gathering drops; and more than one prayer went up, and was heard in
heaven, for the prodigal son. Richard saw and rejoiced with trembling
over the impression he had made, and, when he sat down at the end of
the discourse, he too bowed his head, and prayed with heart and soul
for the friend of his childhood.
The congregation rose from their knees, and began to go out, but
Charley did not rise; and when all had departed but Mr. Bell, who
lingered about the door to take the key, Richard took a seat beside
him. He was rather at a loss how to begin the conversation that he
desired, but Charley saved him the trouble.
"Richard Laurence," he said, raising his head, and looking his friend
full in the face, "do you really in your heart believe that there is
any salvation—any hope for such a miserable lost wretch as I am? As you
love your own soul, tell me nothing but the truth."
"As truly as I believe there is a God, Charley," answered the young
minister with equal solemnity, "so truly do I believe that He is ready
and waiting to receive and pardon you the moment you make up your mind
to arise and go to Him. His love knows no difference, and He is just
as ready to accept you now as if you had never strayed from Him. He is
speaking to you by His Spirit, and calling you to come. It may be the
turning-point of your life, Charley; will you refuse His love?"
"I am as ignorant as a heathen, Richard. What must I do?"
"'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved;' you have
nothing else to do. Put your trust in Him who died to save you, and say
with the man of old, 'Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief.'"
"But such a wretch as I am! I was drunk yesterday, and I shall be drunk
to-morrow. No, there is no hope."
"Do you wish to be drunk to-morrow, Charley?"
"No, God knows I don't! I would never touch a drop again, if I could
help it; but how can I? The moment I go home, there it is before me. I
cannot go to my bed without seeing and smelling the accursed poison,
and though I would rather die than drink again, I know I shall not be
able to help it."
"Then don't go home," said Richard. "Go over to Spring Bank with me,
and stay a while, and you will be out of the way of temptation. There
is no one at home but the housekeeper—your old friend, Mrs. Millar, you
know. There you will be safe, and we can talk further together. Come,
if it is only for the sake of our old friendship."
"I will go, Richard. God bless you for your kindness. Oh! If I should
be saved after all—saved, body and soul! I tell you, Dick, there have
been times within this year that I have seen the pit of hell opening
under me, and felt that one step would take me into it, and yet I
couldn't help myself. But it seems lighter now. I feel as if all were
not lost yet."
As they went out of the door, Mr. Bell came forward and shook the young
man cordially by the hand.
"God bless you, Charley," said he; "we shall see you a man yet, by the
grace of God. I've got a brother that was once further down the hill
than you are, and he is now as fair a standing man as any in the State
of Michigan, and with as fine a family about him as you'd wish to see.
We shall all think of you, my boy, and pray for you. My wife always
said you'd come round sooner or later, if a mother's prayers were of
any account. Drop in and see us, and you'll find her ready to welcome
you for your ma's sake."
Charley was not seen in Brooksville again before Sunday, when he rode
over to church with Mr. Laurence. He was very pale, and several persons
noticed how his hands trembled, but he was perfectly sober, and though
very serious, there was an expression of happiness about his face which
had not been seen there for many a day.
"T wouldn't go over to the tavern, Charley," said Mr. Stuart to him
when church was out. "Come home and get your dinner with us."
"By your leave, Mr. Stuart," interrupted Mr. Bell, "he don't do any
such thing. My woman has set her heart upon his coming to our house
to-day, and I shan't dare to go home without him. I'm dreadful afraid
of my wife, you know."
Mr. Stuart smiled and yielded, only saying, "If there is any way I can
serve you, Charley, let me know."
Mr. Laurence took his friend home with him again in the evening, and
he was not seen again in Brooksville for some time. No one knew what
he was about unless it were Mr. Bell; and if he was questioned, he
only said he guessed Charley was able to take care of himself, and if
he wasn't, he had friends to help him. His father seemed perfectly
indifferent about the matter, and indeed said openly that he considered
it a good riddance, wherever he was. He thought Laurence would find his
match with him, if Charley got into his tantrums, as he always did if
he was sober for a few days. It wouldn't be strange if Charley should
cut his throat for him.
But Charley was in safe hands. He knew, better than any one else, his
own weakness and danger. Once escaped from the horrible pit, he was
resolved to make any sacrifice rather than return to it; and it was
at his own desire that two or three days after his last appearance at
Brooksville, Richard Laurence accompanied him to an Insane Asylum,
where he was placed as a boarder, and where he was rooted to stay till
all danger was over, employing himself when he was able to work at all,
with the study of medicine, which he had once before commenced. Here,
then, he remained, and the good people of Brooksville, after having
wondered for a while what had become of him, finally forgot him, and
talked of something else.
Meanwhile the work went rapidly on at the church, as it now began to
be called. The windows were all mended, the walls whitened, and a new
floor laid. The chancel was inclosed with a neat but plain railing,
and furnished with a pulpit, reading-desk, and communion table; and
the rest of the space was being filled up with comfortable benches
and hassocks, or haddocks, as Mr. Hildreth preferred to call them,
which, like all the rest of the woodwork, were painted white. A learned
ecclesiologist would have found much to object to in the form and
arrangement of all these things, but the good people of Brooksville
were perfectly content with them, and took great satisfaction in the
neatness and convenience of their little sanctuary.
Mr. Laurence made his contribution in the shape of half a dozen very
pretty lamps to light up the church for evening service. Mr. Willson
gave two large Prayer-Books and a Psalm-Book for the desk, and a Bible
for the pulpit. Some ladies of Raeburn presented a pretty carpet for
the chancel (rag carpet was considered good enough for the aisles), and
to crown all, the old doctor, who had met the first application of the
committee with nothing but inarticulate growls, put into Mr. Laurence's
hands one day a large basket, containing a plain but handsome silver
Communion Service, saying as he did so, that he hoped to see it used
before many weeks were over.
The women on their part were not idle. Already they had purchased and
made up a decent gown and surplice, and they were now employed upon the
cushions for the altar and the pulpit. Susan Champlin was persuaded to
collect the subscriptions. She had nothing in particular to keep her
at home now, and day after day she might be seen round the village, or
mounted on Mrs. Stuart's pony (for she was an excellent horse-woman),
riding off to sound the hearts and purses of all the farmers' wives in
the neighborhood. She was a very successful collector, and the fresh
air and diversion were of great service to her: her sadness abated;
the color returned to her pale cheek, and the light to her eyes; she
was once more heard singing about the house and over her work, and the
anxiety of her friends for her gradually passed away.
All things were now in readiness, and on the Sunday before Lent, Mr.
Laurence announced that there would be service in the new church on Ash
Wednesday morning and evening, and that on Thursday morning, at nine
o'clock, a meeting would be held in the same place, for the purpose of
regularly organizing a Parish.
CHAPTER XIII.
LENTEN SERVICES—BAD NEWS.
ON Ash Wednesday morning the new church was well-filled, and in the
evening it was quite crowded,—a number of persons coming over from
Raeburn, so that it became necessary to provide extra seats.
Mr. Laurence began his course of Lent Lectures by explaining the
origin of Lent, and its uses as a season of especial humiliation and
prayer. He trusted, he said, that the services would be sustained and
fully attended, and that his own labors would be accompanied by the
efforts and prayers of his people, and he hoped and believed that in
such a case they might expect the most blessed results, not only to
themselves, but also to those who were unhappily still out of the Ark
of Safety, and without a good hope of salvation through Christ. He
intended to give lectures on Wednesday evening and on Friday afternoon,
and on Thursday afternoon he would be happy to meet any who were
desirous of personal religious instruction, and especially any persons
desirous of receiving Baptism. The Holy Communion would be administered
at Easter, and there would be an opportunity for adult Baptism at the
same time.
As the family were going home in the evening, Ruby-Anne, who was
walking with Edah, apparently absorbed in thought, suddenly said—
"Miss Edah, I didn't know before that Episcopalians believed in change
of heart!"
"What do you mean by a change of heart, Ruby-Anne?" asked Edah.
"Why—what Mr. Laurence said to-night—conversion. I thought they did
not believe in any such thing; only that a person must be baptized and
confirmed, and all that, and that it made no difference what they were,
or how they felt. Now Mr. Laurence seems to preach as if that was the
main thing, and no one could be saved without it. I don't know—I never
was in the habit of thinking much about such things before I came to
live with you—I've thought a sight more since then, and I'd give the
world to feel as he says we ought to. I would like to be a Christian,
if I only knew how."
"The way is very plain, Ruby," said Edah; "if you wish to be a
Christian, you must ask God, for Jesus Christ's sake, to forgive you
your sins, and to make you love Him; to give you a new heart, as you
say. Christ says, 'Ye must be born again;' but He also says, 'He that
believeth on the Son, hath everlasting life, and shall never come into
condemnation.' He gives the command, and He also gives the power to
fulfill it."
Ruby-Anne sighed.
"I know it's so," she said, "and yet I can't feel so. I can't make it
seem as if it really was true, that He died for me. I've wanted to get
religion this great while, but somehow I don't seem any nearer to it
than I did at first."
"Have you prayed to God to give you a heart to love and fear Him?"
asked Edah.
"Why no; I thought I must get religion first, before I prayed; I didn't
know as I could hardly."
"And how did you think you were going to get it without asking for it?
Jesus says,—
"'Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out.' 'If ye shall
ask any thing in My name, I will do it.'
"But He says nothing about giving His Holy Spirit to them that are
afar off, and do not seek to draw near. '"Ask," and ye shall receive;
"seek," and ye shall find; "knock," and it shall be opened unto you.'
There is not a word of promise to those that do not ask, and seek, and
knock, you see."
"But there was St. Paul—I was reading about his conversion only last
night, and it was when he was going down to Damascus, breathing out
threatenings and slaughter, that the Lord met him."
"Very true, and thus He meets many a one in the midst of their sins;
but after the Lord met him, what were the first words he said?
"'Lord, what wilt thou have me to do?'
"His next act was one of unquestioning and immediate obedience; and
when Ananias was commissioned to go to him, that he might receive his
sight, and be filled with the Holy Ghost, it was said of him,—
"'Behold he prayeth!'
"You say that you wish to be a Christian, and that you have been
thinking about it this great while. God has thus met you in the way,
and now you must do as St. Paul did—pray that He will open your eyes,
forgive you your sins, justify you by Jesus Christ, and sanctify you by
His Holy Spirit; and depend upon it, if you do this, you will receive
an answer. I wish you would go to the church Thursday afternoon, and
talk to Mr. Laurence."
"I kind of hate to," said Ruby-Anne, hanging her head. "I'd rather talk
to you than to him, and I'm afraid folks will think strange. If my
cousin should see me going there, and tell Uncle Jacob, he'd make no
end of fun of me next time I go home."
"And yet you want to be a Christian, you say! I am afraid you will
never be one, if you are ashamed to have it known that you are seeking
the right way. No, no, that will never do, Ruby; you cannot expect
Christ to bless you while you are ashamed of Him."
"I suppose that's so. I don't know, either, why I should mind their
laughing. If it isn't that, it will be something else."
This was not the only conversation of the kind that Edah held during
the week. Several of the scholars in her day-school came to her for
instruction, for encouragement, for sympathy. Some thought that they
were truly penitent and believing, and desired sympathy in their
overflowing joy; and what joy of earth is like his who feels assured
that his sins are forgiven—that his prayers are heard and answered
in Heaven? Others there were who, convinced of their sins and their
danger, could as yet find no way of escape, and no comfort anywhere—who
needed to be drawn away from the vain attempt to save themselves by
their own efforts, and to be led to that precious corner-stone, the
sure foundation on which whosoever buildeth shall not be ashamed. Edah
did her best to counsel, to warn, to teach, but she felt how weak and
ignorant she was, and she shrank from the responsibility imposed upon
her by her position, and by the confidence and affection of her young
friends.
"I feel," said she, in relating some of these incidents to Mr.
Laurence, "as if I were very much out of my place in this matter, but
indeed I cannot help it. I try to persuade them to go at once to you,
but many of them are diffident and unwilling to do so. I cannot refuse
to give them all the aid in my power, though I often fear that I am
overstepping my proper bounds, and taking upon myself duties which
belong entirely to you."
"By no means, Miss Champlin. You are taking a course which I should be
only too glad to see followed by every Christian member of my flock. I
believe that one great reason why so few, comparatively, are brought
to a knowledge of the truth is that Christians do not do their duty in
this respect, but leave all to their pastor. From the nature of things,
they have many opportunities which he has not. An inquiring sinner will
often open his heart to a near friend, when he would be ashamed or
unwilling to do so to a minister, and if that friend is faithful, he
will encourage him to do so, and will strive to direct him to the true
source of health and help. What is more natural than that those who
have themselves tasted the good word of God, and have known the truth,
should wish to impart unto others of the good things which they have
themselves received? Such was the spirit of the Apostolic Church, when
every Christian, whether man or woman, was in some sort a missionary.
Could this state of things be brought about again, we should no longer
see crowds retiring from the Communion Table, and only a handful
remaining, but the altar rails would be filled till there should be no
place."
"I always try to send them to you," remarked Edah, "but they are not
always willing to go at first, especially the younger ones."
"Nothing is more natural than that they should feel more confidence in
you than in a comparative stranger," said Mr. Laurence. "I shall hope
after a time to gain their confidence. Meantime, let me beg of you
never to omit an opportunity of doing good in that way. Several persons
have applied to me who, I am convinced, never would have done so but
for you: among the rest, Mr. Bell's boys and your brother. I suppose
you know that they are all three desirous of being baptized?"
"Sam told me it was the case with himself, but I did not know certainly
about the others. I am not much surprised at hearing of it, for they
have seemed very thoughtful for a long time. I trust they will not be
the only ones who will avail themselves of the opportunity."
"Edah," said Sam, one beautiful spring day towards the end of March, "I
am going over to the Saw-Mills this afternoon to do some business for
Mr. Stuart, and I wish you would ride with me. I want a chance to talk
to you, and I will call for you at the school-house."
Edah, of course, made no objection, and at five o'clock the brother
and sister were driving through the woods, on the shaded and romantic
road which led over hill and dale to the great lumbering mills of
Stuart & Company. The birds had begun to make their appearance, and
the air was filled with robin and bluebird music, while now and then a
blue-jay added his by no means melodious notes to the concert. The sky
was deeply blue, and the great mountains of white cloud made it appear
deeper still; while the air was filled with the indescribable fragrance
which always pervades a wood in the spring, especially where there is a
large proportion of evergreen trees.
Edah was tired of talking in school, and she was very willing to be
quiet, and her brother's attention seemed wholly occupied with his
horses. At last, however, he broke the silence by saying—
"Edah, do you know how old I am?"
"Sixteen, are you not?"
"Nearer seventeen," said Sam. "I shall be seventeen my next birthday,
and that is next Monday."
"And I shall be nineteen. I thought there was more difference between
us, but you have always been so small till lately. Now you are taller
than I am."
"So I see; but that isn't the thing. I am old enough to think what I am
going to do with myself."
"You are doing very well with yourself now, I think," said Edah. "Mr.
Stuart says you are more and more useful every day, and that he never
had a clerk that he liked so much. He told me he should not be afraid
to leave you the whole charge of his business, if he were obliged to be
away for any length of time."
"He is very kind," said Sam, coloring with pleasure. "There is not a
man in the world I would rather live with than Alim Stuart. He has been
like—what a father ought to be, ever since I went to him. But after
all, Edah, it is not what I want to be doing. My heart isn't in it."
"It becomes tiresome now and then, I suppose," said Edah, "but any
business is wearisome sometimes. I am sure it is the case with
teaching. But when you are so well situated, it seems a pity to change,
unless there is some good reason, though, indeed, I never thought you
were as well suited to the business as to some other things—to studying
a profession especially."
"What kind of a minister do you think I should make, Edah?" asked Sam,
in a low voice, after a pause of some minutes, during which he had
employed himself in switching off the tops of the dry weeds by the
roadside.
Edah's heart bounded with joy. How often she had prayed—how fondly she
had hoped, that her darling brother's heart might be turned in this
direction!
"I think you would make an excellent one, Sam, so far as I can judge of
you. I know of nothing that would give me more pleasure than to see you
looking forward to the ministry."
"It is what I should prefer above all other things," said Sam, with
animation. "I used to think I would rather be a lawyer than any thing
else, and I built a great many castles in the air about it, thinking
how I should enjoy working my way on, and making myself respected, till
I came to be as celebrated as Mr. Webster or Judge Story; but it is all
changed now. I would rather be a minister like Mr. Laurence, and preach
the Gospel in some such little place as Raeburn or Brooksville, than
be the greatest lawyer or statesman that ever lived. There is only one
trouble about it," he continued, and the joy in his face faded away as
he spoke—"I have turned it over and over in my mind, and I do not see
how it is to be done."
"Why not?" asked Edah.
"The why not is easily told," replied Sam. "If I had no one to do for
or care for but myself, it would be very easy—that is, in comparison to
what it is now. I could teach school, and live cheaply, and work myself
on almost anyhow. But even supposing that I succeeded in preparing
myself to take orders, preaching is not commonly a money-making
profession, you know very well; and there are mother and the girls—how
are they to be supported? For I don't suppose anybody is so foolish as
to expect any help from father."
"That is true," said Edah, echoing his sigh as he paused, "and yet
I cannot bear to give up the idea. Oh! If I were only two years
older—only my own mistress!"
"What then?" asked Sam. "What difference would that make?"
"Then I could live at home, and take care of mother and Polly with what
means I have. Susan and I would make it enough, and you would have, as
you say, nothing to do but to take care of yourself."
"Do you think I would let you do that?" said Sam, a little indignantly.
"Why, it would just amount to my educating myself at your expense."
"And suppose it were, how could I spend my fortune to better purpose,
than in sending laborers into Christ's vineyard? And who should I send,
if not my own brother?"
"Well," resumed Sam, "you are not your own mistress, and in one sense
you never will be—not as much perhaps as you are now. When Mr. Liston
returns, he will of course want you to come and live with him, and I
know he will be very unwilling to have you spend your money on us.
He will think, and with some reason too, that I ought to support my
sisters, instead of letting them support me."
"Nevertheless, if I were of age, I could do as I pleased."
"You could, undoubtedly; but ought you? Mr. Liston has brought you up,
and done every thing he could for you; and now that you are grown-up,
and able to appreciate his kindness, he will naturally expect a return,
and he has a right to expect it."
"You are right, Sam, and I am wrong. But we won't despair yet. I am
sure some way will be raised up for us. The Lord will provide, if it is
His will that you should follow out this plan; and I cannot but believe
that it is."
"I hope so, I am sure," replied Sam, "for I do not feel as if I could
be happy in any other way. Of course I don't mean to be so self-willed
as to be determinedly miserable, because I cannot have my own way; but
the more I think about entering the ministry, the more desirous I am to
do it; and so I have told Mr. Laurence."
"What did he say?"
"Just what you do. He bade me not be discouraged, since if the call
was from God, He would certainly provide the means for its fulfilment.
He advised me to employ all my spare time in study, and gain as much
information as possible; and he has offered to teach me Greek himself."
"I will study it with you," said Edah. "It is always easier for two to
go on together, than for one to work alone. I will lay aside my Spanish
for the present, and if you have a mind to rise as early as I do, we
can have a good hour before breakfast. It is surprising how much one
can accomplish in an hour, by making the most of it. I often think that
I do more in that little time, than I used to in all day at school."
"Time is like money in more ways than one," remarked Sam. "One does not
appreciate the worth of it, as long as one has as much as one wants.
And, by the by, is it not more than time for you to hear from Mr.
Liston?"
"It is indeed, and I am very uneasy about him. If he went by the
overland route, as he said he should do in the letter I had from
London, I ought to have heard three or four times before this. I am
very much afraid that something has happened to him, for he is so
methodical in all his habits, that I am sure he has not forgotten it."
"Then about this matter of studying," resumed Sam, after a few moments'
silence, "you are quite clear that I ought not to give up the idea?"
"Indeed I am, Sam! I am sure some path will be provided for you, if you
are patient, and meanwhile you will not be losing any thing. You will
be gaining information and experience that will be as useful to you as
any thing you can learn out of books. I feel quite sure that you will
see your way clear after a while."
Edah had indeed become very anxious and uneasy at not hearing from her
guardian. She had expected to hear both from Malta and Alexandria,
but sufficient time had now elapsed for a letter to have come from
Calcutta, and yet she received no intelligence. Mr. Liston, as she
said, was a man who never forgot an engagement, or neglected a duty.
She was sure he would have written if he had been well, and it was very
unlikely that all his letters should have been lost. For some time
before the conversation recorded above, she had been in a state of
feverish impatience for some intelligence, and she felt that almost any
news would be a relief to her mind in its uncertainty.
The news came at last. Edah received a letter from Mr. Amory, inclosing
one from the American consul at Alexandria, which contained the
mournful news of her kind guardian's death at that place. The consul
stated that Mr. Liston had called upon him immediately after his
arrival in that port, and that he seemed very unwell, so much so that
he invited and urged him not to return to his hotel, but to remain
at the consular residence, which Mr. Liston at last consented to
do, though he made light of his illness, attributing it entirely to
fatigue. In the morning, however, he was so much worse as to be unable
to rise, and he continued to grow worse for about three weeks, when
he died. He had had the best of medical attendance, the consul said,
and a clergyman of the Church of England, who had come to Alexandria
at the same time, was almost constantly with him. He had retained full
possession of his senses till the last moment, and had frequently
talked of his friends at home, particularly of his dear child, as he
called her. The day before his death, he had received the Sacrament,
and he had especially desired that this fact might be communicated to
Miss Champlin.
The writer of the letter stated that Mr. Liston had made many friends
in Alexandria during the short time that he remained there, and that
every respect had been paid to his memory that his friends could
desire. Mr. Amory's letter was full of the kindest sympathy, and
contained a pressing invitation to her to come to New York, and make
her home with him.
The sorrow and desolation which Edah experienced on receiving this
intelligence can only be appreciated by those who have suffered similar
bereavements. She felt herself entirely alone in the world, without
home and without friends, and it almost seemed to her as if God himself
had dealt unkindly with her in taking away her beloved guardian. For
a while she felt that she could never be happy again. But Edah's mind
and heart were too healthy for such a mood to be lasting with her, and
these feelings soon passed away. She was enabled to find relief—where
alone it is to be successfully sought—in earnest, humble prayer, and
to appreciate all the blessed comfort contained in the account of her
friend's last moments. She felt deeply thankful that even so late in
life his attention had been turned to preparation for eternity, and
that she was enabled to cherish a good hope of meeting him again in
that world where partings are no more.
Mr. Amory's first letter was immediately followed by another, urging
Edah to come to New York, if only for a few days as there were some
matters of business which rendered her presence necessary, and
inclosing funds for the journey. She was sorry to leave Brooksville
just at this time, but there was no alternative, and she felt, too,
that the companionship and sympathy of Milly would be the greatest
possible comfort to her.
On consulting the school committee, no objection was made to giving the
school a vacation of two weeks; longer than this Edah did not intend to
be absent, as she was very desirous of being in Brooksville at Easter
not only because Sam was to be baptized, but because she had promised
to stand sponsor for two of her pupils, who were to be admitted to the
fellowship of Christ's flock on that day. Mrs. Hildreth willingly took
charge of her Sunday School class, and kind Mr. Bell, always anxious
to smooth every thing for her, assured her that the vacation would be
a real advantage, as they were desirous of making some repairs in the
school-house, which could be made at no time so conveniently as now.
Pauline was now the only subject of uneasiness with Edah. She had not
so far overcome her former perverseness but that sparks of it would
occasionally break out, especially towards Susan, who was not always
very reasonable or judicious with the child, and she feared that the
two weeks of her absence would almost undo all she had done. At one
time, she thought of leaving Pauline with Miss Gilmore, but a little
reflection had shown her that this would be a direct affront to Susan,
as implying that she was not to be trusted with the care of the child.
She had finally decided, though with rather an anxious heart, to let
matters take their course, when she received another note from Milly,
saying—
"Father says he has forgotten whether or not be asked you to bring
Pauline with you, but he desires that you will do so by all means, as
it will give him the greatest pleasure to see her."
Edah held a consultation with Susan and Sam, before she showed this
note to Pauline; but as they both cordially approved of the plan, she
informed the little girl at the dinner-table that if she wished it, she
could go to New York with her.
Polly's eyes sparkled, and her cheeks flushed—it was a felicity beyond
her highest hopes; but in a moment a change came over her bright
countenance—"Susan will be so lonely," she said.
"I shall have Sam to keep me company, you know," said Susan.
"Yes; but then he is away all day, and suppose you should be sick. I
think, 'upon the whole,' sister," she said, trying to speak firmly,
though her eyes filled with tears at the thought of the sacrifice she
was making, "I had better not go."
"You are a darling girl, Polly," said Susan, kissing her, with tears
in her own eyes, "and I love you dearly, but I cannot have you stay at
home for me, my dear. If I am lonely, I can have Selina come and stay
with me; and then you know you have learned to write now, and you can
write me such nice entertaining letters from New York about all the
things you see there."
Thus, it was finally settled, and Pauline was at liberty to run over to
Miss Gilmore's, and pour out all her hopes and expectations into the
ear of Selina, her bosom friend, while her sisters were busily occupied
in preparations for the journey.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE JOURNEY.
THE next day Edah and Pauline set out for New York, under the care of a
gentleman from Raeburn, and arrived in safety, without any remarkable
adventures, though Pauline found material enough for a very long and
not particularly clear letter to Susan, which she accomplished with
great labor the day but one after their arrival.
Edah was happy to find herself once more with her friend, though the
meeting was a sad one. Still more severe was the necessary trial of
visiting her guardian's house, formerly so pleasant, but now shut
up and desolate, of looking over his papers and other property, and
deciding what should be kept and what disposed of. In the former class
were included all Mr. Liston's books, of which he had quite a fine
collection, the pictures, her piano, and the furniture of her own room,
and of Mr. Liston's sitting-room. These articles she intended to take
with her when she returned to Brooksville, for she had quite decided to
make her home with her mother and sisters as long as she could be of
any use to them.
This point was not yielded by her friends in New York till after a long
discussion. Mr. Liston's will, made a short time before his departure,
and lodged in Mr. Amory's hands, provided that she should receive the
income of her property, amounting to about twelve hundred a year,
until she was twenty-three years old, after which she was to have the
entire control of her own business. She was left at liberty to choose
her place of residence, subject to the approbation of Mr. Amory, who
was appointed her guardian, and the sole executor of the will. Mr.
Amory had quite made up his mind that Edah was to reside with him in
future. He considered her a pretty, well-informed young girl, who would
be an ornament to his establishment, and a suitable companion to his
daughter, of whom he was justly proud. It was, therefore, with some
feelings of disappointment that he heard her announce her determination
to return to Brooksville before Easter, and to make it her home for the
present.
"I have but one motive in doing so," said she; "I am quite sure that I
can be more useful there than anywhere else at present. Even if I had
no other reason for it, I cannot for a moment think of leaving Susan
with the care of mother on her hands, and no one to relieve her."
"You are under so many obligations to Mrs. Champlin," said Miss
Concklin, with sarcastic emphasis; "no doubt you are right in
discharging them. The society there must also be remarkably congenial
to the taste of a young lady of education."
"I have no complaint to make of the people to Brooksville," replied
Edah, gently. "They have always been very kind to me since I went
there. They are not very fashionable, and perhaps not very polished,
but I assure you, Miss Maria, I have friends there whom I should be
sorry to lose."
Miss Maria elevated her chin a little, and gave utterance to some
murmurs respecting refined tastes, which were not quite finished when
she was called down to receive some visitors in the drawing-room,
for which Edah was not at all sorry. She felt that she could express
herself much more freely to Mr. Amory and Milly when Aunt Maria was out
of the way.
"My principal reasons for returning to Brooksville," she continued,
"are, as I said, first, to assist Susan in taking care of mother, and
secondly, on my brother's account."
"I thought your brother was in a store, and doing very well,"
interrupted Mr. Amory.
"He is," replied Edah; "and Mr. Stuart, his employer, would gladly keep
him, but Sam does not wish to remain, if he can help it. He has set his
heart upon studying a profession."
"Oh, ho! And what profession does the young gentleman incline to?"
"He wishes to enter the ministry," replied Edah.
Mr. Amory shoved his spectacles up on his forehead, took them off,
wiped them, and put them on again before he replied—
"And so he wishes to indulge this fancy at your expense, instead of
earning his own living and that of his sisters, like an honest man. A
most exemplary young man, truly!"
"You are very much mistaken, Mr. Amory," answered Edah, with spirit.
"Sam has not the least idea of being burdensome to anybody. On the
contrary, he has avowed his intention to continue in his present
situation for some time, at least, and of carrying on his preparatory
studies at the same time. If you had seen him at the time of our great
misfortune—a time certainly trying enough to us all—if you had known
any thing about his patience, and self-denial, and industry since—you
would never dream of accusing him of any thing like meanness."
Edah's color rose, and her eyes filled with tears as she spoke, and Mr.
Amory, looking through his spectacles, professed to himself that she
was really a remarkably handsome young woman.
"Well, well, my dear," he said, soothingly, "I did not intend to make
any unjust reflections upon your brother. I dare say he is a very fine
young man. But how will your living in Brooksville make any difference
in his pursuing his studies?"
"In this way," replied Edah. "Twelve hundred a year will be an ample
income for us all to live upon in Brooksville, where every thing is
so cheap, and where, moreover, I can earn something, if I wish to
do so. Thus Sam will be at liberty to use his own earnings for his
own purposes, and he can work his way through college easily enough
by teaching, and the other means that young men resort to in such
circumstances. I think, and so do Mr. Laurence and Mr. Willson, that he
has talents which fit him to be eminently useful in the calling which
he has chosen; and I am sure," she continued, with animation, "that
I could not spend my income in any way which would give me so much
satisfaction."
"Well," said Mr. Amory, "perhaps you may as well spend your time and
means in making ministers as in manufacturing woollen cats, and dogs,
and frogs—"
"Worsted, papa—worsted," interrupted Milly, laughing.
"Well, worsted, then—such as Maria lumbers up the house with,"
bestowing, at the same time, a vindictive glance upon Highland Mary,
in Berlin wool, parting with her lover, on the back of a modern Gothic
chair. "I honor your motive in this matter, my dear Edah, though, I
confess, I regret that you have come to such a determination. Cannot
your brother do as much good as a Christian merchant as he can in the
capacity of a minister?"
"I think not, sir. There are a great many young men who are willing
to remain merchants, and but few comparatively who are desirous of
entering the ministry."
"Indeed," said Mr. Amory, "I am not altogether well-informed on such
matters; but I had always supposed that profession to be entirely
overfilled, like those of law and medicine."
"Not at all, sir. If you will look over the minutes of any of our
Conventions, you will see that there are not nearly ministers enough
to fill the places where they are needed. It is not generally a
money-making profession; it does not hold out much prospect for fame,
as not one minister in fifty ever becomes at all celebrated: it is a
hard-working profession certainly; and in fact, there can be but one
motive for entering it—that of doing good."
"And much good they do. I am not one of those who deny the value of the
clergy; they are, beyond all question, one of the most useful bodies
in the community, and their influence extends much further than is
generally supposed. But, Milly, you have not said a word. Why do you
not use your influence to persuade your friend to remain with us?"
"Because I rather think she is in the right, papa. I think I should do
just so in her place."
"Upon my word, my own daughter has turned against me! Why, Miss Milly,
I thought I was providing you with a great pleasure in inviting your
friend to live with you."
"Yes, papa, and I am sure I am very much obliged to you; but if Edah
should stay, against her conscience—"
"Or against her inclination—you think she would not be a very agreeable
guest, eh? Well, my dears, we will not decide to-day; you have a week
to spare in which to make up your minds. Are you a judge of organs,
Edah?"
"No, sir," replied Edah, rather surprised; "I know when they are well
toned, however."
"I am thinking of purchasing a small organ, and I should like to have
you hear it first. You play the organ, I suppose?" Edah answered in the
affirmative. "We will go down and look at it, and then take Miss Polly
to see some more sights."
Edah remained a week longer with her friends in New York, her time
being mostly occupied in superintending the packing of the furniture
and other articles which she intended to take home with her.
Miss Maria, who really loved Edah, was at first very angry on hearing
of her unalterable determination to return to her mother's house. But
her anger was not very long lived, and she willingly undertook the
whole business of providing Edah's mourning, and gave her whole time
and attention to it for several days, thus relieving Edah herself of
quite a burden, and leaving her at liberty for other matters.
The books and engravings, which were very valuable, were the objects of
her especial attention, and she could not help smiling, in the midst
of her tears, as she thought of the pleasure they would afford to Sam
and Susan, and of the facilities which they would present to the former
for pursuing his studies. She had written to them, communicating her
intention of returning, and requesting them to have a large parlor,
which had been for a long time unused, put in order for the reception
of her treasures.
Pauline on her part was perfectly happy during the two weeks which
she spent in New York. As she was really a very pretty and remarkably
well-behaved child, she was in no one's way, and every one in the house
petted her, from Mr. Amory down to the servants. It was Mr. Amory's
perfect delight to take her to see all sorts of wonderful sights, and
thus hear her speculations and questions about what she had seen. One
day, however, he took her in the carriage through some of the poor and
low streets of the city—those streets where Christian philanthropy has
since made light out of darkness; and after this it was observable that
Pauline's interest in New York declined. She no longer wished to live
there always; but told her sister in confidence that she should be very
glad to return to Brooksville, where, if there were no such beautiful
houses and elegantly dressed ladies, there were no such dreadful places
and people as she had seen that day.
"Only think, sister, Mr. Amory says that a great many of the little
boys and girls I saw to-day were thieves, and had been in jails; and
they did look wicked enough for any thing. I could not bear to live
near such people, and not do any thing for them. Why do not good people
go among them and try to make them better?"
"They wish to do so, my dear. I hear that some good ladies are trying
to get up a school among them, in order to teach them better, as you
say; but you must remember, Polly, that it is much easier to talk of
doing good than to do it. Don't you remember how hard Mr. Laurence
tried to make Joe Fisher sign the temperance pledge, and let his
children go to places, and after all he did not succeed?"
"But we ought to try, sister, ought we not?" said Pauline.
"Certainly, my dear, we ought to do all we can, and every one can do
something."
"Yes, they can pray, at any rate; and, sister, don't you think if all
the Christians in the world were really to pray with all their hearts,
a great deal more could be done? Don't you think God's kingdom would
come a great deal sooner?"
"Yes, Polly, I have no doubt of it, and I am glad you think so much
about it. I hope you will think more and more, and then when you grow
up, you will be able to do a great deal for the Church—to be a living
member of the same, as the Baptismal Service says. Then when Sam is a
minister, you can help him very much, if you live with him."
"Is Sam going to be a minister?" asked Pauline.
"I presume he will, unless something unforeseen happens to prevent it.
What do you think of it?"
"I think it will be very nice," said Pauline, with sparkling eyes; "but
how will he do it? How will he get the money to go to college?"
"He will work and earn it, and I hope we shall be able to help him a
little."
"I wish I could help him."
"You can, my dear; you can learn to sew nicely, and then you can help
Susan and me to make his clothes with the pretty leather workbox Miss
Maria gave you. Only think how glad he would be to have you make him a
shirt all yourself!"
Polly had always disliked sewing very much; but now she was furnished
with a motive for desiring to excel in it, and she earnestly resolved
that it should not be long before she would sew well enough to make a
shirt all herself. We are happy to inform our young readers that in
about six months the feat was accomplished, and Sam actually wore a
shirt of his little sister's manufacture, not failing to assure her
that it was the nicest shirt he had ever had in his life.
The day before her return to Brooksville, Edah had a long conversation
with Mr. Amory on the future prospect of the family. She was glad
to find that though evidently sorry to lose her society, he gave
his unqualified consent to her residing in Brooksville as long as
she thought proper, only stipulating that she should make them a
visit every year, a condition to which she very willingly agreed. He
earnestly advised her to let Sam work his own way entirely.
"Depend upon it, my dear, he will preach all the better if he has to
acquire his profession by his own labor. All our best men, in every
condition of life, have been self-made, and if he has the talent and
perseverance requisite for success in the calling he has chosen, he
will get through his studies with no more difficulty than is good for
him."
Though Edah did not promise not to assist Sam in any way, she thought
Mr. Amory's view of the case a very sensible one, and resolved to act
upon it to some extent.
Pauline cried heartily on bidding adieu to her new friends, and they
were scarcely less sorry to part with her, so much had she endeared
herself to them during her short stay.
They arrived in safety at Raeburn, where Sam was waiting for them with
the wagon, and Edah was glad to find that all her boxes and packages
had arrived in safety before her. Susan was standing at the gate
watching for them, and welcomed them with as much warmth as if they had
been absent two years instead of two weeks, and Mrs. Champlin herself
came as far as the door to meet them. She was a little annoyed at first
by the sight of Edah's deep mourning, and declared that it would make
her low-spirited to have it always before her eyes; but she was easily
diverted from this delicate topic by the sight of the books and other
presents which Edah had brought her, and was soon wholly absorbed in
the first volume of a new novel, leaving the children at liberty to
attend to each other.
Ruby-Anne had provided an excellent supper, which was fully
appreciated; and Pauline, on rising from the table, was heard to give
utterance to the very original sentiment, that there is no place like
home, after all.
The next day, and the next, were pretty fully occupied in unpacking
and putting in order the furniture and other matters which Edah had
brought home with her. Mr. Champlin's house was large, and had been a
fine one in its day, but not more than half of it was at present in
use, and the apartment selected by Edah for a library had been for
some years used only as a lumber-room. But now that it was cleaned
and painted, curtains put up, and a carpet laid down, and book-cases,
chairs, cabinets, and tables all in their places, it was decidedly the
handsomest room in Brooksville, and Ruby-Anne declared that there was
nothing like it even at Spring Bank itself. It did, indeed, look very
pretty and home-like, Edah thought, with its well-filled shelves, and
tables covered with maps and engravings, its open piano and music-rack,
and it was with a good deal of pride and pleasure that she introduced
Mr. Laurence into it when it was all in order. That gentleman admired
it to her heart's content, and after taking a full survey of the
contents of the book-cases, settled himself in Edah's favorite chair,
with an air of great contentment.
"So you have your piano, too: I am glad of that. Our new organ is up,
and awaiting you, for of course you are expected to preside at it."
"An organ!" repeated Edah. "Have you an organ?"
"Yes, to be sure, and a very nice one. Why, you look as puzzled as
possible. I supposed you knew all about it, for Mr. Amory, to whom
we owe it, said that you had selected it, and I thought it did great
credit to your taste."
"I did go to look at an organ, which he said he thought of purchasing,"
said Edah, "but I supposed he intended it for Milly. He gave me no hint
of sending it here."
"Here it is, however, and we are all as proud of it as if we had made
it ourselves. I have been drilling our young people a little in the
chants, and I want you to practice them with the organ, that we may
have them on Easter Sunday."
"I will do so, certainly, with a great deal of pleasure. How little I
anticipated, when I came here, that in little less than a year I should
attend the Faster Service in a church in this place! And even when I
began my little Sunday School in mother's kitchen, I was told that I
should not succeed in keeping it together three months."
"It is to that little school, under God, that we owe the present happy
state of things, for so I may well call it, in Brooksville," said Mr.
Laurence.
"You must not give me all the credit," said Edah, blushing. "I should
never have succeeded but for Mr. Bell. It was more his work than mine."
"And how long did Mr. Bell live here without even thinking of such a
thing? Mr. Bell himself says that his interest in religion was almost
dead when you came, and that it was the pleasure which his little girls
took in their Sunday school lessons, and the questions which they asked
him, that first aroused him to a sense of his declining and dangerous
position. If you keep on doing good here, as you have begun, this
county will have reason to bless the time that you came into it."
"What have you decided to call the church?" asked Edah.
"St. John's is the name finally fixed upon," replied Mr. Laurence.
"You will see it on the front of the church before Easter-day, in gilt
letters, the work of Mr. Crampton's apprentice, who came to me, and
desired to make his contribution in that form. He is one of those who
are to be baptized, and your girl Ruby-Anne is another. We shall have
ten or twelve in all, and I anticipate about an equal number of infant
baptisms in the afternoon. And, by the by, what do you think of my plan
of omitting the usual Sunday School exercises upon Communion Sundays,
and devoting the time to the Catechism instead?"
"I like the idea very much," said Edah, "and I think that teachers
as well as scholars will find the exercise a profitable one. How
delightful it is to think of having regular Communion days once a
month! Have you had any talk with Susan about baptism, Mr. Laurence?"
"Oh, yes, many times. She has been one of the most regular attendants
upon my Thursday afternoon lectures since you went away, and I have
also conversed with her at home. She seems almost determined, and yet
she hangs back. I hardly think she will come forward this time, though
I hope we shall soon have her among our number."
Susan herself entered the room as Mr. Laurence was speaking, and he
continued, addressing himself to her—
"We were just talking of you, Miss Susan, and I was expressing a hope
that at some future time, if not on the present occasion, we might see
you among the professed followers of Christ. I only wish you could be
persuaded that now is the accepted time, and the day of salvation."
"There is only one thing that hinders me," said Susan, coloring.
"And what is that one thing?"
"It is just this, Mr. Laurence. I have been so much opposed to any
thing like a religious profession, and have said so much about it, that
I am ashamed to come out on the other side. When Edah commenced her
Sunday School, I did my best to hinder her, and laugh her out of it;
and whenever I heard of any religious persons failing in any thing, or
living inconsistent, I used to hold it up, and make the most of it, on
purpose to annoy her, and I was perfectly delighted when I succeeded in
putting her out of temper."
"But you would not do so now," said Edah; "you have not done so for a
long time."
"Perhaps not; but still I cannot forget that I have done it, and I
am afraid I might do the same again under temptation. In short, I am
afraid I should be so inconsistent, that I do not like to begin."
"But my dear Miss Susan, you are no more likely to fall into
temptation, because you have been baptized."
"I know it; but I think I had better wait till I am more stable and
persevering."
"Where do you expect to obtain the strength to become stable and
persevering?" asked Mr. Laurence. "Do you expect to make yourself so,
or must the strength and grace come from God?"
"From God, certainly. I know very well that I cannot help myself."
"Then you expect this grace and favor from God, at the very time that
you are refusing to obey two of His most distinct commands. He commands
all men to be baptized; and the injunction, 'Do this in remembrance of
Me,' cannot be obeyed till the other is first complied with. Is there
not a great inconsistency here?"
"There seems to be certainly," said Susan, thoughtfully. "I never
thought of it in that light."
"Is it not the true light?"
"I think it is myself. Well, Mr. Laurence, I will consider the subject
a little more, and make up my mind. You will allow that I have every
motive to consent, as if I do not, I shall soon be the only heathen in
the family. But if I hesitate, it is only from the fear of doing wrong,
and not from any indifference, I assure you."
CHAPTER XV.
THE EASTER SERVICE.
EASTER morning rose clear and bright in the village of Brooksville, and
the hills which inclosed the valley seemed to put on their most smiling
aspect, to welcome in the Resurrection Morn. The season was remarkably
forward, and many early flowers were in blossom, while the air was
filled with the fragrance of the blossoming fruit-trees, and the songs
of birds.
Edah rose earlier than usual, for she felt anxious, by devotion and
meditation, to prepare herself for the full enjoyment of the day's
solemnities. After her usual prayer and reading, she seated herself by
the open window, and endeavored to compose her mind to a realization of
the blessings she enjoyed, and the labors yet before her.
Last Easter she had been at school; she had attended church on
that day, but it had been only as a spectator of the devotions of
others;—the sermon had pleased her, but it was only as a specimen of
finished eloquence that she admired it; and when the invitation was
given for the followers of Christ to draw near, and with thankful
hearts to celebrate their Passover, she had turned away with the crowd,
who thus proclaimed that they had no part nor lot in the matter.
The remaining hours had been spent in miscellaneous reading, or in
preparing some school exercise, and she could not remember that, during
the whole day, she had bestowed one thought upon the great event it was
intended to commemorate.
What would she have said, had some supernatural power spread before
her eyes, at that time, the scenes through which she had just passed,
and the labors in which she had since found her chief pleasure—had
some one told her that in less than a year she would find herself the
painstaking mistress of a district school, and devoting all her fortune
to the single object of educating her then almost unknown brother for
the ministry? As she contrasted her thoughts and feelings and pleasures
then, with those which possessed her now, the present seemed like a
dream, and she almost expected to wake in the old familiar room at W.
But the striking clock warned her that it was time to wake and dress
Pauline for church.
Before breakfast, the whole family, including Ruby-Anne, assembled in
the library, when, after reading a portion of Scripture and singing a
hymn, they all knelt in prayer—the first time that the family-altar had
ever been erected under that roof. The absent father was not forgotten
in their petitions, and then it was that Edah first felt a hope that
the wanderer might one day return to the family he had forsaken, a
wiser and better man.
There was not much conversation at breakfast, for all were occupied
with their own thoughts. Mrs. Champlin alone seemed unconcerned, and
Edah exerted herself to entertain and amuse her mother, in order that
the others might be left to their own reflections.
The children felt no fear at leaving their mother alone in the house:
although her derangement had become more decided in its character, she
was more quiet than formerly, and much easier to manage, employing
herself chiefly in reading and writing, to which last she had lately
taken a great fancy, which they took care to encourage. Edah had
purchased a pretty new desk for her in New York, well furnished with
conveniences and elegancies. This she now placed before her for the
first time; and as she witnessed the childish delight with which she
examined it, and began arranging its contents, she felt satisfied that
Mrs. Champlin was provided with an agreeable employment for the whole
day.
They proceeded to church, hoping to be there early, but were surprised
to find nearly the whole congregation collected. The choir, well
drilled in their respective parts, were assembled round the organ, with
their books in their hands; and little Jacob Crampton, who had received
the appointment of organ-blower, was at his post, with his hand on
the handle, feeling all the pride of office, and ready to commence
operations as soon as he should receive the signal.
A good many little heads, and some large ones, were twisted round,
when Edah began the voluntary, and all her resolves could not keep her
from feeling a little nervous, but she acquitted herself to her own
tolerable satisfaction, and to the evident delight of her hearers. She
had felt some anxiety about her choir, as they were all young, and some
of them had never heard chanting before; but all went off exceedingly
well, especially the Easter Chant, "Christ our Passover, is sacrificed
for us." And after the first was through, she began to feel at ease,
and at liberty to give her attention to something else.
After the close of the second lesson, Mr. Laurence advanced to the
chancel rails, and requested the candidates for Baptism to come forward
with their sponsors. There was a stir in the little congregation, as
bonnets were removed and Prayer-Books taken: one group waited for
another, and finally, by a simultaneous movement, all together rose and
advanced up the aisle. Mr. Bell went with his two boys, as he called
them, Robert Raymond and John Downing; Mrs. Bell with her unmarried
sister who had spent part of the winter with her; Edah accompanied her
sister and Ruby-Anne, while Mr. Stuart was Sam's chosen witness. The
others were Mrs. Hildreth, Mr. Crampton, with his wife and apprentice,
black Jacob's eldest daughter Sally, two of Edah's school-girls, and
last not least Charley Strong, whose pale face and wasted figure
perhaps attracted more notice than all the rest. It was the first time
he had appeared in Brooksville since the Sunday when Mr. Downing had
seen him riding home with Mr. Laurence from church.
The candidates and their witnesses made quite a crowd around the
chancel, where they remained standing till a short address had been
made and a hymn sung, when they returned to their seats, and the
service continued: A stranger would have been struck by the great
earnestness with which the responses were made, and the unanimity with
which the congregation rose and knelt. This was in a great measure
owing to Edah's example, and that of the children and young people whom
she had instructed.
We have been before now in Episcopal churches, where the responses
were only a faint inarticulate murmur, and where the congregation
paid so little attention to the prescribed position that we had some
difficulty in realizing where we were. It may perhaps be a matter of
minor importance, but we do confess a dislike to see one-half the
congregation sitting during the Psalms and Hymns, and not rising even
at the Gloria Patri, or the Creed. It may undoubtedly be the case that
some persons are unable to stand through the Te Deum and we have now
and then, when in feeble health, been obliged to sit down before the
close of the Psalms; but we can hardly imagine that any one who is well
enough to come to church at all should be unable to maintain the proper
position during the recitation of the Apostles' Creed.
Mr. Laurence's sermon was appropriate to the occasion; and at the close
of it, he addressed himself particularly to those who were then and
there to receive the Communion for the first time. He exhorted them
always to remember the profession which they had just made, and the
vows which they had taken upon themselves. He reminded them that they
had not only renounced the service of the world, but they had taken
upon themselves the service of God, and they were bound to labor for
Him and for His Church, as long as they remained on the earth, looking
unto Him for strength and wisdom to do His work. He bade them remember
that they were no longer their own, but bought with a precious price,
and that henceforth they had no right, as they should have no desire,
to live to themselves. Whatever they ate or drank, or whatever they
did, they were to do all to the glory of God: in the workshop or in
the field—at home or abroad—in their places of business or in the
house of God—they were to have Him always before them, and to lose
no opportunity of advancing His cause, with their time, their means,
and their talents. Thus when they came to render up their account,
they would do it with joy and not with grief, and though they might
perchance go forth weeping, and bearing their precious seed, they would
surely come again with joy and great gladness, bringing their sheaves
with them.
"God," said he, "has been pleased by the exertions of a faithful few to
set His Church in this place, so long without the sound of the Gospel.
The little seed, planted in faith and self-denial, has sprung up and
begun to bear fruit; it will depend greatly upon you, whether the plant
shall become a great tree, so that the fowls of the air may lodge in
the branches thereof, or whether it shall wither for lack of earth and
moisture. Should this ever happen, your last state will be worse than
the first; but I trust it will never be. Stand, then, having your loins
girt about with truth, and having on the breastplate of righteousness,
and your feet shod with the preparation of the Gospel of Peace; above
all, taking the shield of faith, wherewith ye shall be able to quench
the fiery darts of the wicked, and take the Helmet of Salvation and the
Sword of the Spirit, which is the Word of God. Be faithful and watch
unto prayer, yea, be faithful, and He who has called you from death
unto life shall give you a crown of glory in that day when He shall
come to judge both the quick and the dead, saying—
"'Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the Kingdom prepared for you
from the foundation of the world. Ye have been faithful over a few
things—I will make you ruler over many things; enter ye into the joy of
your Lord!'"
[Illustration]
Our task is done for the present. We have traced in these pages
the path of a young girl, with no peculiar advantages, with some
faults, and many weaknesses. We have seen her, though professedly and
by Baptism a member of Christ, spending some of her best years in
forgetfulness of Him. We have seen her suddenly aroused by the power
of the Spirit of God, alive to a sense of her great sin, seeking
instruction, and finding at last peace in believing. We have seen
her acting no more from the caprice of the moment, from a refined
selfishness, or, at best, from simple good impulses, but guiding all
her actions by the one great principle of glorifying God. We have seen
her under the influence of this motive, renouncing innocent and refined
pleasures for the sake of nursing the sick, comforting the afflicted,
and teaching the ignorant—bearing with misconstruction and ridicule,
overcoming evil with good, and perverseness with love, till we have
seen, at last, a family-altar raised, where once the name of God was
never spoken, save in profanity, and a well-filled church adorning the
beautiful valley, where, for many years, there had been a famine, not
of bread nor of water, but of hearing the word of the Lord. And now may
the Author be permitted to linger a moment longer, for the purpose of
saying a few words to the younger part of her readers, and especially
those of her own sex?
You, my dear young friends, have put on Christ in Baptism, and been
signed with the Sign of the Cross, in token that hereafter you might
not be ashamed to confess the faith of Christ crucified. Many have
acknowledged, in the solemn rite of Confirmation, that the promises
made in your name at your Baptism are binding upon you. Some of you,
perchance, have even received the Sacrament of Christ's most blessed
Body and Blood. Will you not now pause and ask yourselves, in all
honesty and sincerity,—
"What am I doing to fulfil my baptismal vow? How many battles have
I ever fought under Christ's banner against sin, the world, and the
devil? Has the coming of that blessed time when all shall know Him,
from the least to the greatest, ever been hastened one moment by my
exertions? Have I, since I became a member of Christ's Church, ever
made one sacrifice, or denied myself one gratification, or labored one
hour for the salvation of souls?"
I fear there are many, yes, some even of my own acquaintance, who
cannot honestly answer these questions in the affirmative. To such
I would say, Is not your position rather a singular one? Members of
Christ, yet having none of His Spirit; heirs of God, and living as
if you had no hope and no expectation of any thing beyond this life;
inheritors of the Kingdom of Heaven, yet with all your treasures upon
earth! Now, if any man have not the Spirit of Christ, he is none of
His; and dare you say that you have that Spirit, when you have never
yet spent one hour as He spent all his hours when He was here among
men? He purchased His Church with His own blood: you have never
yet lifted a finger for it; and can you, then, imagine that your
Church-membership will be any thing to you but a savor of death unto
death?
Nor can you properly plead as your justification ignorance of the way
to do good. Wilful ignorance is no excuse, and yours must be wilful
if it exist at all. A little thought might show you more ways than
one in which you might be useful, and your pastor is always ready to
advise you, and put you in the right way. Is there a Sunday School in
your parish, and if there is, what have you done for it? If you are a
pupil, do you set an example of regular attendance and good lessons? Do
you pray for your teachers and your classmates? If you are a teacher,
are you doing all you can, by study, by prayer, by regular attendance,
and by visiting your pupils, for the good of your class? If you are
not a teacher, cannot you become one? Are there no young people of
your acquaintance to whom you may say a word upon the all-important
subject of personal religion? Are there no poor children coming to your
door with baskets to beg, over whom you may obtain an influence for
good—whom you may teach to read and to sew—whom you may persuade to
attend the Sunday School, and clothe decently that they may be able to
do so?
I have mentioned but a few out of the many ways of doing good that
constantly surround us, but I shall wonder if, even in this short
catalogue, there cannot be found some work that you can do—something
that, perhaps, you have never yet thought of doing. Then put your hand
to the work, and be not discouraged nor faint, though you find it hard
and unpromising at first, and though in the course of months you may
seem to effect nothing. Be no longer the barren fig-tree, which only
occupies uselessly the garden of the Lord, lest He should one day say—
"Behold, I come these many years seeking fruit, and finding none. Cut
it down: why cumbereth it the ground?"
Rather let it be said of you, as was said of one of old, whose memorial
was to be cherished wherever the Gospel was preached—"She hath done
what she could."
FINIS.
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