THE WORKHOUSE.
"Oh! I am so glad, so thankful to have you with me!" cried Norah, as,
after leaving the coach, she walked with Persis Meade up the road which
led to the workhouse of B—. "It is not only that I should have been
afraid, that I could not have come without a companion, but you know—"
Norah dropped her voice, and spoke in a hesitating tone—"you know poor
Sophy may want some one to give comfort to her, religious comfort I
mean, and to tell her all the things that you used to tell me on Sunday
before I went into service. I never could speak of religion to Sophy. I
am often so grieved and ashamed when I think how much we were together,
and there was never, never a word said that could help her to Heaven!
All such foolish talk!" sighed Norah. "Once I had resolved to say
something, it was after my Uncle Ned had shown me how dishonest it was
for us to feast together in the kitchen at my mistress's expense. Oh
how I had turned the matter over and over in my mind, and thought of
reasons to give, and found texts! But as soon as I saw Sophy's laughing
eyes, and heard her merry voice, all that I had prepared seemed at
once to go out of my head, I could scarcely utter a word! I find it so
dreadfully hard to speak about religion to those who don't feel as I
do!"
"Yes, it is very hard indeed," said Persis.
"Do you think it so?" exclaimed Norah with surprise and something like
pleasure; "I fancied that was only the case with stupid little cowards
like me!"
"To speak of the Blessed Saviour to one of my own age and position,
who is not likely to feel on such a subject like myself, is to me an
effort which I dare never undertake without secret prayer. It is very
different," continued Persis Meade, "from teaching a Bible-class on
Sundays, where one sees one's self surrounded by dear little pupils.
I have often, like you, dear Norah, bitterly reproached myself for
silence, from the fear of man that bringeth a snare." *
* Prov. xxix. 25.
By this time Persis and Norah had reached the door of that great
brick building, which to the younger, perhaps to both, appeared such
a formidable place! Norah's heart beat faster as the stout porter
gave them admittance, and she followed Persis into a paved courtyard,
surrounded by buildings, in which, in their pauper dresses, several of
the inmates were lounging about in the sunshine, talking to the friends
who at that special time had permission to come and see them. Persis
courteously addressed an old woman, and asked her if she happened to
know where they could find Sophy Puller.
"Sophy Puller!" echoed the woman; "that's the girl as has cried herself
blind! Why, she's of our ward, No. 5—you can see the number there on
yon door;" and she pointed across the courtyard.
"Let's come to her quickly," said Norah, drawing on her companion with
nervous haste. The little maid was relieved at having found her friend
with so much less difficulty than she had expected, and was anxious
to escape out of the yard, where there were too many strangers to let
her feel at her ease, especially as some of them stared at her as
she passed. Persis tapped softly at the dark green door on which was
painted the No. 5, then lifted the latch and entered for the first time
a ward in a workhouse.
The room was whitewashed, perfectly clean and neat, and a fire that
burned brightly gave to it a certain look of comfort. There were six
beds, perfectly alike, three on the right hand, three on the left, a
deal-table between, with some medicine bottles upon it. There were but
two inmates in the ward when the visitors entered; an old bed-ridden
woman lying asleep in the farthest corner, and Sophy Puller, who,
dressed in the workhouse garb of striped white and blue print, was
seated on a bed near the door.
Norah Peele was shocked to see the change which a few months had
wrought in her once gay young companion. Could this be she who used
to walk down the street with so jaunty a step, and so flaunting an
air, with pink roses in her bonnet, and flounces on her wide-spreading
dress? Could this pale drooping girl, with her thin fingers clenched
together, and her pinched features rigid with unutterable woe, be
the gay giddy creature who had laughed at care, and only lived
for pleasure? Could this blind, sickly pauper, be the same as the
milliner's lively young girl, whose ambition was to be thought a lady,
to attract notice, and win admiration?
"Oh, Sophy! my poor Sophy!" exclaimed Norah, bursting into tears, as
she ran up to her unhappy friend, and threw her arms around her.
Sophy Puller shed no tear, though her bosom heaved with sob-like gasps
as she returned Norah's embrace. The poor girl could not speak for
several moments, and then she faultered forth in a broken voice, "It
is so kind—so like you, Norah, to come and see me here!" Then suddenly
drawing herself back from Norah, with a passionate gesture of anguish,
the unhappy Sophy exclaimed, "Oh, if you but knew my misery—the
darkness here—everywhere—no hope! no hope!" She threw herself down on
her bed, and covered her face with her hands.
Norah could not reply, she was weeping; but soft and low sounded the
voice of Persis, repeating one verse from the Psalm, "Why art thou cast
down, Oh, my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? Hope thou in
God: for I shall yet praise Him, who is the health of my countenance,
and my God!" *
* Psalm xlii. 11.
"Who is that speaking?" asked Sophy, hastily, but without withdrawing
her hands.
"My friend, Miss Meade—I have spoken to you of her—she was my
Sunday-class teacher," replied Norah.
"She need not come here, speaking of hope to me; I've none—never will
have!" cried Sophy, speaking rapidly, and in a tone of despair. "I
know all she can say—I was at school once—I was confirmed—I cared
nothing for that at the time; but I remember well enough now what was
said to me then; such thoughts come, I can't keep them out, to make me
more wretched in the darkness!" Sophy started up again to her former
position, and her dimmed eyes seemed staring wildly into vacancy as
she went on, rather as if muttering to herself than as if addressing
her companions. "I was told of two paths, one narrow, and leading to
Heaven, the other broad, and leading to destruction; I took the broad,
and now 'tis too late to return! I chose mirth and folly, I chose
selfishness and sin, I turned my back upon all that I knew to be right,
I led others astray, I forgot my God, and now there's but one text in
all the Bible that I can recall to mind, and it haunts me night and
day;" and in a tone that thrilled through the listeners, Sophy repeated
the Saviour's most solemn question—"What is a man profited if he shall
gain the whole world and lose his own soul, or what shall a man gave in
exchange for his soul?" *
* Matt. xvi. 26.
Persis saw that the miserable Sophy was at that moment in too excited a
state to receive religious instruction; the gentle, sympathising woman
could only silently pray for wisdom to be given to herself, that she
might direct the sufferer to the one Hope provided for sinners, and
that grace might be given to Sophy, so that her bitter remorse might
be changed into true repentance. Norah was the first to break silence;
seating herself on the bed close to Sophy, and taking her hand tenderly
between both of her own, she said, "Tell me, if it will not make you
more sad, something of what has happened since you and I last saw each
other on that night in September."
The sudden turn in the conversation roused Sophy from her despair.
Painful as were her recollections, it was a relief to her to pour out
her sorrows into a sympathising ear, and even the past, sad, as it
was, appeared less gloomy than the present, less terrible than the
future! Persis quietly seated herself on the bed next to Sophy's and it
is probable that the poor girl altogether forgot the presence of the
stranger, as, leaning her head on Norah's shoulder, she began her tale
of woe.