SHELTERED AT LAST.
When the members of the Board had all assembled, Catharine was again
subjected to the ordeal of an examination. This repetition of what
seemed to her an uncalled-for curiosity was almost more than she could
endure; and if it had not been for the kind Methodist, Mrs. Barr, who
continually interfered in her behalf, she would, more than once, have
broken down in a passion of tears.
“You can retire now to the adjoining room,” said the
Lady-Philanthropist, at last. “Meantime, we will take your case into
consideration. But,” she added, looking around on her fellow-members,
“it is not clear to me, by any means, that you are a deserving object of
our charity. You appear to have a thoroughly hard and ungrateful heart,
and to want that penitence so becoming in one who has sinned greatly.”
Poor Catharine! When she found herself alone, she could no longer
restrain herself, but sobbed out her grief and mortification in a
passion of weeping.
“Oh! if I could find anything to do—anywhere—no matter with whom,” she
cried, in bitter grief, “I would leave this cruel place this moment.”
The poor girl took her hands from her eyes, and looked around, half
rising as if about to go. “But no! no!” she said, sitting down once
more, and burying her face again. “I cannot be a burden on those poor
Irish people any longer. I must stay away, even if I starve. I must put
up with any indignity. Oh, George! George! how I suffer, could you but
know what I have suffered!”
The hum of voices, in the adjoining room, occasionally increased to
almost an altercation. But Catharine, absorbed by grief, did not notice
this. She remained silently weeping for quite half an hour, when her
attention was suddenly aroused by a hand laid upon her shoulder.
She looked up. It was the kind Methodist lady, who had interceded for
her so strenuously. Catharine was ignorant that Mary Margaret had met
this good woman in the hall, yet the motherly face, the plain,
unpretending manner, and those words of benevolent intercession, had
impressed the forlorn girl, and she knew that if she had a friend in the
world besides the humble Irish nurse, that friend was now before her.
The poor girl looked up, with an attempt at a smile, therefore; but it
was such a faint, sickly struggle, that her visitor’s heart ached to see
it.
“My poor child!” said the old lady.
The tears swelled into Catharine’s eyes. There was sympathy, and the
promise of aid, in the very tones of this old Christian’s voice. It had
been long since she had seen so kind a countenance, or heard such
soothing language, except from the untutored Mary Margaret.
“My name is Mrs. Barr,” said the lady, after a pause. “I am disposed to
be your friend. Would you like to go and live with me?”
Catharine’s face lighted up as if she were transfigured. Emotion made
her dumb. But she grasped the hand held out between both her own, and
covered it with grateful kisses.
“There, there,” said Mrs. Barr, with tears in her own eyes, “I am but a
poor, human creature, and not worthy of such gratitude. Nor is it much I
can do for you, either, my child. I am not blessed with a superfluity of
this world’s goods. But what I have, you shall share, at least till we
can look about for something better.”
“God will repay you, dear madam,” said Catharine, filled with tender
thanksgiving; “but, oh, tell me it is all yourself, I cannot endure to
be helped by this Society.”
“The Society will not have anything to do with it, my child.”
“I am so thankful.”
Mrs. Barr shook her head.
“My child,” she said, “it is natural for you to speak so, but I fear it
is wrong nevertheless. My colleagues mean well; at least I hope so,” she
added, quickly; “but experience has made them suspicious, for they are
continually being deceived. Some of them, I fear, have little tact in
reading character,” she added, soothingly, “and judge many as impostors
till their innocence is proved. But sometimes I cannot help differing
with them a little. Our Saviour, when on earth, taught us infinite
charity. I like your face, too. I believe you innocent.” Oh, what a look
of thankfulness Catharine gave her at these words! “So let us dismiss
this subject now, and forever.
“I can’t bring the members to think as I do; for the lady you first saw
is prejudiced against you, and has filled the others with her
suspicions; but,” the old lady continued, “you shall not suffer. Come
home with me. I have some sewing I want done, and when that is finished,
God, perhaps, will find an opening for you. We will trust in him. Shall
it be so, my dear?”
If there were only more such people in this world, as that good
Methodist woman, how many poor creatures, almost driven to despair,
might be made happy.
Catharine said this to herself, again and again, as she followed Mrs.
Barr home. It was not an elegant residence, scarcely even what would be
called a comfortable one, but it was clean, tidy, and cheerful;
Catharine felt that she had found a haven, at least for the present, and
for the future she trusted in God, as good Mrs. Barr had so hopefully
bade her do.
“This is the only apartment I have to give you,” said that lady, as she
ushered Catharine into an attic, freshly whitewashed, with a bed of
spotless snow in one corner, “but it has the advantage of having no
other occupant. I have but one servant, who sleeps in the next attic;
she is a middle-aged, kind-hearted woman, who will never interfere with,
and may often be of assistance to you. To-day shall be a holiday, you
look worn out; so we will put off work till to-morrow. You may either
rest here, or go to see your friend, whom I met in the hall; perhaps it
would relieve her mind to know that you are cared for, at least for a
time.”
Catharine felt as if a new world was opened to her. It was not only that
the fear of actual starvation was past, but that the motherly manner of
Mrs. Barr had restored faith and hope to her heart, both of which had
been nearly shipwrecked. Oh, if we could but remember, that, in
bestowing charity, words of kind encouragement often go further than
almsgiving. The latter only relieves present necessities, the former
restores new energy to the fainting wayfarer on life’s stony highway.
When Mrs. Barr left Catharine, the poor girl’s strength gave way and she
sank down helplessly on the bed. She intended, however, to rest a little
while only, half an hour or so, and then to set forth for Mary
Margaret’s. But almost immediately she sunk into a deep slumber, which
lasted for nearly three hours; and when this was over, she found, on
going down-stairs, that the hour for dinner had come. But she started,
at last, for the humble dwelling of the Irish nurse.
“Shure, and you look like another crathur, darlint,” were Mary
Margaret’s words, before Catharine could speak. “They did the dacent
thing for yees, at last, the saints bless them for that same! But come
in and see the childer. The poor baby, would ye belaive it, has pined
for yees all day.”
When Catharine came to tell her story in full, Mary Margaret broke out
into an eloquent invective against the Society, but especially against
the Lady-Philanthropist, Mrs. Brown. Catharine, however, checked her,
repeating what Mrs. Barr had said.
“Well, well, darlint,” was the reply, “she’s a good woman, shure she is;
and may the sun always shine about her steps. So we’ll say nothing, for
her sake, consarnin’ the others—the desateful, hypocritical—well, well,
I’ve stopped intirely.”