JOB'S DUTY.
"LOOK ye here," said John Forsyth, having found his way into Job
Kippis' garret, "it's ten days gone by, an' nothin' heard o' Mrs.
Carter. Now I don't want to be interferin', nor givin' of unwelcome
advice, an' ye wouldn't take the last I offered ye—worse for yerself,
it may be—but I've a mind to speak to ye again on the subject."
Job nodded.
"About that there child," said John.
"Just so," responded Job.
"What be you goin' to do with her?"
"Question I've asked myself many a time. I don't see my way clear."
"It's clear enough, if ye'll open yer eyes," said John. "Send her to
the work'us."
Ailie was absent from the room, or this suggestion would hardly have
been received in such silence.
"Well, I don't know," said Job slowly at length. "Seems to me that
don't make the way clear at all."
"I tell ye there's nothin' else to be done. You ain't young no longer,
an' for you to burden yourself with a great growin' girl—it'll mayhap
bring you to the work'us one day."
"Mayhap," said Job.
"You're not thinkin' in earnest of doin' it, eh?"
"Can't just tell," said Job.
"You've kept her nigh a fortnight on, in hopes o' her mother's comin'
back. 'Tain't likely we'll see her now. If she haven't met with foul
play o' some kind, it's like her heart failed her, an' she was 'shamed
to face the neighbours, just out o' jail. She prided herself a deal on
her good name. But if she don't choose to come an' take charge of her
own child, what's left to Ailie but the work'us?"
"True," said Job.
"An' ye'll send her there?"
"I'll think first," said Job.
"You'll think yerself into a mighty unprudent action, if you don't look
sharp," said John.
"Soon's I'm sure o' my duty, I'll act upon it," said Job.
"Your duty's to do what's prudent an' in common sense, I take it," said
John.
"Maybe I've a higher rule than that," responded Job. "Maybe I've a wish
to please my Master first, an' then to think o' prudence."
"You're not a-going to let any wild notions o' religion lead you to
'dopt that little 'un as your own?" expostulated John.
"No wild notions at all, I can tell ye. Simply I've a Master, an' I'm
His servant, an' ye knows well enough a servant ain't free to do his
own will, but only accordin' to his master's will."
"But I say ye must be practical," said John.
"Just as I means to be," responded Job. "I'm awaitin' to know my
Master's will. Maybe I'll mistake it at first, an' then no fear but
He'll set me right in time. Once afore 'twas you as helped me to a
clearer understandin', an' I thought ye might once again too."
"I don't know nothin' about it," said John testily. "Hope I'm a honest
man, an' tries to do my duty. Don't want to go beyond that."
"Beyond doin' your duty. Why, it's a wonderful man ye'd be to do that,"
said Job, smiling. "Don't the Bible say how the best of us is only
'unprofitable servants,' doin' never a bit more than we're told to do?
An' don't it say, 'Fear God, an' keep His commandments, for this is the
whole duty of man'?"
John was silent—a little uneasy. The duty he had set himself hardly
reached so far.
"That's duty, ain't it?" said Job, looking at him with pleasant eyes.
"Maybe ye haven't feared God yet as ye might ha' done, nor kept all His
commandments neither."
"Never stole in my life," said John.
"Nor never took God's Holy Name in vain neither?"
"Well, I ain't never been a downright swearer as many be," said John.
"If ye've done it once, John Forsyth, the Lord 'll not hold ye
guiltless," said Job.
John fidgeted.
"Maybe ye haven't never felt any envy for your richer neighbours," said
Job. "Them as drives about a carriage, an' wears silk, an' jingles
their money."
"Don't know why I shouldn't have as good," said John shortly.
"Then ye broke the tenth commandment too. Ye've come short o' your
whole duty before God, an' no doubt about it."
"Dare say you've done the same, for all you're so hard a-condemning of
me," said John.
"Sure enough—as if I didn't know that. Come short o' His commandments!
Don't I come short o' them every hour o' my life? Don't I kneel down
in church on Sunday, every week, an' pray the Lord to have mercy on a
miserable sinner? An He's had mercy too, an' I've His promised pardon;
but for all that I goes on sinning yet, for isn't my very nature full
o' sin, an' will be till I go to heaven? Do my whole duty? Why, man,
there's nobody ever lived on earth as did it yet, save one, an' that's
the Master Himself."
"Don't see the good of expectin' of it then," said John.
"Just so," responded Job. "An' God don't expect it neither, 'cause He
knows better than we ourselves, that 'tain't in our power. But He does
expect one thing, an' that is that we'll give our hearts to Him. He 've
given His Son to die for us, an' He wants our love back again, you see.
That's it. He commands us to come to Him, an' pray, an' trust Him, an'
serve Him; an' ye can't do your duty without you obeys these commands!
There ain't no other way, for He commands us to be saved, an' there's
no way to be saved but through the blood o' the Lamb; and so long's we
neglect that, we're not a-doin' our duty. Ye'll find one day that all
your duty-doin' apart from Him 'll serve ye little at the last."
"I didn't come here for a sermon," said John curtly, "but only to give
ye some friendly advice."
"An' I've give ye some o' the same in return. Hope you'll follow it
better than I'm like to follow yours to me."
"About that child—" said John.
"Aye, I'm thinkin' over matters. Seems to me as the Master has put her
in my way, an' telled me to take her up an' do for her, poor little
stray lamb as she be."
"Never saw such madness in all my life, I didn't," said John.
"Sure, no ye didn't," said Job, with a twinkle in his eye, "when ye
took up a poor little orphan yourself!"
"I wasn't a man past seventy years, nor so poor as now by a long way,"
said John.
"Nor I haven't five children o' my own to begin with," responded Job,
and the other laughed.
"Well, ye beat me there, I don't deny. But 'twasn't prudent—I sees it
now."
"Maybe ye didn't do it for the Master's sake," said Job. "That'd make a
mighty difference. I've a mind now to put it this way. I don't make no
promises. Maybe I'll send her by and by to the work'us, an' maybe not.
Maybe it's the Master's will as I should keep her. Sure, then, He'll
give me the means. I'll keep the little deary so long's I've the power,
an' when I haven't—why then, sure enough, I'll let her go."
"Doubt but ye won't," muttered John. "Ye've a strong will o' your own."
However, he saw that argument only tended to confirm the old man in his
resolution, and he gave it up. Soon after his departure from the room,
Ailie came bounding in, with a face of anxiety and suspense, amounting
to terror.
"Gran'father, Lettie telled me Mr. Forsyth was come for a talk with
you, 'cause he was a-sayin' I ought to be sent to the work'us. Oh,
gran'father, please—" and Ailie's black eyes looked unutterably
entreating.
"Do ye want for to go, deary?" asked Job.
"I don't want it!" cried Ailie. "Only to wait here till mother comes,
an' to keep with you. Won't she come, gran'father?"
"Please God, one day," said Job. "We don't know nought about her. D'ye
think I'll get along without my little lamb, an' be happy to think o'
her away in the work'us?"
"I think ye'd want me," said Ailie wistfully. "'Cause I do cleanin' up,
an'—an'—oh, gran'father, don't ye think—"
"Well, deary?"
Ailie began to cry in good earnest, and Job could not stand that.
"There now, little one, don't ye be feared. I'll keep ye so long's I've
a crust to spare ye. 'Tain't much I have o' my own, but ye shall share
it, sure enough. We'll wait awhile an' see. I don't make no promises,
but we'll just see."
"An' maybe mother 'll come back," said Ailie. "I do love you ever so
much. I don't want never to go."
There was no more talk of Ailie leaving. Quietly as before she lived on
in old Job's room, sleeping in the closet at night, playing about the
house and courtyard during the day. Many a half-hour would Job Kippis
win her away from her ragged little playmates, to sit by him as he
worked, and learn more and more of the "sweet story of old."
Lettie, too, used to creep in and listen with silent interest to the
wondrous tale. Sometimes Job taught them both a short text, but this
was hard work to both teacher and scholars, and the Bible stories were
preferred. Ailie was always the first to grow restless. Quiet Lettie,
with her shrinking from rough and boisterous games, and her love of
retired corners, would often sit on and listen when Ailie had rushed
away. A silent useful little maiden she was, unlike the children around
her, and the one comfort of her careworn adopted mother.
Time passed thus, but nothing more was seen or heard of Mary Carter.
November came to an end, and December dragged its slow length along,
and still Ailie was motherless. She had almost ceased by this time to
expect or hope for any change.
But a change of another kind was threatening, and a cloud was drawing
near. The winter was severe, and the frost was sharp, and employment of
all kinds was slack. Many men were out of work. John Forsyth's failed,
or was only to be obtained by fitful snatches. Job Kippis' wavered,
grew uncertain, and finally came to an end.
He could obtain no more. There Was none to be had, seemingly. He was
old, and younger men were preferred. His sight had begun to fail of
late, perhaps from over-toil on Ailie's account. The little stock
of savings, already deeply dipped into, melted away, and want—stern
want—stared them in the face.
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