told her that you never would consent. But you know how it is with her
when she gets an idea in her head, there's no turning her. You might
as well talk to a steam engine. She walked off down stairs straight
as a ramrod, and took the omnibus for the Willises, in spite of all I
could say; and, sure as the world, she'll be up to talk with you about
it. She insisted that it was _my_ duty to interfere; and I told her
you had a right to manage your matters in your own way. Then she said
if I didn't do my duty by you, _she_ should."
"Well, you have done your duty, Mamma dear," said Eva, kissing her
mother. "I'll bear witness to that, and it isn't your fault if I
am not warned. But you, dear little mother, have sense to let your
children sail their own boat their own way, without interfering."
"Well, I think your ways generally turn out the best ways, Eva," said
her mother. "And I think Aunt Maria herself comes into them finally.
She is proud as a peacock of your receptions, and takes every occasion
to tell people what charming, delightful evenings you have; and she
praises your house and your housekeeping and you to everybody, so you
may put up with a little bother now and then."
"Oh, I'll manage Aunt Maria, never you fear," said Eva, as she rose
confidently and took her husband from a discussion with Mr. Van Arsdel.
"Come, Harry, it's nine o'clock, and we have a long walk yet to get
home."
It was brisk, clear winter moonlight in the streets as Harry and Eva
took their way homeward--she the while relieving her mind by reciting
her mother's conversation.
"Don't it seem strange," she said, "how the minute one actually tries
to do some real Christian work everything goes against one?"
"Yes," said Harry; "the world isn't made for the unfortunate or
unsuccessful. In general, the instinct of society is the same among
men as among animals--anything sickly or maimed is to be fought off
and got rid of. If there is a sick bird, all the rest fly at it and
peck it to death. So in the world, when man or woman doesn't keep step
with respectable people, the first idea is to get them out of the way.
We can't exactly kill them, but we can wash our hands of them. Saving
souls is no part of the world's work--it interferes with its steady
business; it takes unworldly people to do that."
"And when one begins," said Eva, "shrewd, sensible folks, like Aunt
Maria, blame us; and little, tender-hearted folks, like mamma, think
it's almost a pity we should try, and that we had better leave it to
somebody else; and then the very people we are trying to do for are
really troublesome and hard to manage--like poor Maggie. She is truly
a very hard person to get along with, and her mother is injudicious,
and makes it harder; but yet, it really does seem to be our work to
help take care of her. Now, isn't it?"
"Well, then, darling, you may comfort your heart with one thought:
when you are doing for pure Christian motives a thing that makes you
a great deal of trouble, and gets you no applause, you are trying to
live just that unworldly life that the first Christians did. They
were called a peculiar people, and whoever acts in the same spirit
now-a-days will be called the same. I think it is the very highest
wisdom to do as you are doing; but it isn't the wisdom of this world.
It's the kind of thing that Mr. St. John is sacrificing his whole life
to; it is what Sibyl Selwyn is doing all the time, and your little
neighbor Ruth is helping in. We can at least try to do a little. We
are inexperienced, it may be that we shall not succeed, it may be that
the girl is past saving; but it's worth while to try, and try our very
best."
Harry was saying this just as he put his latch-key into the door of
his house.
It was suddenly opened from within, and Maggie stood before them with
her bonnet and shawl on, ready to pass out. There was a hard, sharp,
desperate expression in her face as she pressed forward to pass them.
"Maggie, child," said Eva, laying hold of her arm, "where are you
going?"
"Away--anywhere--I don't care where," said Maggie, fiercely, trying to
pull away.
"But you mustn't," said Eva, laying hold of her.
"Maggie," said Harry, stepping up to her and speaking in that calm,
steady voice which controls passionate people, "go into the house
immediately with Mrs. Henderson; she will talk with you."
Maggie turned, and sullenly followed Eva into a little sewing room
adjoining the parlor, where she had often sat at work.
"Now, Maggie," said Eva, "take off your bonnet, for I'm not going to
have you go into the streets at this hour of the night, and sit down
quietly here and tell me all about it. What has happened? What is the
matter? You don't want to distress your mother and break her heart?"
"She hates me," said Maggie. "She says I've disgraced her and I
disgrace you, and that it's a disgrace to have me here. She and Uncle
Mike both said so, and I said I'd go off, then."
"But where could you go?" said Eva.
"Oh, I know places enough! They're bad, to be sure. I wanted to do
better, so I came away; but I can go back again."
"No, Maggie, you must never go back. You must do as I tell you. Have I
not been a friend to you?"
"Oh, yes, yes, _you_ have; but they say I disgrace you."
"Maggie, I don't think so. _I_ never said so. There is no need that
you should disgrace anybody. I hope you'll live to be a credit to
your mother--a credit to us all. You are young yet; you have a good
many years to live; and if you'll only go on and do the very best you
can from this time, you can be a comfort to your mother and be a good
woman. It's never too late to begin, Maggie, and I'll help you now."
Maggie sat still and gazed gloomily before her.
"Come, now, I'll sing you some little hymns," said Eva, going to her
piano and touching a few chords. "You've got your mind all disturbed,
and I'll sing to you till you are more quiet."
Eva had a sweet voice, and a light, dreamy sort of touch on the piano,
and she played and sung with feeling.
There were truths in religion, higher, holier, deeper than she felt
capable of uttering, which breathed themselves in these hymns; and
something within her gave voice and pathos to them.
The influence of music over the disturbed nerves and bewildered moral
sense of those who have gone astray from virtue, is something very
remarkable. All modern missions more or less recognize that it has
a power which goes beyond anything that spoken words can utter, and
touches springs of deeper feeling.
Eva sat playing a long time, going from one thing to another; and
then, rising, she found Maggie crying softly by herself.
"Come, now, Maggie," she said, "you are going to be a good girl, I
know. Go up and go to bed now, and don't forget your prayers. That's a
good girl."
Maggie yielded passively, and went to her room.
Then Eva had another hour's talk, to persuade Mary that she must not
be too exacting with Maggie, and that she must for the future avoid
all such encounters with her. Mary was, on the whole, glad to promise
anything; for she had been thoroughly alarmed at the altercation
into which their attempt at admonition had grown, and was ready to
admit to Eva that Mike had been too hard on her. At all events, the
family honor had been sufficiently vindicated, and, if Maggie would
only behave herself, she was ready to promise that Mike should not
be allowed to interfere in future. And so, at last, Eva succeeded in
inducing Mary to go to her daughter's room with a reconciling word
before she went to bed, and had the comfort of seeing the naughty girl
crying in her mother's arms, and the mother petting and fondling her
as a mother should.
Alas! it is only in the good old Book that the father sees the
prodigal a great way off, and runs and falls on his neck and kisses
him, before he has confessed his sin or done any work of repentance.
So far does God's heavenly love outrun even the love of fathers and
mothers.
"Well, I believe I've got things straightened out at last," said Eva,
as she came back to Harry; "and now, if Mary will only let me manage
Maggie, I think I can make all go smooth."
_CHAPTER XXVIII._
REASON AND UNREASON.
The next morning being Monday, Dr. Campbell dropped in to breakfast.
Since he and Eva had met so often in Maggie's sick room, and he had
discussed the direction of her physical well-being, he had rapidly
grown in intimacy with the Hendersons, and the little house had come
to be regarded by him as a sort of home. Consequently, when Eva sailed
into her dining-room, she found him quietly arranging a handful of cut
flowers which he had brought in for the center of her breakfast table.
"Good morning, Mrs. Henderson," he said, composedly. "I stepped into
Allen's green-house on my way up, to bring in a few flowers. With the
mercury at zero, flowers are worth something."
"How perfectly lovely of you, Doctor," said she. "You are too good."
"I don't say, however, that I had not my eye on a cup of your coffee,"
he replied. "You know I have no faith in disinterested benevolence."
"Well, sit down then, old fellow," said Harry, clapping him on the
shoulder. "You're welcome, flowers or no flowers."
"How are you all getting on?" he said, seating himself.
"Charmingly, of course," said Eva, from behind the coffee-pot, "and as
the song says, 'the better for seeing you.'"
"And how's my patient--Maggie?"
"Oh, she's doing well, if only people will let her alone; but her
mother, and uncle, and relations will keep irritating her with
reproaches. You see, I had got her in beautiful training, and she was
sewing for me and making herself very useful, when, Sunday evening,
when I was gone out, her uncle came to see her, and talked and bore
down upon her so as to completely upset all I had done. I came home
and found her just going out of the house, perfectly desperate."
"And ready to go to the devil straight off, I suppose?" said the
Doctor. "His doors are always open."
"You see," said Harry, "things seem to be so arranged in this world
that if man, woman or child does wrong or gets out of the way, all
society is armed to the teeth to prevent their ever doing right
again. Their own flesh and blood pitch into them with reproaches and
expostulations, and everybody else looks on them with suspicion, and
nobody wants them and nobody dares trust them."
"Just so," said Dr. Campbell, "the world is an army--it can't stop for
anything. 'Wounded to the rear,' is the word, and the army must go on
and leave the sick and wounded to die or be taken by the enemy. For
my part, I never thought Napoleon was so much out of the way when he
recommended poisoning the sick and wounded that could not be moved. I
think I should prefer to be comfortably and decently poisoned myself
in such a case. The world isn't ripe yet for the doctrine; but I
think all people who get broken down, and don't keep step physically
and morally, had better be killed at once. Then we could get on
comfortably, and in a few generations should have a nice population."
"Come, now, Doctor; I'm not going to have that sort of talk," said
Eva. "In short, you've got to keep on as you have been doing--working
for the wounded in the rear. And now tell me if I could do a better
thing for Maggie than keep her here in our house, under my own eye and
influence, till she gets quite strong and well, and help her to live
down the past?"
"Well, that's a sensible putting of the thing," said Dr. Campbell, "if
you will be foolish enough to take the trouble; but I forewarn you
that girls that have been through her experiences are troublesome to
manage. Their nerves are all in a jangle; they are sore everywhere,
and the very good that is in them is turned wrong side outward;
and, as you say, the world will be against you, in a general way.
Relations, as far as ever I have observed, are rather harder on
sinners than anybody else--especially on a woman that goes astray;
and next to them sensible, worldly-wise, respectable people--people
who live to get rid of trouble, and feel that 'bother' is the sum
and substance of evil. Now, taking up a girl like Maggie, you must
count on that. Her relations will hinder all they can; and the more
respectable they are, the harder they will bear down upon her. Your
relations will think you a sentimental little fool, and do all they
can to hinder you. The rank and file of comfortable, religious,
church-going people will call you imprudent, and only fanatics, like
Mr. St. John and Sibyl Selwyn, will understand you or stand by you;
and, to crown all, the girl herself is as unreliable as the wind.
The evil done to a woman in this kind of life is the derangement of
her whole nervous system, so that she is swept by floods of morbid
influences, and liable to wild, passionate gusts of feeling. The
cessation from this free Bohemian life, with its strong excitements,
leaves them in unnatural states of craving for stimulus; and when you
have done all you can for them,--in a moment, off they go. That's the
reason why most prudent people prefer to wash their hands of them, and
stop before they begin."
"It's all very well to talk so, Doctor, if the case related to a
stranger; but here is my poor, good Mary, who has been in our family
ever since I was a little girl, and has always loved me and been
devoted to me--shall I now give her the cold shoulder and not help
her in this crisis of her life, because I am afraid of trouble? Isn't
it worth trouble, and a great deal of trouble, and a great deal of
patience, to save this daughter of hers from ruin? I think it is."
"I think you and your husband will do it," said the Doctor, "because
you are just what you are; and I shall help you, because I'm what I
am; but, nevertheless, I set the reasonable side before you. I think
this Maggie is a fine creature. There are, in a confused way, the
beginnings of a great deal that is right, and even noble, in her; but
nobody ought to begin with her without taking account of risks."
"Well," said Eva, "you know I am a Christian, and I look in the New
Testament for my principles, and there I find it plainly set down that
the Lord values one sinner that is brought to repentance more than
ninety and nine just persons that need no repentance; and that he
would leave the ninety and nine sheep, and go into the wilderness to
look up one lost lamb."
"That is the Christian religion, undoubtedly," said Dr. Campbell;
"but there is exactly where the Christian religion parts company with
worldly prudence. The world and all its institutions are organized and
arranged for the strong, the wise, the prudent, and the successful.
The weak, the sick, the sinners, and all that sort of thing, are to
have as much care as they can without interfering with the healthy
and strong. Now, in the good old times of English law, they used to
hang summarily anybody that made trouble in society in any way--the
woman who stole a loaf of bread, and the man who stole a horse, and
the vagrant who picked a pocket; then there was no discussion and no
bother about reformation, such as is coming down upon our consciences
now-a-days. Good old times those were, when there wasn't any of this
gush over the fallen and lost; the slate was wiped clean of all the
puzzling sums at the yearly assizes and the account started clear.
Now-a-days, there is such a bother about taking care of criminals that
an honest man has no decent chance of comfort."
"Well, Doctor," said Eva, "if the essence of Christianity is
restoration and salvation, I don't see but your profession is
essentially a Christian one. You seek and save the lost. It is your
business by your toil and labor to help people who have sinned against
the laws of nature, to get them back again to health; isn't it so?"
"Well, yes, it is," said the doctor, "though I find everything going
against me in this direction, as much as you do."
"But you find mercy in nature," said Harry. "In the language of the
Psalms: 'There is forgiveness with her that she may be feared.' The
first thing, after one of her laws has been broken, comes in her
effort to restore and save; it may be blind and awkward, but still it
points toward life and not death, and you doctors are her ministers
and priests. You bear the _physical_ gospel; and we Christians take
the same process to the spiritual realm that lies just above yours,
and that has to work through yours. Our business in both realms seems
to be, by our own labor, self-denial and suffering, to save those who
have sinned against the laws of their being."
"Well," said the doctor; "even so, I go in for saving in my line by an
instinct apart from my reason, an instinct as blind as nature's when
she sets out to heal a broken bone in the right arm of a scalawag, who
never used his arm for anything but thrashing his wife and children,
and making himself a general nuisance; yet I have been amazed
sometimes to see how kindly and patiently old Mother Nature will
work for such a man. Well, I am something like her. I have the blind
instinct of healing in my profession, and I confess to sitting up
all night, watching to keep the breath of life in sick babies that I
know ought to be dead, and had better be dead, inasmuch as there's no
chance for them to be even decent and respectable, if they live; but I
_can't_ let 'em die, any more than nature can, without a struggle. The
fact is, reason is one thing and the human heart another; and, as St.
Paul says, 'these two are contrary one to the other, so that ye cannot
do the thing ye would.' You and your husband, Mrs. Henderson, have got
a good deal of this troublesome human heart in you, so that you cannot
act reasonably, any more than I can."
"That's it, Doctor," said Eva, with a bright, sudden movement towards
him and laying her hand on his arm, "let's not act reasonably--let's
act by something higher. I know there is something higher--something
we dare to do and feel able to do in our best moments. You are a
Christian in heart, Doctor, if not in faith."
"Me? I'm the most terrible heretic in all the continent."
"But when you sit up all night with a sick baby from mere love of
saving, you are a Christian; for, doesn't Christ say, 'inasmuch as ye
did it unto the least of these, ye did it unto me'? Christians are
those who have Christ's spirit, as I think, and sacrifice themselves
to save others."
"May the angels be of your opinion when I try the gate hereafter,"
said the Doctor. "But now, seriously, about this Maggie. I apprehend
that you will have trouble from the fact that, having been kept on
stimulants in a rambling, loose, disorderly life, she will not be
able long to accommodate herself to any regular habits. I don't know
how much of a craving for drink there may be in her case, but it is a
usual complication of such cases. Such people may go for weeks without
yielding, and then the furor comes upon them, and away they go.
Perhaps she may not be one of those worst cases; but, in any event,
the sudden cessation of all the tumultuous excitement she has been
accustomed to, may lead to a running down of the nervous system that
will make her act unreasonably. Her mother, and people of her class,
may be relied on for doing the very worst thing that the case admits
of, with the very best intentions. And now if these complications
get you into any trouble, rely upon me so far as I can do anything
to help. Don't hesitate to command me at any hour and to any extent,
because I mean to see the thing through with you. When spring comes
on, if you get her through the winter, we must try and find her a
place in some decent, quiet farmer's family in the country, where she
may feed chickens and ducks, and make butter, and live a natural,
healthful, out-door life; and, in my opinion, that will be the best
and safest way for her."
"Come, Doctor," said Harry, "will you walk up town with me? It's time
I was off."
"Now, Harry, please remember; don't forget to match that worsted,"
said Eva. "Oh! and that tea must be changed. You just call in and tell
Haskins that."
"Anything else?" said Harry, buttoning on his overcoat.
"No; only be sure you come back early, for mamma says Aunt Maria is
coming down here upon me, and I shall want you to strengthen me. The
Doctor appreciates Aunt Maria."
"Certainly I do," said the Doctor; "a devoted relation who carries you
all in her heart hourly, and therefore has an undoubted right to make
you as uncomfortable as she pleases. That's the beauty of relations.
If you have them you are bothered _with_ them, and if you haven't you
are bothered for want of 'em. So it goes. Now I would give all the
world if I had a good aunt or grandmother to haul me over the coals,
and fight me, out of pure love--a fellow feels lonesome when he
knows nobody would care if he went to the devil."
"Oh, as to that," said Eva, "come here whenever you're lonesome, and
we'll fight and abuse you to your heart's content; and you sha'n't
go to that improper person without our making a fuss about it. We'll
abuse you as if you were one of the family."
"Good," said the Doctor, as he stepped towards the front window; "but
here, to be sure, is your aunt, bright and early."
_CHAPTER XXIX._
AUNT MARIA FREES HER MIND.
The door opened, to let out the two gentlemen, just as Mrs. Wouvermans
was coming up the steps, fresh and crisp as one out betimes on the
labors of a good conscience.
The dear woman had visited the Willises, at the remote end of the
city, had had diplomatic conversations with both mistress and maid in
that establishment, and had now arrived as minister plenipotentiary
to set all matters right in Eva's establishment. She had looked
all through the subject, made up her mind precisely what Eva ought
to do, revolved it in her own mind as she sat apparently attending
to a rather drowsy sermon at her church, and was now come, as full
of sparkling vigor and brisk purposes as a well-corked bottle of
champagne.
Eva met her at the door with the dutiful affection which she had
schooled herself to feel towards one whose intentions were always so
good, but with a secret reserve of firm resistance as to the lines of
her own proper personality.
"I have a great deal to do, to-day," said the lady, "and so I came out
early to see you before you should be gone out or anything, because I
had something very particular I wanted to say to you."
Eva took her aunt's things and committed them to the care of Maggie,
who opened the parlor-door at this moment.
Aunt Maria turned towards the girl in a grand superior way and fixed a
searching glance on her.
"Maggie," she said, "is this you? I'm astonished to see _you_ here."
The words were not much, but the intonation and manner were meant
to have all the effect of an awful and severe act of judgment on a
detected culprit--to express Mrs. Wouvermans' opinion that Maggie's
presence in any decent house was an impertinence and a disgrace.
Maggie's pale face turned a shade paler, and her black eyes flashed
fire, but she said nothing; she went out and closed the door with
violence.
"Did you see that?" said Aunt Maria, turning to Eva.
"I saw it, Aunty, and I must say I think it was more your fault than
Maggie's. People in our position ought not to provoke girls, if we do
not want to excite temper and have rudeness."
"Well, Eva, I've come up here to have a plain talk with you about
this girl, for I think you don't know what you're doing in taking her
into your house. I've talked with Mrs. Willis, and with your Aunt
Atkins, and with dear Mrs. Elmore about it, and there is but just one
opinion--they are all united in the idea that you ought not to take
such a girl into your family. You never can do anything with them;
they are utterly good for nothing, and they make no end of trouble.
I went and talked to your mother, but she is just like a bit of tow
string, you can't trust her any way, and she is afraid to come and
tell you what she really thinks, but in her heart she feels just as
the rest of us do."
"Well, now, upon my word, Aunt Maria, I can't see what right you and
Mrs. Willis and Aunt Atkins and Mrs. Elmore have to sit as a jury on
my family affairs and send me advice as to my arrangements, and I'm
not in the least obliged to you for talking about my affairs to them.
I think I told you, some time ago, that Harry and I intend to manage
our family according to our own judgment; and, while we respect you,
and are desirous of showing that respect in every proper way, we
cannot allow you any right to intermeddle in our family matters. I am
guided by my husband's judgment (and you yourself admit that, for a
wife, there is no other proper appeal) and Harry and I act as one. We
are entirely united in all our family plans."
"Oh, well, I suppose there is no harm in my taking an interest in your
family matters, since you are my god-child, and I brought you up, and
have always cared as much about you as any mother could do--in fact, I
think I have felt more like a mother to you than Nellie has."