E-text prepared by Al Haines
AN ARROW IN A SUNBEAM
And Other Tales.
[Illustration: cover art]
[Illustration: "MOVE ANOTHER INCH AND I'LL FIRE!" CRIED AL, POINTING
THE MUSKET AT THE MAN'S BREAST.--P. 48.]
London:
William Nicholson and Sons,
20, Warwick Square, Paternoster Row, E.C.,
and Albion Works, Wakefield.
188-
AN ARROW
IN A SUNBEAM;
AND OTHER TALES.
The golden sunshine, vernal air,
Sweet flowers and fruits, thy love declare;
When forests ripen Thou art there,
Who givest all.
London:
William Nicholson and Sons,
20, Warwick Square, Paternoster Row, E.C.,
and Albion Works, Wakefield.
188-
CONTENTS.
AN ARROW IN A SUNBEAM . . . . . . Sarah Orne Jewett
MISS SYDNEY'S FLOWERS . . . . . . Sarah Orne Jewett
A BRAVE BOY . . . . . . . . . . . C. S. Sleight
LADY FERRY . . . . . . . . . . . . Sarah Orne Jewett
A BIT OF SHORE LIFE . . . . . . . Sarah Orne Jewett
HOW LILY GOT THE CAT . . . . . . . Frances Lee
[Illustration: decoration]
AN ARROW IN A SUNBEAM.
The minister of a fashionable church had noticed Sunday after Sunday a
little old lady with a sad, patient face, dressed in very shabby
mourning, sitting in the strangers' pew.
Like Job this good man could say, "The cause that I knew not, I sought
out." He soon learned from the sexton her name and residence, and was
surprised to find her in the very topmost room of a house, amid
evidences of real poverty.
In the one little window bloomed a monthly rose and a vigorous
heliotrope, and beside the pots lay half-a-dozen books, such as are
rarely seen in the homes of the very poor. On the wall hung two fine
engravings, and an old fashioned gold watch was suspended from a faded
velvet case over the mantel piece.
Her story, when she was induced to tell it, was neither new nor
startling. She had long been a widow. Her children had been called
from her, till now she had but one, and he, being a cripple, could do
little more than supply his own absolute wants by his work as a
repairer of watches.
The pastor was charmed with her patient endurance of what others would
call the hard discipline of life, and when he left her he felt that he
had been a learner instead of a teacher in that poor room.
Being too delicate to allude to her apparent poverty, he said at
parting, "As you are a stranger among us, I will send some of the
visitors of the church to cheer and comfort you."
He selected two bright, rosy girls, full of life and happiness, of
whose visits among the poor he had often heard.
They came to the widow like sunbeams through a storm. They talked
cheerily, and did not appear to notice the bareness of the room. They
asked something of her history, and told of their grandmothers, who
also had seen much sorrow; and in this way drew her out till she told
of her former competency, of her early advantages in England, and of
all the misfortunes which had brought her to her present position.
"And yet," she said, "I have little to complain of while I have the
love and tender care of such a son as Walter."
Little by little, without a complaint from her, they found that the old
lady lacked many things for her comfort. Their sympathies were
aroused. It would be a delight to make her happy by gifts that would
be of service to her.
Lucy Grey, a girl full of fun as well as of kindness, said, "I wish you
would let me make you a bonnet; I make lovely ones. Grandma won't wear
a milliner's bonnet, she likes mine so much better."
Grace Wheeler volunteered to make a dress and caps, adding, playfully,
"As my dear grandma is gone, you must let me adopt you and do all I can
for you. There are four of us girls always looking round for somebody
to help. You can call on us for anything you want."
Four young girls, who laughingly styled themselves "The Quartette of
Mercy," met at Grace Wheeler's house with materials for a dress, and a
bonnet and caps. The old lady was coming two hours afterward to be
fitted, having being measured before they left her house.
The girls were in a perfect gala of joy that bright afternoon. They
chatted merrily while working, and one would have thought they were
making costumes for comic tableaux rather than the garb of a sorrowful
widow.
"I'll tell you, girls," said Lucy Grey, "the old dowager will shine
when she gets my bonnet on!" and trying it on over her chestnut curls,
she added, "I half-wish I was a downfallen lady myself,--a
haberdasher's daughter from England! Oh, I hope I shall be a widow
some time! Widows' caps are so becoming!"
"Well," replied Grace, laughing, "do your best for Goody Horn, and
maybe she'll let you have 'dear Walter.' Then you'll be a widow
soon,--he's so feeble."
"Oh, I wish I had the dressing of her! 'She'd surprise herself,' as
the Dutchman said. I'd put a canary-coloured pompon and a white
aigrette in that bonnet, and"--here she slipped a scarlet bird out of
her own hat and stuck it into a fold of the crape Lucy was laying on to
the old fashioned close frame--"I'd make her an upper skirt with a
tie-back, get scarlet stockings and low shoes, and"----
"Pho! you'd make the dear old soul look like Mother Hubbard!" cried
another.
"No," said Grace; "but she looks now like
"Little Dame Crump, with her brand-new broom;"
and no doubt Walter looks either like Mother Hubbard's dog, or--or I
don't know what."
"Oh, by-the-way, did you notice a violin on the bureau? Whoever gets
'dear Walter' will have a chance to do all the family dancing. The
dowager's too old, and Walter's too lame; but there, what stuff I'm
talking; it's well mother isn't within hearing. She won't let me have
any sport. But I do think old folks are so comical! I'll do anything
in the world to help them, though."
They worked on some time, and in the real kindness which was hidden
under this nonsense they laid plans for the dear old stranger's future
comfort.
"Why, girls, it's time she was here now!"
"Nora," called Grace, as a girl passed the door, "when an old lady
comes, send her right up stairs."
"There was an old person here an hour ago, and as you told me not to
let any one in who asked for you for an hour, I told her to sit down in
the hall. I suppose she's there now. I forgot all about her," was the
reply.
Grace flew down, but there was no one there.
"That was some old beggar who got tired of waiting. I'm sure she'll be
here soon," said Lucy.
But she did not come, and they grew tired of waiting to try on the
dress and hat. So they resolved to go, all four together, the next
day, to the "opening at Madam Horn's," and carry the things themselves.
They did so; but when the "dowager" opened the door at their knock,
they hardly knew her. She looked straight, and solemn, and cold. She
did not even ask them in; but they went in and seated themselves.
Grace said, "You didn't come yesterday to try on the dress, and
thinking you might be ill, we brought it here."
"But I did go, ladies. I went an hour earlier than you asked me, to
beg that the dress might be cut perfectly plain, without upper skirt or
flounce. The girl seated me in the hall, and while I sat there, I was
forced to hear myself and my son ridiculed and turned to scorn in a way
I could not believe possible.
"I have done nothing to merit this. I never begged of you, nor sought
your sympathy in my sorrows, and I cannot understand why I am made the
butt of your scorn."
"Oh, Mrs. Horn," cried Lucy, "we were only in sport! I hope you will
forgive us."
"Is it sport to cast contempt on an aged woman who has been walking for
years in a fiery furnace upheld and comforted by God? Is it sport to
ridicule an unfortunate boy who has a continual warfare with pain to
keep up this poor home?"
"Oh, don't speak of it again!" said Grace blushing deeply and
half-ready to cry, as she untied the package in her hand, while Lucy
unpinned the paper that held the bonnet.
"Put them up, please, young ladies. I cannot look on them, and I never
could wear them. When you first came, I told Walter that I felt as if
a sunbeam had come into the house and remained behind you. Last night
I told him that my new sunbeam had an arrow concealed in it."
"But you _will_ take the things, after all our trouble?" implored
Grace, with tears dropping from her eyes.
"No, never; I can hear the Gospel in my old clothes. I should take no
pleasure in these; they are associated with too painful thoughts. I
hope God will bless you, children, and save you from an old age of
poverty, and give you what He has given me,--a full trust in His love
and tenderness. Good-by."
You can imagine the feelings of those young girls when they left that
poor room in tears.
Respectful treatment is more to the sensitive poor than gifts of food,
garments or money; and nothing is so likely to harden the hearts of the
young as the habit of getting sport out of the sorrows and infirmities
of others.
[Illustration: decoration]
MISS SYDNEY'S FLOWERS.
However sensible it may have been considered by other people, it
certainly was a disagreeable piece of news to Miss Sydney, that the
city authorities had decided to open a new street from St. Mary Street
to Jefferson. It seemed a most unwarrantable thing to her that they
had a right to buy her property against her will. It was so provoking,
that, after so much annoyance from the noise of St. Mary Street during
the last dozen years, she must submit to having another public
thoroughfare at the side of her house also. If it had only been at the
other side, she would not have minded it particularly; for she rarely
sat in her drawing-room, which was at the left of the hall. On the
right was the library, stately, dismal, and apt to be musty in damp
weather; and it would take many bright people, and a blazing wood-fire,
and a great deal of sunshine, to make it pleasant. Behind this was the
dining-room, which was really bright and sunny, and which opened by
wide glass doors into a conservatory. The rattle and clatter of St.
Mary Street was not at all troublesome here; and by little and little
Miss Sydney had gathered her favourite possessions from other parts of
the house, and taken one end of it for her sitting-room. The most
comfortable chairs had found their way here, and a luxurious great sofa
which had once been in the library, as we'll as the bookcase which held
her favourite books.
The house had been built by Miss Sydney's grandfather, and in his day
it had seemed nearly out of the city: now there was only one other
house left near it; for one by one the quiet, aristocratic old street
had seen its residences give place to shops and warehouses, and Miss
Sydney herself had scornfully refused many offers of many thousand
dollars for her home. It was so changed! It made her so sad to think
of the dear old times, and to see the houses torn down, or the
small-paned windows and old-fashioned front-doors replaced with French
plate-glass to display better the wares which were to take the places
of the quaint furniture and well-known faces of her friends! But Miss
Sydney was an old woman, and her friends had diminished sadly. "It
seems to me that my invitations are all for funerals in these days,"
said she to her venerable maid Hannah, who had helped her dress for her
parties fifty years before. She had given up society little by little.
Her friends had died, or she had allowed herself to drift away from
them, while the acquaintances from whom she might have filled their
places were only acquaintances still. She was the last of her own
family, and, for years before her father died, he had lived mainly in
his library, avoiding society and caring for nothing but books; and
this, of course, was a check upon his daughter's enjoyment of visitors.
Being left to herself, she finally became content with her own society,
and since his death, which followed a long illness, she had refused all
invitations; and with the exception of the interchange of occasional
ceremonious calls with perhaps a dozen families, and her pretty
constant attendance at church, you rarely were reminded of her
existence. And I must tell the truth: it was not easy to be intimate
with her. She was a good woman in a negative kind of way. One never
heard of any thing wrong she had done; and if she chose to live alone,
and have nothing to do with people, why, it was her own affair. You
never seemed to know her any better after a long talk. She had a very
fine, courteous way of receiving her guests,--a way of making you feel
at your ease more than you imagined you should when with her,--and a
stately kind of tact that avoided skilfully much mention of
personalities on either side. But mere hospitality is not attractive,
for it may be given grudgingly, or, as in her case, from mere habit;
for Miss Sydney would never consciously be rude to any one in her own
house--or out of it, for that matter. She very rarely came in contact
with children; she was not a person likely to be chosen for a
confidante by a young girl; she was so cold and reserved, the elder
ladies said. She never asked a question about the winter fashions,
except of her dressmaker, and she never met with reverses in
housekeeping affairs, and these two facts rendered her unsympathetic to
many. She was fond of reading, and enjoyed heartily the pleasant
people she met in books. She appreciated their good qualities, their
thoughtfulness, kindness, wit or sentiment; but the thought never
suggested itself to her mind that there were living people not far
away, who could give her all this, and more.
If calling were not a regulation of society, if one only went to see
the persons one really cared for, I am afraid Miss Sydney would soon
have been quite forgotten. Her character would puzzle many people.
She put no visible hinderance in your way; for I do not think she was
consciously reserved and cold. She was thoroughly well-bred, rich, and
in her way charitable; that is, she gave liberally to public
subscriptions which came under her notice, and to church contributions.
But she got on, somehow, without having friends; and, though the loss
of one had always been a real grief, she learned without much trouble
the way of living the lonely, comfortable, but very selfish life, and
the way of being the woman I have tried to describe. There were
occasional days when she was tired of herself, and life seemed an
empty, formal, heartless discipline. Her wisest acquaintances pitied
her loneliness; and busy, unselfish people wondered how she could be
deaf to the teachings of her good clergyman, and blind to all the
chances of usefulness and happiness which the world afforded her; and
others still envied her, and wondered to whom she meant to leave all
her money.
I began by telling you of the new street. It was suggested that it
should bear the name of Sydney; but the authorities decided finally to
compliment the country's chief magistrate, and call it Grant Place.
Miss Sydney, did not like the sound of it. Her family had always been
indifferent to politics, and indeed the kite of the Sydney had flown
for many years high above the winds that affect commonplace people.
The new way from Jefferson Street to St. Mary was a great convenience,
and it seemed to our friend that all the noisiest vehicles in the city
had a preference for going back and forth under her windows. You see
she did not suspect, what afterwards became so evident; that there was
to be a way opened into her own heart also, and that she should confess
one day, long after that she might have died a selfish old woman, and
not have left one sorry face behind her, if it had not been for the
cutting of Grant Place.
The side of her conservatory was now close upon the sidewalk, and this
certainly was not agreeable. She could not think of putting on her big
gardening-apron, and going in to work among her dear plants any more,
with all the world staring in at her as it went by. John the coachman,
who had charge of the greenhouse, was at first very indignant; but,
after she found that his flowers were noticed and admired, his anger
was turned into an ardent desire to merit admiration, and he kept his
finest plants next the street. It was a good thing for the greenhouse,
because it had never been so carefully tended; and plant after plant
was forced into luxuriant foliage and blossom. He and Miss Sydney had
planned at first to have close wire screens made to match those in the
dining-room; but now, when she spoke of his hurrying the workmen, whom
she supposed had long since been ordered to make them, John said,
"Indeed, mum, it would be the ruin of the plants shutting put the
light; and they would all be rusted with the showerings I gives them
every day." And Miss Sydney smiled, and said no more.
The street was opened late in October, and, soon after, cold weather
began in real earnest. Down in that business part of the city it was
the strangest, sweetest surprise to come suddenly upon the long line of
blooming plants and tall green lily-leaves under a roof festooned with
roses and trailing vines. For the first two or three weeks, almost
everybody stopped, if only for a moment. Few of Miss Sydney's own
friends even had ever seen her greenhouse; for they were almost
invariably received in the drawing-room. Gentlemen stopped the thought
of business affairs, and went on down the street with a fresher,
happier feeling. And the tired shop-girls lingered longest. Many a
man and woman thought of some sick person to whom a little handful of
the green leaves and bright blossoms, with their coolness and
freshness, would bring so much happiness. And it was found, long
months afterward, that a young man had been turned back from a plan of
wicked mischief by the sight of a tall green geranium, like one that
bloomed in his mother's sitting-room way up in the country. He had not
thought, for a long time before, of the dear old woman who supposed her
son was turning his wits to good account in the city. But Miss Sydney
did not know how much he wished for a bit to put in his buttonhole when
she indignantly went back to the dining-room to wait until that
impertinent fellow stopped staring in.
II.
It was just about this time that Mrs. Marley made a change in her place
of business. She had sold candy round the corner in Jefferson Street
for a great many years; but she had suffered terribly from rheumatism
all the winter before. She was nicely sheltered from too much sun in
the summer; but the north winds of winter blew straight toward her; and
after much deliberation, and many fears and questioning as to the
propriety of such an act she had decided to find another stand. You or
I would think at first that it could make no possible difference where
she sat in the street with her goods; but in fact one has regular
customers in that business, as well as in the largest wholesale
enterprise. There was some uncertainty whether these friends would
follow her if she went away. Mrs. Marley's specialty was
molasses-candy; and I am sure, if you ever chanced to eat any of it,
you would look out for the old lady next time you went along the
street. Times seemed very hard this winter. Not that trade had
seriously diminished; but still the outlook was very dark. Mrs. Marley
was old, and had been so for some years, so she was used to that; but
somehow this fall she seemed to be getting very much older all of a
sudden. She found herself very tired at night, and she was apt to lose
her breath if she moved quickly; besides this, the rheumatism tortured
her. She had saved only a few dollars, though she and her sister had
had a comfortable living,--what they had considered comfortable, at
least, though they sometimes had been hungry, and very often cold.
They would surely go to the almshouse sooner or later,--she and her
lame old sister Polly.
It was Polly who made the candy which Mrs. Marley sold. Their two
little rooms were up three flights of stairs; and Polly, being too lame
to go down herself, had not been out of doors in seven years. There
was nothing but roofs and sky to be seen from the windows; and, as
there was a manufactory near, the sky was apt to be darkened by its
smoke. Some of the neighbours dried their clothes on the roofs, and
Polly used to be very familiar with the apparel of the old residents,
and exceedingly interested when a strange family came, and she saw
something new. There was a little bright pink dress that the trig
young French woman opposite used to hang out to dry; and somehow poor
old Polly used always to be brightened and cheered by the sight of it.
Once in a while she caught a glimpse of the child who wore it. She
hardly ever thought now of the outside world when left to herself, and
on the whole she was not discontented. Sister Becky used to have a
great deal to tell her sometimes of an evening. When Mrs. Marley told
her in the spring twilight that the grass in the square was growing
green, and that she had heard a robin, it used to make Polly feel
homesick; for she was apt to think much of her childhood, and she had
been born in the country. She was very deaf, poor soul, and her world
was a very forlorn one. It was nearly always quite silent, it was very
small and smoky out of doors, and very dark and dismal within.
Sometimes it was a hopeless world, because the candy burnt; and if
there had not been her Bible and hymn-book, and a lame pigeon that lit
on the window-sill to be fed every morning, Miss Polly would have found
her time go heavily.
One night Mrs. Marley came into the room with a cheerful face, and said
very loud, "Polly, I've got some news!" Polly knew by her speaking so
loud that she was in good-humour. When any thing discouraging had
happened, Becky spoke low, and then was likely to be irritated when
asked to repeat her remark.
"Dear heart!" said Mrs. Marley, "now I am glad you had something hot
for supper. I was turning over in my mind what we could cook up, for I
feel real hollow. It's a kind of chilly day." And she sat down by the
stove, while Polly hobbled to the table, with one hand to her ear to
catch the first sound of the good news, and the other holding some
baked potatoes in her apron. That hand was twisted with rheumatism,
for the disease ran in the family. She was afraid every day that she
should have to give up making the candy on the next; for it hurt her so
to use it. She was continually being harrowed by the idea of its
becoming quite useless, and that the candy might not be so good; and
then what would become of them? Becky Marley was often troubled by the
same thought. Yet they were almost always good-natured, poor old
women; and, though Polly Sharpe's pleasures and privileges were by far
the fewest of anybody's I ever knew, I think she was as glad in those
days to know the dandelions were in bloom as if she could see them; and
she got more good from the fragments of the Sunday-morning sermon that
sister Becky brought home than many a listener did from the whole
service.
The potatoes were done to a turn, Mrs. Marley shouted; and then Polly
sat down close by her to hear the news.
"You know I have been worrying about the cold weather a-coming, and my
rheumatics; and I was afeared to change my stand, on account of losing
custom. Well, to-day it all come over me to once that I might move
down a piece on Grant Place,--that new street that's cut through to St.
Mary. I've noticed for some time past that almost all my reg'lar
customers turns down that way, so this morning I thought I'd step down
that way too, and see if there was a chance. And after I gets into the
street I sees people stopping and looking at something as they went
along; and so I goes down to see; and it is one of them hothouses, full
of plants a-growing like it was mid-summer. It belongs to the big
Sydney house on the corner. There's a good place to sit right at the
corner of it, and I'm going to move over there to-morrow. I thought as
how I wouldn't leave Jefferson Street to-day, for it was too sudden.
You see folks stops and looks at the plants, and there wasn't any wind
there to-day. There! I wish you could see them flowers."
Sister Polly was very pleased, and, after the potatoes and bread were
eaten, she brought on an apple pie that had been sent up by Mrs. Welch,
the washerwoman who lived on the floor next but one below. She was
going away for three or four days, having been offered good pay to do
some cleaning in a new house, and her board besides, near her work. So
you see that evening was quite a jubilee.
The next day Mrs. Marley's wildest expectations were realized; for she
was warm as toast the whole morning, and sold all her candy, and went
home by two o'clock. That had never happened but once or twice before.
"Why, I shouldn't wonder if we could lay up considerable this winter,"
said she to Polly.
Miss Sydney did not like the idea of the old candy-woman's being there.
Children came to buy of her, and the street seemed noisier than ever at
times. Perhaps she might have to leave the house, after all. But one
may get used to almost any thing; and as the days went by she was
surprised to find that she was not half so much annoyed as at first;
and one afternoon she found herself standing at one of the dining-room
windows, and watching the people go by. I do not think she had shown
so much interest as this in the world at large for many years. I think
it must have been from noticing the pleasure her flowers gave the
people who stopped to look at them that she began to think herself
selfish, and to be aware how completely indifferent she had grown to
any claims the world might have upon her. And one morning, when she
heard somebody say, "Why, it's like a glimpse into the tropics! Oh! I
wish I could have such a conservatory!" She thought, "Here I have kept
this all to myself for all these years, when so many others might have
enjoyed it too!" But then the old feeling of independence came over
her. The greenhouse was out of people's way; she surely couldn't have
let people in whom she didn't know; however, she was glad, now that the
street was cut, that some one had more pleasure, if she had not. After
all it was a satisfaction to our friend; and from this time the seeds
of kindness and charity and helpfulness began to show themselves above
the ground in the almost empty garden of her heart. I will tell you
how they grew and blossomed; and as strangers came to see her real
flowers, and to look in at the conservatory windows from the cold city
street, instead of winter to see a bit of imprisoned summer, so friend
after friend came to find there was another garden in her own heart,
and Miss Sydney learned the blessedness there is in loving and giving
and helping.
For it is sure we never shall know what it is to lack friends, if we
keep our hearts ready to receive them. If we are growing good and kind
and helpful, those who wish for help and kindness will surely find us
out. A tree covered with good fruit is never unnoticed in the fields.
If we bear thorns and briers, we can't expect people to take very great
pains to come and gather them. It is thought by many persons to be not
only a bad plan, but an ill-bred thing, to give out to more than a few
carefully selected friends. But it came to her more and more that
there was great selfishness and shortsightedness in this. One
naturally has a horror of dragging the secrets and treasures of one's
heart and thought out to the light of day. One may be willing to go
without the good that may come to one's own self through many
friendships; but, after all, God does not teach us, and train our
lives, only that we may come to something ourselves. He helps men most
through other men's lives; and we must take from him, and give out
again, all we can, wherever we can, remembering that the great God is
always trying to be the friend of the least of us. The danger is, that
we oftenest give our friendship selfishly; we do not think of our
friends, but of ourselves. One never can find one's self beggared;
love is a treasure that does not lessen, but grows, as we spend it.
The passers-by seemed so delighted with some new plants which she and
John had arranged one day, that as she was going out in the afternoon
to drive, she stopped just as she was going to step into the carriage
and said she thought she would go round and look at the conservatory
from the outside. So John turned the horses, and followed. It was a
very cold day, and there were few people in the street. Every thing
was so cheerless out of doors, and the flowers looked so summer-like!
No wonder the people liked to stop, poor souls! For the richer, more
comfortable ones lived farther up town. It was not in the shopping
region; and, except the business-men who went by morning and evening,
almost every one was poor.
Miss Sydney had never known what the candy-woman sold before, for she
could not see any thing but the top of her rusty black bonnet from the
window. But now she saw that the candy was exactly like that she and
her sister used to buy years upon years ago; and she stopped to speak
to the old woman, and to buy some, to the utter amazement of her
coachman. Mrs. Marley was excited by so grand a customer, and was a
great while counting out the drumsticks, and wrapping them up. While
Miss Sydney stood there a thin, pitiful little girl came along,
carrying a clumsy baby. They stopped, and the baby tried to reach down
for a piece. The girl was quite as wistful; but she pulled him back,
and walked on to the flowers. "Oh! pitty, pitty!" said the baby, while
the dirty little hands patted the glass delightedly.
"Move along there," said John gruffly; for it was his business to keep
that glass clean and bright.
The girl looked round, frightened, and, seeing that the coachman was
big and cross-looking, the forlorn little soul went away. "Baby want
to walk? You're so heavy!" said she in a fretful, tired way. But the
baby was half crying, and held her tight. He had meant to stay some
time longer, and look at those pretty, bright things, since he could
not have the candy.
Mrs. Marley felt as if her customer might think her stingy, and
proceeded to explain that she couldn't think of giving her candy away.
"Bless you, ma'am, I wouldn't have a stick left by nine o'clock."
Miss Sydney "never gave money to street-beggars." But these children
had not begged, and somehow she pitied them very much, they looked so
hungry. And she called them back. There was a queer tone to her
voice; and she nearly cried after she had given the package of candy to
them, and thrown a dollar upon the board in front of Mrs. Marley, and
found herself in the carriage, driving away. Had she been very silly?
and what could John have thought? But the children were so glad; and
the old candy-woman had said, "God bless you, mum!"
After this, Miss Sydney could not keep up her old interest in her own
affairs. She felt restless and dissatisfied, and wondered how she
could have done the same things over and over so contentedly for so
many years. You may be sure, that, if Grant Place had been unthought
of, she would have lived on in the same fashion to the end of her days.
But after this she used to look out of the window; and she sat a great
deal in the conservatory, when it was not too warm there, behind some
tall callas. The servants found her usually standing in the
dining-room; for she listened for footsteps, and was half-ashamed to
have them notice that she had changed in the least. We are all given
to foolish behaviour of this kind once in a while. We are often
restrained: because, we feel bound to conform to people's idea of us.
We must be such persons as we imagine our friends think us to be. They
believe that we have made up our minds about them, and are apt to show
us only that behaviour which they think we expect. They are afraid of
us sometimes. They think we cannot sympathize with them. Our friend
felt almost as if she were yielding to some sin in this strange
interest in the passers-by. She had lived so monotonous a life, that
any change could not have failed to be somewhat alarming. She told
Bessie Thorne afterward, that one day she came upon that verse of
Keble's Hymn for St. Matthew's Day. Do you remember it?--
"There are, in this loud, stunning tide
Of human care and crime,
With whom the melodies abide
Of the everlasting chime;
Who carry music in their heart
Through dusky lane and wrangling mart,
Plying their daily task with busier feet
Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat."
It seemed as if it were a message to herself, and she could not help
going to the window a few minutes afterward. The faces were mostly
tired-looking and dissatisfied. Some people looked very eager and
hurried, but none very contented. It was the literal daily bread they
thought of; and, when two fashionably-dressed ladies chanced to go by
the window, their faces were strangely like their poorer neighbours in
expression. Miss Sydney wondered what the love for one's neighbour
could be; if she could ever feel it herself. She did not even like
these people whom she watched, and yet every day, for years and years,
she had acknowledged them her brothers and sisters when she said, "Our
Father who art in heaven."
It seemed as if Miss Sydney, of all people, might have been independent
and unfettered. It is so much harder for us who belong to a family,
for we are hindered by the thought of people's noticing our attempts at
reform. It is like surrendering some opinion ignominiously which we
have fought for. It is kind of "giving in." But when she had
acknowledged to herself that she had been in the wrong, that she was a
selfish, thoughtless old woman, that she was alone, without friends,
and it had been her own fault, she was puzzled to know how to do
better. She could not begin to be very charitable all at once. The
more she realized what her own character had become, the more hopeless
and necessary seemed reform.
Such times as this come to many of us, both in knowing ourselves and
our friends. An awakening, one might call it,--an opening of the blind
eyes of our spiritual selves. And our ears are open to some of the
voices which call us; while others might as well be silent, for all the
heed we give them. We go on, from day to day, doing, with more or less
faithfulness, that part of our work we have wit enough to comprehend;
but one day suddenly we are shown a broader field, stretching out into
the distance, and know that from this also we may bring in a harvest by
and by, and with God's help.
Miss Sydney meant to be better,--not alone for the sake of having
friends, not alone to quiet her conscience, but because she knew she
had been so far from living a Christian life, and she was bitterly
ashamed. This was all she needed,--all any of us need,--to know that
we must be better men and women for God's sake; that we cannot be
better without his help, and that his help, may be had for the asking.
But where should she begin? She had always treated her servants
kindly, and they were the people she knew best. She would surely try
to be more interested in the friends she met; but it was nearly
Christmas time, and people rarely came to call. Every one was busy.
Becky Marley's cheery face haunted her; and one day after having looked
down from the window on the top of her bonnet, she remembered that she
did not get any candy, after all, and she would go round to see the old
lady again, she looked poor, and she would give her some money. Miss
Sydney dressed herself for the street, and closed the door behind her
very carefully, as if she were a mischievous child running away. It
was very cold, and there were hardly a dozen persons to be seen in the
streets, and Mrs. Marley had evidently been crying.
"I should like some of your candy," said our friend.
"You know I didn't take any, after all the other day." And then she
felt very conscious and awkward, fearing that the candy woman thought
she wished to remind her of her generosity.
"Two of the large packages, if you please. But, dear me! aren't you
very cold, sitting here in the wind?" and Miss Sydney shivered, in
spite of her warm wrappings.
It was the look of sympathy that was answered first, for it was more
comforting than even the prospect of money, sorely as Mrs. Marley
needed that.
"Yes, mum, I've had the rheumatics this winter awful. But the wind
here!--why, it ain't nothing to what it blows round in Jefferson
Street, where I used to sit. I shouldn't be out to-day, but I was
called upon sudden to pay my molasses bill, when I'd just paid my rent;
and I don't know how ever I can. There's sister Polly--she's dead lame
and deaf. I s'pose we'll both be in the almshouse afore spring. I'm
an old woman to be earning a living out 'o doors in winter weather."
There is no mistaking the fact that Miss Sydney was in earnest when she
said, "I'm so sorry! Can't I help you?"
Somehow she did not feel so awkward, and she enjoyed very much hearing
this bit of confidence.
"But my trade has improved wonderful since I came here. People mostly
stops to see them beautiful flowers; and then they sees me, and stops
and buys something. Well, there's some days when I gets down-hearted,
and I just looks up there, and sees them flowers blooming so cheerful,
and I says, 'There! this world ain't all cold and poor and old, like I
be; and the Lord he ain't never tired of us, with our worrying about
what He's a-doing with us; and heaven's a-coming before long anyhow!'"
And the Widow Marley stopped to dry her eyes with the corner of her
shawl.
Miss Sydney asking her to go round to the kitchen, and warm herself;
and, on finding out more of her new acquaintance's difficulties, she
sent her home happy, with money enough to pay the dreaded bill, and a
basket of good things which furnished such a supper for herself and
sister Polly as they had not seen for a long time. And their fortunes
were bettered from that day. "If it hadn't been for the flowers, I
should ha' been freezing my old bones on Jefferson Street this minute,
I s'pose," said the Widow Marley.
Miss Sydney went back to the dining-room after her _protégée_ had gone,
and felt a comfortable sense of satisfaction in what she had done. It
had all come about in such an easy way too! A little later she went
into the conservatory, and worked among her plants. She really felt so
much younger and happier and once, as she stood still, looking at some
lilies-of-the-valley that John had been forcing into bloom, she did not
notice that a young lady was looking through the window at her very
earnestly.
III.
That same evening Mrs. Thorne and Bessie were sitting up late in their
library. It was snowing very fast, and had been since three o'clock;
and no one had called. They had begun the evening by reading and
writing, and now were ending with a talk.
"Mamma," said Bessie, after there had been a pause, "whom do you
suppose I have taken a fancy to? And do you know, I pity her so
much!--Miss Sydney."
"But I don't know that she is so much to be pitied," said Mrs. Thorne,
smiling at the enthusiastic tone. "She must have everything she wants.
She lives all alone, and hasn't any intimate friends, but, if a person
chooses such a life, why, what can we do? What made you think of her?"
"I have been trying to think of one real friend she has. Everybody is
polite enough to her, and I never heard that any one disliked her; but
she must be forlorn sometimes. I came through that new street by her
house to-day: that's how I happened to think of her. Her greenhouse is
perfectly beautiful, and I stopped to look in. I always supposed she
was cold as ice (I'm sure she looks so); but she was standing out in
one corner, looking down at some flowers with just the sweetest face.
Perhaps she is shy. She used to be very good-natured to me when I was
a child, and used to go there with you. I don't think she knows me
since I came home; at any rate, I mean to go to see her some day."
"I certainly would," said Mrs. Thorne. "She will be perfectly polite
to you, at all events. And perhaps she may be lonely, though I rather
doubt it; not that I wish to discourage you, my dear. I haven't seen
her in a long time, for we have missed each other's calls. She never
went into society much; but she used to be a very elegant woman, and is
now, for that matter."
"I pity her," said Bessie persistently. "I think I should be very fond
of her if she would let me. She looked so kind as she stood among the
flowers to-day! I wonder what she was thinking about. Oh! do you
think she would mind if I asked her to give me some flowers for the
hospital?"
Bessie Thorne is a very dear girl. Miss Sydney must have been
hard-hearted if she had received her coldly one afternoon a few days
afterward, she seemed so refreshingly young and girlish a guest as she
rose to meet the mistress of that solemn, old-fashioned drawing-room.
Miss Sydney had had a re-action from the pleasure her charity had given
her, and was feeling bewildered, unhappy, and old that day. "What can
she wish to see me for, I wonder?" thought she, as she closed her book,
and looked at Miss Thorne's card herself, to be sure the servant had
read it right. But, when she saw the girl herself, her pleasure showed
itself unmistakably in her face.
"Are you really glad to see me?" said Bessie in her frankest way, with
a very gratified smile. "I was afraid you might think it was very odd
in me to come. I used to like so much to call upon you with mamma when
I was a little girl! And the other day I saw you in your conservatory,
and I have wished to come and see you ever since."
"I am very glad to see you, my dear," said Miss Sydney, for the second
time. "I have been quite forgotten by the young people of late years.
I was sorry to miss Mrs. Thorne's call. Is she quite well? I meant to
return it one day this week, and I thought only last night I would ask
about you. You have been abroad, I think?"
Was not this an auspicious beginning? I cannot tell you all that
happened that afternoon, for I have told so long a story already. But
you will imagine it was the beginning of an intimacy that gave great
pleasure, and did great good, to both the elder woman and the younger.
It is hard to tell the pleasure which the love and friendship of a
fresh, bright girl like Bessie Thorne, may give an older person. There
is such a satisfaction in being convinced that one is still interesting
and still lovable, though the years that are gone have each kept some
gift or grace, and the possibilities of life seem to have been realized
and decided. There are days of our old age when there seems so little
left in life, that living is a mere formality. This busy world seems
done with the old, however dear their memories of it, however strong
their claims upon it. They are old: their life now is only waiting and
resting. It may be quite right that we sometimes speak of second
childhood, because we must be children before we are grown, and the
life to come must find us, ready for service. Our old people have
lived in the world so long; they think they know it so well: but the
young man is master of the trade of living, and the man only his
blundering apprentice.
Miss Sydney's solemnest and most unprepared servant was startled to
find Bessie Thorne and his mistress sitting cosily together before the
dining-room fire. Bessie had a paper full of cut flowers to leave at
the Children's Hospital on her way home. Miss Sydney had given
liberally to the contribution for that object; but she never had
suspected how interesting it was until Bessie told her, and she said
she should like to go some day, and see the building and its occupants
for himself. And the girl told her of other interest that were near
her kind young heart,--not all charitable interests,--and they parted
intimate friends.
"I never felt such a charming certainty of being agreeable," wrote
Bessie that night to a friend of hers. "She seemed so interesting in
every thing, and, as I told you, so pleased with my coming to see her.
I have promised to go there very often. She told me in the saddest way
that she had been feeling so old and useless and friendless, and she
was very confidential. Imagine her being confidential with me! She
seemed to me just like myself as I was last year,--you remember--just
beginning to realize what life ought to be, and trying, in a
frightened, blind kind of way to be good and useful. She said she was
just beginning to understand her selfishness. She told me I had done
her ever so much good; and I couldn't help the tears coming into my
eyes. I wished so much you were there, or some one who could help her
more; but I suppose God knew when he sent me. Doesn't it seem strange
that an old woman should talk to me in this way, and come to me for
help? I am afraid people would laugh at the very idea. And only to
think of her living on and on, year after year, and then being changed
so! She kissed me when I came away, and I carried the flowers to the
hospital. I shall always be fond of that conservatory, because if I
hadn't stopped to look in that day, I might never have thought of her.
"There was one strange thing happened, which I must tell you about,
though it is so late. She has grown very much interested in an old
candy-woman, and told me about her; and do you know that this evening
uncle Jack came in, and asked if we knew of anybody who would do for
janitress--at the Natural History Rooms, I think he said. There is
good pay and she would just sell catalogues, and look after things a
little. Of course the candy-woman may not be competent; but, from what
Miss Sydney told me, I think she is just the person."
The next Sunday the minister read this extract from "Queen's Gardens"
in his sermon. Two of his listeners never had half understood its
meaning before as they did then. Bessie was in church, and Miss Sydney
suddenly turned her head, and smiled at her young friend, to the great
amazement of the people who sat in the pews near by. What could have
come over Miss Sydney?
"The path of a good woman is strewn with flowers; but they rise
_behind_ her steps, not before them. 'Her feet have touched the
meadow, and left the daisies rosy.' Flowers flourish in the garden of
one who loves them. A pleasant magic it would be if you could flush
flowers into brighter bloom by a kind look upon them; nay, more, if a
look had the power not only to cheer, but to guard them. This you
would think a great thing? And do you think it not a greater thing
that all this, and more than this, you can do for fairer flowers than
these,--flowers that could bless you for having blessed them, and will
love you for having loved them,--flowers that have eyes like yours, and
thoughts like yours, and lives like yours?"
[Illustration: decoration]
[Illustration: decoration]
A BRAVE BOY.
"Speaking of courage," said my friend Tom Barton, as we met one day
after a long separation, "reminds me of an incident that happened at
the doctors' school the first winter after you left.
"It was during the Christmas holidays, and all of the boys had gone
home except two brothers, named Fred and Albert Kobb, and myself. They
were obliged to stay during the vacation because their parents were
spending the season in Florida, and I,--well, as you know, my home was
at a distance, and we were poor, so I remained at school.
"The brothers were very unlike, both in appearance and character.
Fred, the elder of the two, was a large, muscular, ruddy-faced boy, not
much in love with books. He was of an over-bearing disposition, and
had a great deal of conceit.
"Albert, on the contrary, was pale and slender. He was very quiet and
studious, and had such a love of honesty and truth, and such
detestation of meanness and wrong, that we boys had dubbed him the
'Parson.'
"It was the Saturday night between Christmas and New Year's. We three
boys were hugging the stove in the little room adjoining the doctor's
study. Doctor was in the study writing a sermon for the following day,
as he had to preach at Milltown.
"We could hear his pen scratching over the paper during the lulls in
our conversation. Occasionally that 'ahem!' of his would come through
the partially opened door; but somehow his 'ahems' seemed to lose their
ominous character during holidays.
"The subject of our conversation was a robbery that had been
perpetrated at Squire Little's store the previous night.
"Robberies, as you know, were unusual occurrences in the little village
of Acme. Of course this one furnished a topic for abundance of talk.
"Wherever we had been that day we had found some groups of men and boys
talking about robberies in general, and this one in particular.
"It was but natural that in the evening we boys should discuss the same
subject, and each of us offered various speculations as to who the
robber was, where he had gone, and whether he would be captured or not.
"Then we told stories of all the daring burglaries of which we had ever
heard or read, and finally described such as had happened in our own
houses.