TRUE TO HER PLEDGE.
DILLY sat still with her book, a little sorrowful; it seemed to her
that she needed some help, though she hardly knew what, and Mr. Hart
did not seem to be the person to help her. Effie was very busy just
then, gathering all the bright flowers within her reach and carefully
pulling them to bits, so she gave no trouble beyond an occasional
glance, and left Dilly to her own thoughts. What should she decide? It
seemed to her that somebody stood near at hand, waiting for what she
was going to say. For some reason which she did not understand, Mr.
Hart had discouraged her; made her feel that the whole question was
beyond her; that she was too young to busy her mind with it; he had not
said so in words, but he had contrived to make her feel that he thought
so. Dilly was sure this was very different from what the morning
teacher of the children had tried to do.
"And if they are old enough," said Dilly, "then I was, years and years
ago; and I've been 'called' a great many times; yet I can't seem to
decide that I shall do any differently from what I have always been
doing."
A step sounded near her, and glancing up, Dilly saw the artist almost
at her side, looking down on her with a good-natured smile. "What kind
of a growth is this, which I have found," he said, whimsically. "Is it
a flower, or a weed?" and he dropped himself beside her.
Dilly looked around for the growth which he meant. There was no flower
near her.
"Oh! I meant this one," he said, touching lightly the hand which lay on
her open Bible.
"Oh!" said Dilly, flushing up to her temples. "I'm afraid it is a weed."
"You don't say! Not poisonous, I hope!" and he drew away his hand in
pretended alarm.
Dilly laughed a little; she had never heard such queer talk.
She stole a shy glance at her visitor, but he seemed to have already
forgotten her, and lay looking up at the pure blue sky. Something in
his face made her think he could help her if he chose; but she felt
afraid to speak. At last, her voice very soft and low, broke the quiet:
"I saw your picture this morning."
"My picture? Did I make a picture this morning? When was it? In my
dreams? I'm always making them, asleep or awake; so of course I can't
remember them all."
"But I mean the one you made at the tabernacle for the Sunday-school."
"The Sunday-school lesson! Did I go to Sunday-school? Let me see. O
yes! I remember; you saw my desert, and my tree that grew and grew, and
blossomed at last into a cross which stretched out its arms to reach
all the world. Yes; that is a wonderful Sunday-school lesson. You saw
the picture; but the question is, did you stand close to it, right
under the spreading branches of the tree, where those stand who have
gone close enough to use its leaves for themselves?"
"I'm only a little girl," said Dilly, very softly. "I think maybe I'm
too young to really 'belong,' yet awhile."
"Well, now, let us see about that. If you were a rosebud, and I was a
wonderful fairy who could change you so that your leaves would never
fade, and fit you to blossom in the palace of my king, and I wanted to
do it, do you think I would like to have you wait until a little worm
which had made its nest in your heart, had eaten a great many of your
leaves, and curled some of them up, and torn one off here and there,
and made you look yellow and ugly, before you came to me for help?"
"No, sir," said Dilly, promptly enough, but smiling again; "who ever
heard so strange a story as this?"
"Very well; you are just a bud now, but there is a little worm named
'sin,' crawling about, longing to get a good hold on you. I don't see
the use of waiting till he has spoiled your beauty. Do you?"
But now Dilly had no answer ready; something in the voice, or in the
words, had sent a sudden rush of tears to her eyes, and a great longing
into her heart to be shielded now and forever from the power of that
destroying worm.
The artist said no more to her, but gave undivided attention to Effie
for the next five minutes, then went away with a kind good-by.
Effie was tired of her flowers now, and missed her new friend whose
attentions had been delightful; so she travelled over to Dilly and
insisted on being noticed.
Dilly hurriedly dried her eyes, kissed Effie, picked up her Bible,
and taking the child by the hand, started for the hotel; the supper
bell was ringing. As she went, she said firmly to herself: "Now I have
decided; I'm going to Him this very day. I shall not wait until I am an
old spoiled flower, with the leaves dropping off!"
True to her pledge, the first moment she had to herself, she knelt down
in the little curtained room by her cot bed, and said,—
"Jesus Christ, I gave myself to thee, to do just what thou dost tell
me."
She had not time for a word more, for Mrs. Hammond called her just
then, and she hopped up quickly and ran away, feeling that she ought
to go when called, but feeling sorry, nevertheless, that she could not
say those other words which were in her heart. For the next hour or two
she was kept quite busy, and it was not until Effie was asleep in her
crib, with Mrs. Hammond sitting beside her, and the bells ringing for
evening service, that Dilly's work for the day was done. Even then she
lingered, looping the curtain a little differently and picking a bit of
paper from the matting on the floor; Mrs. Hammond looked so very sad
and desolate that Dilly could not feel willing to leave her alone, much
as she wanted to be by herself for a little while.
She ventured a suggestion: "Mrs. Hammond, wouldn't you like to have me
stay with Miss Effie and you go out to the meeting? It is such pretty
moonlight, and the bell sounds so sweet."
"No," said Mrs. Hammond, with a long-drawn sigh; "I could not go alone,
and besides, I have not the energy to go anywhere. I just want to stay
by my baby; I want to enjoy her, Dilly, while she is a baby. Sometimes,
when babies grow up, they give their mothers very sorrowful hearts,
though I think you were always good to your mother, Dilly."
This last was added in a kind voice, because of a sudden remembrance
the lady had, that Dilly's mother was gone.
"No, ma'am," said Dilly, her voice quivering a little; "sometimes I
wasn't."
But Mrs. Hammond had already forgotten her. She sighed again, and
looked out of the window, down the long moonlighted path.
"I suppose you haven't seen anything of Mr. Hart this afternoon?" she
asked; not as though she expected any information, but as if she was
thinking aloud.
"Yes, ma'am, I have; he was with Miss Effie and me out on the grass
back of the tent for quite a long while."
Mrs. Hammond turned quickly toward her. "At what time, Dilly?"
"Why, it was after dinner, a good while after; Miss Effie slept late,
you remember, and I had her dressed and out there, for a little while
before he came along; I don't know just what time it was."
"Do you know whether it was after the three o'clock train had gone
down?"
"Oh! Yes'm, it was; or it was just about that time when he came
along. I remember just as he spoke to me I was thinking it was Sunday
everywhere but down at the depot, and it was the whistle of the train
which made me think of it; and the bell was ringing for the four
o'clock meeting when you called me, Mrs. Hammond, and Mr. Hart had been
gone only a little while; I remember all about it now."
"What took Mr. Hart in that direction, Dilly?" There was a wonderful
softening of Mrs. Hammond's voice, and the lines on her forehead seemed
to have smoothed a little.
"I don't know, ma'am; he played with Miss Effie a few minutes, then,
when he asked me if the day wasn't long, I said it didn't seem so, and
I began to tell him about the Sunday-school lesson, and he seemed to
like to hear about it, and asked me questions, and I asked him some."
Dilly stopped; she did not know how to give the conversation more
plainly; she hoped Mrs. Hammond would not ask her.
"Do you know whether the evening train has gone up yet?"
"O no, ma'am! It doesn't go until after nine o'clock."
Mrs. Hammond sighed again; many of her troubles seemed to have to do
with the trains.
"Well," she said gently, after a few moments of silence, "you can go
now; I shall not want you any more to-night. And, Dilly?"
"Yes'm."
Silence again; Mrs. Hammond did not seem to know quite how to word her
next remarks: "Dilly, whenever Mr. Hart wants you to go anywhere for
him, or wants to take you with him to see or hear anything, I want you
to be always ready at a moment's notice; never mind baby; bring her to
me, or leave her with Jeannette; but do not at any time keep Mr. Hart
waiting, or think that you cannot be spared to go with him. That is
all."
The shrewd little girl as she went away, remembered that her chief duty
in life had been supposed to be to keep Miss Effie out of mischief, and
wondered if she were now to try to do something of that kind for Mr.
Hart. How troubled his mother was about him! She felt very sorry. What
could he be doing which worried her so? He was so kind and pleasant to
her, she should think he would be just lovely to his mother.
Very thoughtfully she went to her curtained-in room, her mind full of
Mr. Hart and his possible dangers. She was quite alone now, and had
leisure; there was nothing to hinder her kneeling down and finishing
that pledge which she had been so resolved to make, but, much to her
surprise, and not a little to her dismay, she could not be interested
in the words she had planned to say.
"I have said it," she told herself; "I put it into that little short
prayer; why should I put these other words with it?"
She got down on her knees, however, but her thoughts were so full of
Mr. Hart that the first words she said were:
"Dear Jesus Christ, he worries his mother, and maybe he is in danger;
if thou wouldst only draw him, so that he would decide not to let Satan
manage him any more; he said it was Satan who managed. Oh! Dear Lord
Jesus, please manage him thyself."
It was of no use to try to pray about herself, or to think of other
words to say than those about Hart; her desires went instantly back to
him whenever she tried to add to her pledge, made a few hours before.
It was as though she had quite forgotten herself, and had wishes only
for Hart Hammond.
The light burned late in Mrs. Hammond's room; Dilly could see it
glimmer from her tent window. She herself went to bed, and to sleep,
and wakened, and the light was still there. She heard the train
whistle, and wondered if Mr. Hart was on it, and if it was the fear of
his going, which troubled his mother. She reached up and peeped at the
tent next to theirs, where Mr. Hart slept, so that she and Jeannette
need not be afraid; but it was quite dark, and the door securely tied.
Then Dilly sighed, and murmured the same little prayer,—
"Oh! Dear Lord Jesus, please manage him—"
and fell asleep again.
And Hart Hammond's tent door remained tied all night.