WHAT CAN I DO?
It was in a penitent frame of mind that Bryda awoke on Sunday
morning. She would be really good and keep out of mischief all day
long.
Cousin Salome was better this morning, and Bryda went in to see her
after breakfast.
"No, dear, I cannot go to church," she said, when Bryda asked if she
would go that morning; "but I dare say church will come to me. I
shall read to myself, and think of all the people all over the world
who are saying the same words of prayer, till my little room seems to
grow into a piece of a great church." And Salome's white, thin face
grew so bright and sweet that Bryda thought it looked like an angel's
face in a picture she had seen.
The idea helped her to sit much more still than usual in the old
family coach, opposite the two dear old grannies.
Grandfather was a very polite old gentleman, and thought people
nowadays too free and easy. Especially he held that no gentleman
ever ought to drive with ladies with his hat on; so, as soon as he
got into the carriage, he always took off his very well brushed tall
hat, and fixed it by the brim in two ribbons fastened for the purpose
along the carriage ceiling.
Grandmother always wore a bonnet of the shape that was in fashion
when she was young, a curious coal-scuttle affair, which generally
set Bryda wondering how the wrinkled old face looked when its pink
cheeks were round, and whether, if she were to go to work with a
piece of india-rubber, she could rub out the deep lines and get the
young look back again.
Grandmother's eyes were dim, and she liked to have the lessons and
the hymns found for her. Bryda sometimes did not care to do this;
because, if the hymn were a short one, it was sometimes half over
before she had found her own place, and was able to join, as she
dearly liked to do, in the singing.
But to-day she really did want to be of use, so she did this small
duty cheerfully, and was rewarded by the happy way in which the old
lady smiled and nodded over the big printed book.
The sermon seemed to have to do, in a most curious way, with the very
things of which Bryda had been thinking, and she quite started when
the rector's voice said suddenly, "Nothing to do!" and there stopped.
"Nothing to do," he said, "when the whole world is full of things
that want doing! The harvest ripe, but the laborers idle! The
people hungry, and those who have the loaves and fishes keeping
them--wasted, unused!"
The clergyman went on to speak of works that men and women might do,
and Bryda nestled close against grandfather's shoulder and thought
sadly, "When I am grown up I may be of some use, but what a long time
off that is!" But presently she looked up again very brightly as the
kind old rector went on:
"And now, what shall I say to the little ones? Just this, that the
Father needs them quite as much as their elders. They may not be
able to do great works, to reap the harvest field, but they may help
with cords of love to bind the sheaves; they may glean the scattered
ears, and make a little sheaf of good corn. The Lord took a "few
small fishes" to serve His great purpose; He will take little hands
and feet and hearts, and make them do His will. Only the little ones
must be _willing_."
Yes! But he had not told Bryda what she might do, and how to set
about doing the Lord's will seemed to her very puzzling.
She wondered about it the whole way home, and made a little plan,
which she determined to carry out at once after luncheon. When
grown-up people were very good, Bryda knew that they were fond of
caring for the poor, and that then they generally carried soup to
those who were sick, and read the Bible aloud in cottages. In her
own town home she had never been into the houses of the poor at all;
indeed, these houses were so hidden away behind the handsome streets
in which the rich lived, that she hardly knew there were such places.
But here, in the little village outside grandfather's lodge gates,
she knew poor people lived, mostly in neat cottages with honeysuckle
climbing over their trellised porches. There were most likely nice
old women there, who sat knitting in their tidy room, with spectacled
eyes, and caps as white as snow. It would be nice to go there, and
surely to visit them would be useful, and would please Him who made
use of a "few small fishes" to do His work when He was on earth.
Full of this happy thought, Bryda descended to the kitchen. The
servants'-hall dinner was just over, the kitchen-maid was washing
plates in the scullery, and cook was sitting by the kitchen window
with a very clean apron and very smart cap; while by her stood a tall
young shepherd, in his Sunday best, and a flower in his coat.
Bryda made her request to cook, namely, that she might have a little
soup in a jug.
"Whatever do you want it for, miss?" asked the cook, evidently
ill-pleased by the interruption.
"I want to do good to the poor," answered she, looking up seriously
at the cross face.
"Dear! miss: what an old-fashioned child you are!" cried cook. But
she fetched the soup, and Bryda was much surprised to see that it was
a cold bright jelly, very nice to carry, as there could be no fear of
spilling it on her fresh Sunday frock. So off she started, and
walked quickly down the avenue and out into the pretty village, with
her soup and her testament. But now came a new puzzle--Bryda knew
none of the people in the village. To which house should she go?
Looking round, she saw that one of the houses looked much poorer than
the others. The little garden was full of weeds, the porch shabby
and broken, with creepers that sadly wanted nailing, hanging loosely
from the wall, one poor rose quite bent to the earth with heavy
blossoms. Everything looked neglected, and Bryda thought the people
must be very poor indeed, since their home looked so wretched.
Timidly walking up to the door, for her courage began to fail her a
little, she tapped gently.
"Open the door, Betsy," said a gruff voice inside; to which another
voice answered, grumbling:
"Can't you do it yourself, you stupid old woman?"
Then the door opened suddenly, and Bryda saw a rough-looking girl of
about fifteen, with a very dirty face, shock head, and untidy, torn
dress, whose voice was as rough as her look, holding the door.
"Now, then, what do you want?" she said, frowning fiercely at her
trembling visitor. "D'yer want to know the way, or to ax a glass of
water? That's all folks like you ever troubles folks like us for,
'cept when we're ill, and then yer brings us tracks:" by which she
probably meant tracts.
"If you please," said poor Bryda, "I thought some one might be ill
here, and so I brought some soup."
"Come in, my dear, come in," said the old woman from her corner, and
began coughing and wheezing very loudly, groaning so dreadfully
between her attacks that Bryda was more frightened than ever, and
thought she was going to die. Perhaps some soup would do her good;
so she timidly entered the cottage, the girl immediately shutting the
door behind her, set down her little basket, and began to open it.
"That's a nice bit o' chain round yer neck," said the rude girl,
coming behind her. "I wonder if it wouldn't look better on me." So
saying, she quickly unclasped the pretty silver chain that hung round
her visitor's neck, and put it on her own, before Bryda had time to
object.
The old woman had, meantime, stopped coughing; she got up quickly and
seized the jug of clear soup-jelly, and began poking her shriveled
old fingers in, and so eating it. But the girl, seeing this, caught
the hand that held the jug, while the old woman was eating and
muttering all the time.
"Soup for the sick! Oh, yes, I am very ill! Bring me some soup, my
dear; bring me plenty of soup." The rough girl caught the jug and
tried to put her own fingers in, on which a struggle followed; the
pitcher fell to the floor and broke, while the jelly was scattered
everywhere; and poor Bryda, frightened almost out of her wits, left
the two dreadful women to fight, opened the door, and ran as if they
were after her, leaving locket and chain, and her basket, and feeling
as if she were fortunate in escaping at all.
Rushing blindly on, she hardly knew where, only feeling that she must
run, her foot caught in the root of a tree, and she fell violently to
the ground, striking her head against the trunk. Stupid as she felt,
in a moment she was trying to struggle up, when a hand was laid on
her shoulder; and, thinking it must be the dreadful girl who had so
frightened her, the poor girl screamed aloud.
"Hush, hush! don't scream that way!" said a kind, soothing voice; an
arm gently raised her, and Bryda, looking up, saw an old man, with
cheeks like a winter-apple, white hair, and a pair of the kindest,
friendliest old eyes that ever looked through spectacles, standing
beside her.
"Come into my cottage here, and rest a little."
Bryda looked round her, feeling that for this time she had had enough
of the inside of cottages.
"Do now," went on the old man. "Don't be afeard, missy! Thy
grandfather and old Roger were young together; ah! and good friends
they were, too, for all I could beat him at wrestling; he never took
it amiss, did Master George--that's your grandad, little missy. Come
in now, and welcome." Bryda gained a little courage at this speech,
and followed the old man into his cottage, close to which she had
fallen.
As she went she could see the rude girl looking out of her house and
making ugly faces.
"Which she need not have done," said Bryda afterward; "she was
_hideous_ already!"