It was tea-time at home by the time they got there. All during the
meal, Maria held forth upon the adventures of the afternoon, especially
the last.
"Mamma, those people are somebody," she concluded.
"I hope I am somebody," said Mrs. Englefield.
"Oh but you know what I mean, mamma."
"I am not clear that I do."
"And I, Maria,--am I not somebody?" her aunt asked.
"Well, we're all _somebody_, of course, in one sense. Of course we're
not _nobody_."
"I am not so sure what you think about it," said Mrs. Candy. "I think
that in your language, who isn't somebody is nobody."
"Oh, well, we're _somebody_," said Maria. "But if you could see the
splendid bunch of jewels that hung at Mrs. Laval's breast, you would
know I say the truth."
"Now we are getting at Maria's meaning," observed Clarissa.
"I have no bunch of jewels hanging at my breast," said Mrs. Englefield;
"if _that_ is what she means by 'somebody.'"
"How large a bunch was it, Maria?" her aunt asked.
"And is it certain that Maria's eyes could tell the true from the
false, in such a matter as a bunch of jewellery?" suggested Clarissa.
"They have not had a great deal of experience."
Maria fired up. "I just wish you could see them for yourself!" she
said. "False jewels, indeed! They sparkle like flashes of lightning.
All glittering and flashing, red and white. I never saw anything so
beautiful in all my life. And if you saw the rest of the dress, you
would know that they couldn't be false jewels."
"What sort of a face had she?"
"I don't know,--handsome."
"The bunch of jewels dazzled Maria's eyes," said Clarissa, sipping her
tea.
"No, not handsome, Maria," Matilda said.
"Well, not handsome exactly, but pleasant. She had curls, and lightish
hair; but her dress was so handsome, it made her look handsome. She
took a _terrible_ fancy to Matilda."
"Matilda is the youngest," said her mother.
"It was thanks to Matilda we got into the house at all; and Matilda had
the flowers. Nobody spoke of giving me any flowers."
"Well, you know you do not care for them," interposed Matilda.
"Mamma, those people are somebody--I can tell you!"
"You speak as if there were nobody else in Shadywalk, Maria, that is
anybody."
"Well, Aunt Candy, I don't know any people like these."
"Maria, you talk nonsense," said her mother.
"Mamma, it is just what Aunt Erminia would say herself, if she knew the
people."
"What makes anybody 'somebody,' I should like to know? and what do you
mean by it? Am I nobody, because I cannot wear red and white jewels at
my throat?"
"It wasn't at her throat at all, mamma; it was just here--on her waist."
"A _bouquet de corsage_," said Clarissa. "The _waist_, as you call it,
is at the belt."
"Well, I am not a mantua-maker," said Maria.
"No more than we are somebody," said Mrs. Candy.
"Well, you know what I mean," said Maria; "and you all think exactly
the same. There is nobody else in Shadywalk that dresses so, or that
has such flowers, or that has such a house."
"Who are they, these people that she talks of?" Mrs. Candy asked.
"They have lately bought the place. I know nothing about them. They
were here for a little while in the summer; but only to turn everything
upside down in the house and grounds, and make changes. I cannot
imagine what has brought them here, to the country, in the depth of
winter. They had nothing to do with anybody in Shadywalk, that I know
of. Perhaps they will, now they have got in order. I believe they have
lived out of America a good deal."
"Is that what you mean by 'somebody,' Maria?" her aunt asked. "Perhaps
I am 'somebody,' according to that."
Maria's thoughts would not bear to be spoken, it seemed, for she did
not speak them; and it must be a strong reason that kept Maria's
opinions to herself. However, the family found something else to talk
about, and Mrs. Laval was not mentioned again till Maria and Matilda
went up to bed. Then Matilda had something to say.
"Maria," she began with judicial gravity, "what was that Mrs. Laval
gave us to drink?"
"I don't know," said Maria; "but it was the best thing I ever tasted in
all my life. It was some sort of wine, I guess; it was strong enough.
But it was sweet; oh, it was nice!"
"And you drank it!"
"I guess I did! I only wished there was more of it."
"But, Maria!----"
"Well, what, 'Maria'?"
"You promised, Maria, that you would do all you could for temperance
work."
"What then? I could not do anything for temperance there, child. As
Mrs. Laval said."
"You needn't have drunk the wine."
"Why shouldn't I? Mrs. Laval gave it to me; I couldn't be rude."
"But that is not keeping your promise."
"I made no promise about it. I could do nothing in the world for
temperance _there_, Tilly. What would Mrs. Laval care for anything _I_
should say?"
"But, Maria!" said her little sister, looking puzzled and troubled at
once--"you cannot drink wine in one place, and try to hinder people
from drinking it in another place."
"Why can't I? It all depends on the place, Tilly, and the people."
"And the wine, I suppose," said Matilda, severely.
"Yes!" said Maria, boldly, "I dare say, if all wine was like that, Mr.
Richmond would have no objection to it."
"I don't see, Maria," said her sister, "what you made those promises
for the other night. I think you ought not to have got up at all; it
was the same as speaking; and if you do not mean to keep promises, you
should not make them."
"And what have you got to do with it?" said Maria in her turn. "You did
not stand up with the rest of us; you have no business to lecture other
people that are better than yourself. I am going to keep all the
promises I ever made; but I did not engage to go poking into Mrs. Dow's
wash kitchen, nor to be rude to Mrs. Laval; and I don't mean to do the
one or the other, I give you notice."
Matilda drew another of the long breaths that had come so many times
that afternoon, and presently remarked that she was glad the next
meeting of the Band would come in a few days.
Maria sharply inquired, "Why?"
"Because," said Matilda, "I hope Mr. Richmond will talk to us. I don't
understand about things."
"Of course you don't!" said Maria; "and if I were you I would not be so
wise, till I did 'understand.'"
Matilda got into bed, and Maria sat down to finish putting the braid on
her dress.
"Tilly, what are you going to get with your twenty-five dollars?"
"I don't know yet."
"I don't know whether I shall get a watch, or a dress, like Anne; or
something else. What would you?"
"I don't know."
"What _are_ you going to get with your money, Matilda?"
"I can't tell, Maria. I know what I am going to do with part; but I
don't know what I am going to do with the other part."
Maria could get no more from her.
Nothing new happened in the family before the evening came for what
Maria called the "Band meeting." Matilda went about between home and
the school extremely quiet and demure, and reserved rather more than
ordinary; but reserve was Matilda's way. Only Maria knew, and it
irritated her, that her little sister was careful to lock herself up
alone with her Bible, or rather with somebody else's Bible, for Matilda
had none of her own, for a good long time every morning and evening.
Maria thought sometimes she knew of her doing the same thing at the
noon recess. She said nothing, but she watched. And her watching made
her certain of it. Matilda unlocked her door and came out always with a
face of quiet seriousness and a spirit in armour. Maria could not
provoke her (and she tried); nor could any other temptations or
difficulties, that she could see, shake a certain steady gentleness
with which Matilda went through them. Matilda was never a passionate
child, but she had been pleasure-loving and wayward. That was changing
now; and Matilda was giving earnest care to her school-work.
The desired evening for the "Band meeting" came, and the young people
all went duly to the lecture-room; though Maria reminded her sisters
that they did not belong there. Letitia and Anne chose to go in spite
of that fact. The room, though not full, was filled towards the upper
end; so the party were divided, and it happened that Matilda placed
herself apart from her sisters, in the front, at the end of a seat near
to Mr. Richmond. He was there already, standing by the little desk.
After the prayer and singing, Mr. Richmond declared that they were come
together for a talk; and he meant to make it a talk. He should ask
questions when he chose, and everybody else might exercise the same
liberty.
"We are going to try to understand things," he said; "and by that
somewhat vague expression I mean things connected with our covenant
that we have made, and the work we have undertaken. Our covenant begins
with the words, 'We are the servants of Christ.' Let us know exactly
what we mean. What is it to be a servant of Christ? What is a servant,
in the first place?"
There was hesitation; then an answer from somewhere,--"He is somebody
who does what he is told."
"That would be a good servant," said Mr. Richmond, smiling; "but it
will do. He is one who acts under the will of another, doing the work
of another. A servant of Christ--what does he do?--and how does he do
it?"
There was no answer this time.
"Let us look," said Mr. Richmond. "In the first verse of the first
chapter of his Epistle to the Romans, Paul calls himself a servant of
Jesus Christ; and in the ninth verse he says that he serves 'with his
spirit.' Here is a mark. The service of Christ, you see, is in the
first instance, not outward but inward. Not hand work, nor lip work,
nor money giving; but service _in the spirit_. What is that?
"It is having your will the same with God's will.
"So now look and see. We all pledged ourselves the other night to do a
great many sorts of outward service; good in themselves, and right and
needful to do. But the first question is, Are we ourselves the servants
of Christ? Do we in heart love and obey and agree to His will? If we
are not doing that, or trying to do it, our other service is no service
at all. It is a lie, and no service at all. Or it is service of
ourselves."
Mr. Richmond paused a little.
"I have no reason to think that any of you did not mean true service,
when the pledge was given the other night. So now let us see how this
true service shows itself.
"Jesus said, you remember, 'If any man serve me, let him follow me.'
All we have to ask is, How did the Lord himself walk, that we should
follow Him? I recommend you to study the story of His life very
carefully and very constantly, and be continually getting new lessons
from it. But now let us look just at one or two points.
"Jesus said, 'As long as I am in the world, I am the Light of the
world.' Has he commanded us to be anything like that?"
One of the boys answered, "Let your light so shine before men, that
they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in
heaven."
"How can our light shine?"
"Doing good," another boy answered.
"Being good," said one of the girls.
"Very well; but what is there in doing and being good which has any
resemblance to light? What does light do?"
"It shows things," a boy said.
"There's no darkness where the light comes," said a little girl.
"Quite true; but how does our doing good and being good, 'show things'?
What does it show?"
After a little hesitation a voice replied, "It shows what is right."
"It shows what people ought to do," a boy said.
"It shows what is the will of God about us," said Mr. Richmond; "and
the more exactly we are obedient to that will and conformed to it, the
more brightly do we give light. And do you see? our light-giving
depends on what we _are_. We give no light, except just so far as we
are ourselves what God wills us to be. And then it shines out in all
sorts of ways. I knew a little girl whose eyes were like two pure
lamps, always; they were so loving and clear and true. I have known
several people whose voices gave light as much as harmony; they were so
sweet with the tones of a glad heart and a conscience at peace. I have
seen faces that shone, almost like angel faces, with the love of God
and the joy of heaven and the love of their fellow-men. Now this is the
first thing the Lord calls us to be in His service--His light-bearers.
The light comes from Him; we must get it from Him; and then we must
shine! And of course our actions give light too, if they are obedient
to the will of God. A boy who keeps the Sabbath holy is almost as good
as a sermon to a boy who doesn't. One who refuses to touch the offered
glass of wine, shows the light to another who drinks it. A loving
answer shames a harsh spirit; and a child faithful to her duties at
school is a beacon of truth to her fellows.
"There is one thing more; and then I will talk to you no longer this
evening. Jesus said, 'The Son of man is come to seek and to save that
which is lost.' His servants must follow Him. Now, how much are you
willing to do,--how far are you willing to go,--to accomplish what He
came, and lived, and died for? and how will you set about it?"
There was a long silence here; until Mr. Richmond urged that an answer
should be given. Then at last somebody suggested--
"Bringing new scholars to school?"
"That is one thing to be done, certainly; and a very good thing. What
else can we attempt? Remember,--it is to seek and to save the _lost!_"
"We might carry tracts," another suggested.
"You might; and if they are good tracts, and given with a kind word,
and followed with a loving prayer, they will not be carried in vain.
But to whom will you take them, Frank?"
"Might take them to the boys in the school," Frank thought.
"Where else?"
"Might drop 'era around the corner," Mrs. Rice said.
"Don't _drop_ them anywhere, where it is possible to give them," Mr.
Richmond replied. "Do not ever be, or seem, ashamed of your wares. Give
lovingly to almost anybody, and the gift will not be refused, if you
choose the time and place wisely. Take people when they are alone, as
much as you can. But the _lost_, remember. Who are the lost?"
Silence; then a voice spoke--
"People who don't come to church."
"It is a bad sign when people do not come to church," said Mr.
Richmond. "Still we may not make that an absolute test. Some people are
sick and unable to come; some are deaf and unable to hear if they did
come; some are so poor they have not decent clothes. Some live where
there are no churches. Who are the _lost?_"
"People who are not going to heaven," one little girl answered.
"People who are not good," another said.
"People who swear," said a boy.
"Those people who do not love Jesus Christ," was the answer of the
fourth.
"That sums it all up," said Mr. Richmond. "Those who do not know the
Lord Jesus. They are out of the way to heaven; they have never trusted
in His blood for forgiveness; they are not good, for they have not got
His help to make them good; and if they do not swear and do other
dreadful things, it is only because the temptation is wanting. They are
the lost. Now, does not every one of you know some friend or
acquaintance who is a lost one? some brother or sister perhaps; or
mother or father, or cousin or neighbour, who does not love Jesus the
Lord? Those are the very first people for us to seek. Then, outside of
those nearest ones, there is a whole world lost. Let us go after all,
but especially those who have few to look after them."
"It is harder to speak to those you know, than to those you don't
know," Mrs. Trembleton said.
"No matter. Jesus said, 'He that taketh not his cross and followeth
after me, cannot be my disciple.' Let us go to the hardest cases."
"Are not tracts best to use with them?" Mrs. Swan asked.
"Use tracts or not, according to circumstances. Your own voice is often
better than a tract, if it has the right ring to it. When
''Tis joy, not duty,
To speak His beauty.'
Speak _that_ as often and wherever you can. And 'whatsoever thy hand
findeth to do, do it with thy might.' Now I have done asking questions,
and you may ask me whatever you like. It is your turn."
Mr. Richmond sat down.
But the silence was unbroken.
"I am here to answer questions, remember. Has no one anything to ask?
Has no one found any difficulty to be met, and he does not know just
how to meet it? Has no one found something to be done, and he does not
know just who is to do it? Speak, and tell everything. Now is the time."
Silence again, and then a little boy said--
"I have found a feller that would like, I guess, to come to
Sunday-School; but his toes is out o' his shoes."
"Cannot he get another pair?" Mr. Richmond asked gravely.
"I guess not, sir."
"Then it is a case for the 'Aid and Comfort' committee," said Mr.
Richmond. "Who is the head of your department? Who is chief of those
who are looking up new scholars?"
"John Depeyster."
"Very well. Tell John Depeyster all about your little boy and his toes,
and John will go to the head of the relief committee--that is, Miss
Forshew--and she will see about it. Very well, Everett; you have made a
good beginning. Who is next?"
"I would like to know," said Miss Forshew, in a small voice, "where the
relief committee are to get supplies from? If new shoes are to be
bought, there must be funds."
"That is the very thing the relief committee undertook, I thought,"
said Mr. Richmond. "Must there be some scheme to relieve _them_ first?
Your business abilities can manage that, Miss Forshew, or I am mistaken
in them. But, dear friends, we are not going to serve Christ with that
which costs us nothing--are we?"
"Mr. Richmond," said Ailie Swan, "may temperance people drink cider?"
The laughter was universal now.
"Because," said Ailie, unabashed, "I was talking to a boy about
drinking it; and he said cider was nothing."
"I have seen _some_ cider which was more than negative in its effects,"
said Mr. Richmond. "I think you were right Ailie. Cider is only the
juice of apples, to be sure; but it gets so unlike itself once in a
while, that it is quite safe to have nothing to do with it."
"Mr. Richmond," said another girl, "what are you to do if people are
rude?"
"The Bible says, 'A soft answer turneth away wrath,' Mary."
"But suppose they will not listen to you?"
"Be patient. People did not always listen to the Master, you remember."
"But would you try again?"
"If I had the least chance. We must not be afraid of 'taking the wind
on our face,' as an old writer says. I would try again; and I would
pray more for them. Did you try that, Mary?"
"No, sir."
"Don't ever hope to do anything without prayer. Indeed, we must look to
God to do all. _We_ are nothing. If anything is to be accomplished for
the service of Christ by our hands, it must be by God's grace working
through us and with us; no other way. The power is His, always. So
whatever you do, pray, and hope in God, not in yourself."
"Mr. Richmond," said Frances Barth, "I do not understand about
'carrying the message.' What does it mean?"
"You know what the message is? We are commanded to preach the gospel to
every creature."
"But how can we do it?--people who are not ministers?"
"It is not necessary to get up into a pulpit to preach the gospel."
"No, sir; but--any way, how is one to 'carry the message'?"
"First, I would say, be sure that you have a message to carry."
"I thought you just said, Mr. Richmond, that the gospel is the
message?" said Mrs. Trembleton.
"It is the material of the message; but you know it must be very
differently presented to different people."
"I know; but how can you tell?"
"As I said, be sure that you have a message to carry. Let your heart be
full of some thought, or some truth, which you long to tell to another
person, or long that another person should know. Then ask the Lord to
give you the right word for that person; and ask Him to let His power
go along with it."
"Then one's own heart must be full first," said another lady, Mrs.
Barth, thoughtfully.
"It should be. And it may be."
"One has so little time to give to these things," said Mrs. Trembleton.
"Shall we serve the Lord with that which costs us nothing?" again said
Mr. Richmond. But he did not prolong the conversation after that. He
gave out a hymn and dismissed the assembly.
Matilda being quite in the front, was some distance behind her sisters
in coming out. As she passed slowly down the aisle, she came near two
of her little acquaintances in one of the seats, who were busily
talking.
"It would be so nice!" she heard the one say to the other.
"Where shall we do it?"
"There's no place at our house."
"No more there isn't at mine. There are so many people about all over.
Where can we go?"
"I'll tell you. Mr. Ulshoeffer has this place nice and warm long before
Sunday-School time, on Sundays; let us come here. We could come awhile
before the time, you know; and it would be so nice. Nobody would
interrupt us. Oh, there's Matilda Englefield--Matilda, won't you come
too? Oh, I forgot; you are not one of the Band."
"Yes, I am," said Matilda.
"Why, you didn't rise the other night when we all rose. I looked over
at you to see."
"I gave Mr. Richmond my name afterwards."
"Oh, did you! oh, that's good. Now, Matilda, wouldn't you like to come
with Mary and me?"
"What are you going to do?"
"Why, Mary said she would like to begin and read the Life of Jesus, you
know, to see how He did live; if we are to follow Him, you know; and I
said I would like it too; and we're going to do it together. And we're
coming here Sundays, before time for Sunday-School, to have a good
quiet place where nobody can trouble us. Don't you want to come too,
Matilda?"
"Yes. But other people will find it out and come too."
"We'll lock the door; till it is time for the people to come to
Sunday-School, you know."
"But I don't believe _we_ can get in, Ailie," said Mary Edwards. "I
guess Mr. Ulshoeffer keeps the door locked himself."
"I know he does; but I know Regina Ulshoeffer, and she'll get leave for
us and get the key. I know she will. Then we'll come, won't we?
Good-night! Bring your Testament, Tilly!"
The little group scattered at the lecture-room door, and Matilda ran
after her party. They were far ahead; and when she caught up with them
they were deep in eager talk, which was almost altercation. Matilda
fell behind and kept out of it and out of hearing of it, till they got
home.
"Well!" said Mrs. Candy, as they entered the parlour, "what now? You do
not look harmonious, considering. What have you had to-night?"
"An impossible sort of enthusiasm, mamma," said Clarissa, as she drew
off her handsome furs.
"Impossible enthusiasm!" repeated Mrs. Candy.
"What has Mr. Richmond been talking about?" asked Mrs. Englefield.
"Why, mamma," said Letitia, "we are all to spend our lives in feeding
sick people, and clothing lazy people, and running after the society of
wicked people, as far as I can make out; and our money of course goes
on the same plan. I advise you to look after Maria and Matilda, for
they are just wise enough to think it's all right; and they will be
carrying it into practice before you know where you are."
"It is not so at all!" began Maria, indignantly. "It is nothing like
that, mamma. You know Mr. Richmond better."
"I think I know you better, too. Look where your study books were
thrown down to-day when you came from school. Take them away, before
you do anything else or say anything more."
Maria obeyed with a gloomy face.
"Do you approve of Mr. Richmond, Aunt Marianne?" Clarissa asked. "If
so, I will say no more; but I was astonished to-night. I thought he was
a man of sense."
"He _is_ a man of sense," said Mrs. Englefield; "but I always thought
he carried his notions rather far."
"Why, aunt, he would make missionaries and colporteurs and sisters of
charity of us all. Sisters of charity are a magnificent institution, of
course; but what would become of the world if we were _all_ sisters of
charity? And the idea! that everybody is to spend his whole time and
all his means in looking up vagrants and nursing fever cases! I never
heard anything like it in my life. That, and doing the work of
travelling Methodists!"
"I wonder what the ministry is good for," said Mrs. Candy, "if
everybody is to do the same work."
"I do not understand it," said Mrs. Englefield. "I was not brought up
to these extreme theories myself; and I do not intend that my children
shall be."
"But, mamma," said Maria, re-entering, "Mr. Richmond does not go into
extreme theories."
"Did you eat an apple after dinner?" said her mother.
"Yes, ma'am."
"You ate it up here, instead of in the dining-room?"
"Why, mamma, you know we often----"
"Answer me. You ate it up here?"
"Yes."
"What did you do with the core and the peel?"
"Mamma, I--you know I had no knife----"
"What did you do with it?"
No answer, except that Maria's cheeks grew bright.
"You know what you did with it, I suppose. Now bring it to me, Maria."
Colouring angrily as well as confusedly, Maria went to the mantelpiece
where stood two little china vases, and took down one of them.
"Carry it to your Aunt Candy," said her mother. "Look at it, Erminia.
Now bring it here. Take this vase away, and empty it, and wash it, and
put it in its place again; and never use it to put apple peels in, as
long as you live."
Maria burst into tears and went away with the vase.
"Just a little careless," said her aunt.
"Heedless--always was," said her mother. "Now Matilda is not so; and
Anne and Letitia were neither of them so. It is a mystery to me, what
makes one child so different from another child?"
"Matilda is a little piece of thoughtfulness," said her aunt, drawing
the child to her side and kissing her. "Don't you think a little too
much, Tilly?"
Matilda wondered whether her aunt thought quite enough.
"Now, Maria," Mrs. Englefield went on as her other daughter came in,
"are you purposing to enter into all Mr. Richmond's plans that Clarissa
has been talking about?"
"Yes, ma'am, of course," Maria said.
"Well, I want you to take notice, that I expect in the first place that
all your home and school duties shall be perfectly performed. Religion,
if it is good for anything, makes people do their duties. Your lessons
must be perfect; your drawers kept in order; your clothes mended; you
must be punctual at school and orderly at home; do you hear? And if all
this is not done, I shall take all your pretended religion for nothing
but a sham, and shall pay no respect to it at all. Now go to bed and
act religion for a month before I hear you talk another word about it."
Maria went silently up-stairs, accompanied by her little sister; but
once in their room, she broke out--
"Mamma is real cross to-night! It is just Clarissa's doing."
"I'll tell you what it is, Maria," her sister said; "she is not cross;
she is worried. I know she is worried."
"About Mr. Richmond?" said Maria.
"I don't know about what. No, I guess she was worried before we came
back."
"She was cross anyhow!" said Maria. "How can one do everything
_perfectly?_"
"But that is just what Mr. Richmond said," Matilda urged gently.
"What?"
"That we should be light-bearers, you know. That is the way to be a
light-bearer; to do everything perfectly."
"Well, you may, if you can," said Maria. "I can't."