STRANGERS.
"ARE you tired of waiting, Selina?" asked Miss Armstrong as she locked
the schoolhouse door, and put the key into her basket. "You need not
have staid. I don't believe I should be so stupid as to lose my way
twice."
"I liked to," said Selina with a great effort: "it is pleasanter than
walking home alone. But I think it is too bad to keep you after school
so."
"Oh, I am used to that," answered Miss Armstrong, smiling. "I usually
get 'kept after school' oftener than my scholars do. I am pleased when
the girls come to me with questions. I am very much interested in poor
Kitty; I hope to be able to do something for her."
"They must be an ignorant, low set," said Selina. "Fancy any one not
knowing that the New Testament is a part of the Bible!"
"A good deal more than half the people in the world are in the
same condition, including various kings, nobles, and others of
unquestionable gentility," said Miss Armstrong. "I have met with many
such cases in the city, but I was surprised, I confess, to find one
here."
"Oh, well! Phin Mallory has not always lived here. He has lived out
West, and in all sorts of wild places," replied Selina, jealous for the
reputation of the neighborhood. "If he had grown-up in Oldham, I dare
say he would have been different."
"I think it altogether probable that one might find people who have
grown-up in Oldham whose cases are still more remarkable," said Miss
Armstrong, "though such cases are so common that their peculiarity does
not strike you unless you consider the matter."
"I don't know what you mean," said Selina.
"I am thinking of people who have been brought up to know a great deal
about both the Old and New Testaments, who are carefully instructed in
the Bible, and profess to believe it, and who yet behave as if there
were no such thing."
Selina blushed. She knew very well that this was very much her own
case. "Do you think that is so much more strange?" said she.
"Which would be the more remarkable,—that a man should walk off a
precipice in the dark, or that he should do so in the daytime with his
eyes open?" asked Miss Armstrong.
"That he should do it in the daytime, of course," replied Selina, "but
that is different."
"It is a fair illustration, I think," said Miss Armstrong. "A man
professes to believe that there is no salvation for any one who does
not accept the Lord Jesus for his Saviour, and give himself up to Him;
and yet he does neither."
"I don't understand what people mean by that," said Selina,—"I mean, by
what they call a saving faith."
"A saving faith, as distinguished from a merely historic faith, is a
faith that leads to action. To give you a homely illustration: Mr.
Bassett, here in the mill, believes that school will open at nine
o'clock to-morrow; that is, if he thinks of it at all. But it makes
no practical difference to him: he will not rise an hour earlier, or
make any change in his arrangements, on that account. But to me it is,
so to speak, the central fact of my day; and all my plans are made in
reference to it. So a man has a kind of belief in the Saviour; that is,
he believes that there was such a person, and that He did the works
ascribed to Him: but he does not make any alteration in his life on
that account. But let that man be once waked up to the truth that he is
a lost sinner, with no hope of deliverance except in this same Saviour,
and he will not rest till he has made that Saviour his own."
"Then all people want is, to be waked up," said Selina. "If that is the
case, I wonder true Christians don't talk to people about such things
more than they do."
"It is, no doubt, a duty grievously neglected," said Miss Armstrong,
"but it is not all, by any means. People go on in sin, not because
they don't know any better, but because they love sin. They know that
if they become really Christians, they must do many things which they
don't like to do, and give up many things they don't like to give up;
and they cannot make up their minds to such a course. The cross looks
very hard and heavy, and they don't like to meddle with it."
"Some people say there is nothing but joy in the life of a true
Christian," observed Selina.
"The life of a true Christian must be very unlike that of his Master,
then," replied Miss Armstrong. "The very sight and thought of so many
going the broad way to destruction must hinder any true Christian from
being perfectly happy at all times. 'The disciple is not above his
Master, nor the servant above his Lord.' But, Selina, how is it with
you? You ought not to need any arousing on this subject."
"One may sometimes have too much of a good thing," said Selina lightly.
And then, willing to dismiss the subject, she exclaimed, "I wonder
whose carriage this is, coming up the hill! I am sure it does not
belong about here."
"It is Mrs. Van Zandt's," said Miss Armstrong with an expression of
pleasure. "She wrote me that she meant to drive over from Oldbury."
As she spoke, the carriage came up to them and stopped. And the
coachman, touching his hat, asked Selina if they were in the right road
to the Van Zandt mansion.
"You are right so far, but you must turn to the left by that red
house," said Selina.
She looked round for Miss Armstrong, and saw that she was already at
the carriage window, exchanging greetings with the persons within.
One was an old lady with beautiful white hair put up in puffs under a
shady bonnet. The others seemed to be young, but Selina could not see
them distinctly. She felt a sense of being forlorn and neglected, as if
Miss Armstrong had somehow done her an injury by being acquainted with
these strangers, while she was not. It was not very reasonable, but it
is a feeling which almost every one has experienced at some time. Miss
Armstrong hastened to catch up with her.
"What made you run away?" said she. "I wanted Mrs. Van Zandt to see
you."
"She is a handsome old lady, isn't she?" said Selina, not answering the
question, which, indeed, she would not have found easy. "How prettily
she was dressed! I do love to see an old lady dressed like an old lady."
"And so do I," answered Miss Armstrong. "There is no more pitiable
spectacle, to my mind, than that of an old woman trying to look young."
"Some old people 'feel' young," observed Selina. "There is Miss Delia
Claxton standing at her gate now. She says she does not feel any older
than she did when she was twenty, but she does not dress young."
"I dare say not. People who feel young seldom do. How very pretty she
is!"
Miss Delia did indeed look wonderfully pretty as she stood under the
great tree at her own gate, with the flickering lights and shadows
glancing over her delicate calico dress, and the white Shetland shawl
she had thrown over her head. She was an alert little body, with a
clear, dark complexion, plenty of color, and bright hazel eyes, made
still brighter by the whiteness of her abundant wavy hair.
"Good evening, Miss Armstrong," she said in a cheery voice as soon as
that lady came within hailing distance. "I am out staring after our new
neighbors, you see. That isn't very dignified, is it? But, dear me, one
sees so little here, that a travelling-carriage is quite a sight. Celia
says you know these ladies, Miss Armstrong, and that they are very nice
people."
"That they certainly are," said Miss Armstrong, smiling. "I think you
will like them very much."
"Well, I am glad to hear that," said Miss Delia emphatically, "because,
you see, being connections in a kind of way, we must call upon them.
Dick Van Zandt's mother was first cousin to our mother. She was a
Butler, you see, and her mother was a Ring belonging to the Rings of
Rollock, the same family that our maternal grandmother came from; so,
of, course, we must call. You will smile at that, though," added Miss
Delia, breaking in on herself with a good-natured laugh: "strangers
don't understand how much we think of relationship and descent in these
parts."
"I am Scotch, and an Armstrong," replied Miss Armstrong, smiling in her
turn; "and you know the Scotch count kindred to the tenth degree, at
least. But I assure you, Miss Delia, you will like Mrs. Van Zandt very
much. She is odd,—at least, most people consider her so,—but she is
very lovely."
"I am considered odd myself, so I can't quarrel with that," replied
Miss Delia. "You see, we don't often call on the summer boarders," she
added: "one does not know much about their antecedents, as a rule, and
some of them are not very nice.—I hear that the Richmonds are coming
back, Selina."
"They are, I believe," answered Selina rather shortly, as though the
subject were not very agreeable.
"Well, if they do, I hope you won't go making an intimate of that
Amelia," said Miss Delia: "she is not a nice friend for you. Well,
there, child, don't color so: I didn't mean to hurt your feelings.—Miss
Armstrong, won't you and Selina come in and stay to tea? I am sure
Celia would be delighted to have you. You will excuse my not having
called. The fact is, I had been coloring carpet-rags, and I never can
do that without coloring my hands at the same time; so I told Celia she
must do duty for both. But I should so like to have you stay to tea!"
"Not to-night," replied Miss Armstrong, seizing the chance when Miss
Delia stopped for lack of breath. "Some other night I shall be very
happy."
"Any time; stop in on your way home from school.—Here, wait a minute."
She went into the house as she spoke, and returned with a plate of
cakes.
"Here, Selina, take these to your mother," said she. Then to Miss
Armstrong, in explanation, "They are old-fashioned ginger-nuts made
with honey. It is a family recipe, and they do say nobody but a Claxton
can make them properly, but I will give you the rule if you like."
"And I will give you the recipe for short-bread, which they say none
but a Scotchwoman can make properly; and we will both try to disprove
the rule," answered Miss Armstrong. "Come, Selina; we ought to be
at home. Your mother will think I am lost again.—Good-night, Miss
Delia.—What a bright little lady she is!" added Miss Armstrong as they
walked away. "She seems quite different from her sister."
"Most people like Miss Celia best," remarked Selina: "Miss Delia is so
sharp, and she makes such queer remarks. One day Mrs. Blandy—she lives
in that big house on the corner next the church—she said one day at the
society that she didn't believe in foreign missions.
"'Well,' said Miss Delia, 'if every one had been of your mind, Mrs.
Blandy, you would be going about dressed in a neat-fitting suit of blue
paint instead of that handsome black silk, and hiding away that fat
little boy of yours to keep him from being burned alive as a sacrifice
to Bel.'
"'What do you mean, Miss Delia?' asked Mrs. Blandy.
"'Nothing, only that was what your ancestors were doing in the time
when the Church at Jerusalem sent out so many foreign missionaries,'
answered Miss Delia; 'and if the apostles had been of your way of
thinking, you would probably be doing the same now.'"
"I don't see any thing odd in that," remarked Miss Armstrong: "it was
only a simple statement of facts. And what then?"
"And then Mrs. Blandy said it was a very different thing, sending
missionaries to England, from what it was sending them clear off to
India.
"And Miss Delia said, 'Yes, very different: a much harder and more
perilous journey, and much more trouble and danger when they got there.'
"You see, Miss Delia is a great reader, and she never forgets any
thing: so, when people talk against missions or any such thing, she
always gets the last word."
"I should say she deserved it, if she always argued as well as in this
case," said Miss Armstrong, much amused.
"Yes, ma'am; but you see people don't like to be put down, and shown to
be in the wrong. I'm sure I don't."
"What! Not when you are in the wrong?"
"I think that is the time when one likes it least of all," replied
Selina frankly.
"But how are you ever to be set right, in that case?"
"I don't think Mrs. Blandy cared about being set right, very much,"
replied Selina. "She said again that charity began at home. And then
Miss Delia began to talk about the orphan-asylum at Oldbury, and poor
Mrs. Graves who has a sick husband and four little children. And she
asked Mrs. Blandy if she had not a frock to make over for the little
girls, so they could be decent to come to Sunday school. But Mrs.
Blandy said she was calculating to make a rag carpet pretty soon, and
she had to save all her old clothes for that, because she meant to take
the prize for it at the State fair."
Miss Armstrong smiled and sighed. She had met a great many Mrs. Blandys
in her lifetime.
"I think I should like to be a foreign missionary," said Selina, after
they had walked a little way in silence.
"Why?" asked Miss Armstrong. "Oh, because there would be some adventure
and romance about it. It would not be all prose, like one's life here."
"My dear, if you allow your life to be all prose here, it would be
prosy anywhere. And the prose of a mission-life among heathen is
much more disagreeable than that of a daughter's life at home in New
England. I know, because I have tried it. What would you think, for
instance, of combing and washing a dozen children who never were combed
or washed before in their lives?"
"I did not suppose missionary ladies did such things as that," said
Selina.
"They do a great many such things as that, and worse, such as I don't
care to tell you about just before supper," replied Miss Armstrong. "I
have often wished that our missionaries would give us more of just such
details, that people could see what the life really is."
"Why don't they?" asked Selina.
"Well, for various reasons. They are afraid, for one thing, of
disgusting and discouraging people; making them think there is no use
in doing any thing."
"I should think, the worse the people were, the more need there was for
teaching them better," observed Selina.
"That is a very just remark, but a great many people do not see it in
that light. Then these matters of personal experience become every-day
occurrences, and they do not think of them as being any more novel or
interesting to others than to themselves."
"I think they are interesting, though," said Selina. "Little things
like that are just what make a story seem real."
"Very true, again. But, Selina, you would never make a missionary if
that is to be your only motive. The romance and adventure soon wear
off, and the hard and prosaic duties remain. You need a much stronger
and purer motive than that, even the love of God in your heart, the
same that sent the early Christians everywhere preaching the Word, and
that now sends hundreds of men and women every year to preach the glad
tidings to those who sit in darkness and the shadow of death. Have you
that love in your heart?"
"I am afraid not," answered Selina. "But, suppose I had, do you think I
should make a good missionary?"
"I could hardly say that on so short an acquaintance," replied Miss
Armstrong. "Consider, my dear, that I have not known you quite a week.
I do not see, however, any reason why you should not make as good a
missionary as another. But, Selina, let me say one word more: unless
you have that love in your heart, you are no more fit for a life here
at home than you would be for a life in India. You want Him just as
much in one place as another, and you can no more be happy without Him.
Won't you think about that, my child?"
"Yes, Miss Armstrong, I will," answered Selina; and at the time she
fully meant what she said.
She was much more pleasant all the rest of the week, and her mother
rejoiced over the change. "Girls are full of moods and fancies," she
said to her husband. "We must have patience, father."
"I never knew you to have any thing else, mother," was the reply. Mr.
Weston had full confidence in his wife's judgment, and he was very fond
of his adopted daughter.
It had long been the custom to hold a service in the red schoolhouse
on Friday evenings. This service was usually called the Bible class,
because a portion of Scripture, usually the Epistle or Gospel for the
next Sunday, was given out beforehand to be talked over. The minister,
if he was present, read a short service; and a hymn was sung to a
familiar tune. Then the discussion was opened by the pastor, or whoever
supplied his place; and every one spoke who had any thing to say.
Even the little children were encouraged to repeat texts, and verses
of hymns. This service had been started by old Dr. Munson, who had
preached, and also practised, in Oldham for forty years. He had been
dead for a quarter of a century, but the Bible class he had begun lived
after him.
The meetings of the class were usually tolerably well attended in
winter. But the numbers fell off in warm weather, when, truth to tell,
the red schoolhouse was apt to be warm and close. Those who came on
this particular evening, however, were destined to find it much more
comfortable than usual.
"Now, who will stay and help me put the schoolroom in order?" asked
Miss Armstrong, as the afternoon session drew to a close.
The girls looked at each other in surprise.
"The Bible class meets here this evening, Miss Armstrong," said Ruth
Jewsbury.
"I know it, my dear. That is just the reason we want to put the room in
nice order."
"I don't see it," answered Ruth bluntly.
"Don't see what?"
"I don't see the use of sweeping, when the people will put all out of
order again."
"Suppose some distinguished person—Mr. Longfellow, say, or the
Bishop—were going to be here."
"Oh, well! Then, of course, we should want things to look neat. But
there will be nobody like that coming to-night."
"Are you sure?" asked Miss Armstrong. "Who is it that says, 'Where two
or three are gathered in my name, there am I in the midst of them'?"
"I never thought of that," said Sarah Leet. "But, Miss Armstrong, why
don't they keep the church cleaner, then?"
"You must put that question to somebody besides me," answered Miss
Armstrong. "Now, who will help me?"
Half a dozen volunteered at once, of whom Kit Mallory was one. There
was a large old-fashioned fireplace in the room, which had been closed
with a fireboard when the increasing scarcity of wood had made a stove
necessary. Miss Armstrong had persuaded Mr. Weston to remove this
board, and leave open the great chimney, which thus made an excellent
ventilating-shaft. She had found a tall pickle-jar among Mrs. Weston's
stores, which she placed on the hearth, and filled, with the children's
assistance, with sweet-fern, cedar-boughs, and brakes. The windows were
opened at top and bottom, the room carefully swept and dusted, and a
glass of fresh, sweet flowers placed on the table.
"How nice it looks, and how fresh and sweet it smells!" said Kit, who
had been one of Miss Armstrong's most efficient helpers. "Isn't it too
bad, Miss Armstrong, that I can't come to the meeting?"
"Can't come to the meeting? Why not?" asked the voice of Mr. Bassett,
the miller, from the open door. "Why can't you come, child?"
"Uncle Phin won't let me," answered Kit. She did not care to be further
catechised about her uncle and his ways, and slipped away without even
bidding Miss Armstrong good-night,—an omission which Selina did not
fail to notice, and register in her private account of Kit's misdeeds.
"Poor little young one!" said the kindly miller. "What a shame that she
can't come, when she wants to so much! I feel for that child. I wish
one could do something for her."
"I hope something may be done, but it seems one of the cases where one
must proceed with caution, for fear of doing more harm than good."
"I guess you are about right there. We must keep her in mind, and
perhaps a way will be opened. Well, Miss Armstrong, I came over to fix
things for the Bible class, but I don't see that you have left me any
thing to do. That is a first-rate idea,—getting that chimney open. I
don't blame people for getting sleepy when the room is hot as an oven,
and so close you couldn't slip in a flax-seed sharp end first. I feel
as if we were going to have a real good time."
"What about lights?" asked Miss Armstrong.
"I always calculate to provide them. We don't have many in summer.—I
hope you will all come, girls, and all have a verse at least. Will your
sister be out, Faith?"
"I don't believe she will," answered Faith: "she has so much to do."
"She would do it a deal easier, and better too, if she would take some
rest now and again,—that's my opinion," said the miller. "Between the
mill and the farm and the blacksmith-shop, I have plenty of irons in
the fire, and I don't let them get cold, either; but I couldn't afford
not to take time for the Bible class. You tell her what I say. And you
come along with me: I've got some nice early pease to send her. The
folks laughed at me for buying them,—they're some I sent for to Flower
City,—and said the old-fashioned ones were good enough.
"'You have the laugh,' says I, 'I'll have the pease.'
"Now I've got the laugh, and the pease too. Come along, little ones,
and see if Ma Bassett hasn't got some gingerbread. You leave the key,
Miss Armstrong, and I'll see to the rest. I feel as if we were going to
have a real good time."