_SARAH SOUTHMAYD._
WHEN Eunice arrived at home and looked at the bundle of work she
had taken from Ida, she was rather dismayed. But she was a capital
seamstress, and the little sewing-machine was in the best of tempers,
and showed itself to be the most amiable of assistants. Mrs. Riker lent
a helping hand, and by Saturday night the garments were all finished.
"There they are," said Eunice, holding up the last elegant garment for
her mother's inspection. "I will wash and do them up on Monday, and
then they will be all ready to send."
"Ida Van Zandt will be glad," said Mrs. Riker.
"Poor Ida!" said Eunice, laughing. "I do believe she was rather glad
she hurt her thumb, after all, so that she could get rid of finishing
them."
"You have done your share of work for the box, after all," observed her
mother. "Will your stockings be finished?"
"Oh yes; I have only the last to foot. See how nicely the yarn
matches. I don't think any one could tell the difference. Now for my
Sunday-school lesson."
The next day Mrs. Riker had a headache, and did not go to church.
Eunice attended as usual. As she took her seat in the Sunday-school
class, she saw Phebe Goodman lean over and whisper to a girl in
front of her. They both glanced at Eunice, and the girl in front
said something to her companion, who also glanced at Eunice with an
ill-natured laugh.
"What does it mean?" thought Eunice. "I am sure I never did anything to
Phebe Goodman or Minny Haynes."
At that moment Julia Hazleton entered the class. Eunice spoke to her as
usual, but Julia turned away her head, and did not make even a show of
returning the salutation.
"Where is Ida?" asked Miss Ackerman of Julia when the opening exercises
were finished.
"She has hurt her hand very badly," answered Julia. "The doctor is
afraid she will lose the end of her thumb."
"Oh, is it so bad as that?" asked Eunice. "I was there when the
accident happened, and I thought she would have trouble with it."
Julia turned her back upon Eunice as far as the seat would allow, and
continued speaking without taking any notice of the remark:
"The doctor thinks the bone is injured, and he says it will be a long
time before she can use her hand again. She makes as much fuss about it
as if she had broken her arm."
"She probably suffers a good deal more than she would if she had broken
her arm," said Miss Ackermann. "I must go up and see her to-morrow."
Anita took her seat by Eunice, and spoke to her with her usual
friendliness, making use of a Spanish phrase which she had taught her
friend, and to which Eunice returned the appropriate answer, also in
Spanish. Two or three of the girls exchanged glances of surprise, and
Phebe immediately asked Eunice how her mother was. Minny Haynes looked
at her companion and made a significant grimace.
Matilda was a little late, which was rather unusual, and as Eunice made
room for her, Matilda took her hand and squeezed it warmly. Eunice was
more and more puzzled.
What could it all mean?
At the close of the lesson, Miss Ackerman said, "I hope to see you all
at our house on Tuesday afternoon, and I am requested by the young
ladies' committee to say that all work for the missionary-box, whether
finished or not, must be brought in at that time. Tuesday afternoon,
remember—not Thursday—and all the work must be returned, whether
finished or not."
This announcement was received with lively interest, and some of the
girls looked a little dismayed. There was a little pause after school
to talk over the matter.
"My work is all done," said Phebe.
"And mine," said Julia, "but Ida's isn't, and won't be. Just think! The
work she took the first time is not half-finished!"
"You are mistaken, Julia," said Eunice, smiling. "Ida's work is
finished to the last stitch, as I happen to know."
Julia drew herself up in what she imagined to be a very dignified
manner.
"I was not speaking to you," she said. "When I do, it will be time for
you to give your opinion."
The girls looked at each other—some with surprise, others with
significant smiles.
Eunice stood amazed, for, though Julia's manner to her was apt to be
haughty, she had never been downright insulting before.
"What do you mean, Julia?" she asked.
Julia did not reply, except by a look, but Fanny Gunderson answered for
her:
"You know what she means well enough, Miss Riker. I must say, I think
you would do better not to force yourself into company where you are
not wanted. If Miss Ferarra fancies that she is going to walk over
the whole class by patronizing you, I think she will find herself
mistaken.—Come, Julia."
And the girls dispersed, leaving Eunice standing alone.
"What does it mean?" she said to herself. "What have I done to make
them all so angry with me? No, I won't say all. Anita and Matilda
and dear little Mary were just the same as ever, and I am sure Miss
Ackerman did not make any difference. But I am sure something has
happened. What can it be?"
What it was, Eunice was destined to learn before night. She said
nothing to her mother, who was suffering severely with her head, but
she committed her cause to Him who has promised those who trust him
that he will bring forth their "righteousness as the light" and their
"judgment as the noonday." She then tried to direct her mind from the
subject by studying her lesson and reading. Just as she was setting the
table for tea, there was a knock at the door, and old Sarah Southmayd
opened it.
Sarah was an old mulatto woman—nobody knew how old, but there was a
tradition among the school-children that she had lived in Rockdale
when Columbus discovered America. She was very old, that was certain.
Her wavy hair was as white as snow, and she was wrinkled and dried up
beyond belief; but her tall person was still erect and stately, her
step firm, and she was as capable as ever of doing a hard day's work.
She was a superlative laundress, and Mary Maloney, who lived in the
same house with her, declared that she must be a white witch at the
least, and have the fairies to help her, or she never could get through
so much work.
This opinion, which was shared by a good many of the more ignorant of
her neighbors, was strengthened by the fact that Sarah never invited
any one into her house, never went out except to evening church and
to carry home her work, and had an inveterate habit of talking to
herself. She regularly received a letter and went to the bank with
it on the first of every month, whereby people concluded that she
received a pension from some quarter, and now and then she got a parcel
by express. It is certain that her contributions to religious and
charitable objects were out of all proportion to any income she would
have made by washing.
"How do you do, Sarah?" said Eunice, almost as much astonished as if
her visitor had come through the air on a broomstick in true orthodox
witch-fashion. "Won't you come in?"
Sarah accepted the invitation and the offered chair. "I heard your
mother was sick with headache again," said she, "but I see she is able
to be up."
"I feel better up than down," said Mrs. Riker, "my head throbs so."
"Yes, I know. You have caught that cold that's going about, I expect,"
said Sarah. "My folks sent me some extra green tea the other day, and I
thought I would bring you a drawing or two of it. Green tea is good for
nervous headache when you don't drink it every day."
"I am sure you are very kind," said Mrs. Riker.
"Oh, it's no such great favor," returned Sarah. "Besides, I wanted an
excuse for coming in."
"You might have come without an excuse," remarked Eunice.
"Well, I suppose so, honey, but you know I am no great hand for
visiting," said Sarah, smiling and showing a flash of brilliant white
teeth which made her look more unearthly than ever.—"I want to tell
you, Mrs. Riker, that it was none of my doing, getting Mrs. Murray's
washing away from you."
"I never supposed it was," replied Mrs. Riker; "I don't believe you
ever did such a mean thing in your life, Sarah."
"Well, I don't say I never did a mean thing," said Sarah; "I don't
suppose any human being could say that. But I never interfered with any
one's honest work—that I know."
"Did Mrs. Murray give you any reason for making the change?" asked
Eunice.
Sarah hesitated.
"Do tell us if she did, Sarah," added Eunice. "I am sure there is
something going on that we ought to know about."
"Well, she did, but it ain't worth minding," said Sarah. "I gave her my
mind on it. She says that people have told her that you—now don't flare
up, child, because a fool talks foolishly,—she says that she has heard
from good authority that you are not honest."
"Not honest!" exclaimed Eunice and her mother together. "What does she
mean?"
"That is just what I asked her.
"'What do you mean, Mrs. Murray, taking away folks' characters like
that?' says I.
"'Well,' says she, 'I had it on good authority,' says she. 'That Miss
Fay—Mrs. Ferarra's cousin—says that Eunice stole a gold thimble from
Mrs. Ferarra, and that other things were missed, and they say she
changed off some yarn Mrs. Ackerman gave her to knit for worsted for
herself; and I never did think Mrs. Riker put all the linen I sent her
into Harry's aprons,' says she.
"'Mrs. Murray,' says I, 'did you ever cut out a set of aprons in your
life?'
"'No,' says she.
"'Then how do you know how much it takes?' says I.
"'Well, I have lost a great many little things,' says she; 'and, when I
think of it, I dare say they were lost in the wash.'
"Says I, 'Mrs. Murray, if you don't count your things when they go into
the wash and when they come out, I don't want to wash for you,' says I."
Sarah paused a minute, perhaps to recover her breath. Neither Mrs.
Riker nor Eunice spoke a word.
"I debated a good deal in my own mind whether I should tell you this,"
continued Sarah; "but finally I decided that it was best; for, I tell
you to begin with, I don't believe either Mrs. Ackerman or Mrs.
Ferarra or the young ladies ever hinted such a thing. Miss Fay might:
she is as great a goose as Mrs. Murray in her way, and I know she was
intimate with those Gundersons; and so is Mrs. Murray. It must have
been a great cross to the Murrays to have their son marry such a woman,
for they are first-rate people and real quality; I used to know them
well. But Mrs. Gunderson and Fanny would tell stories about their
grandmother."
"I shouldn't wonder if you were right, Sarah," said Eunice. "I know
Miss Fay took a great dislike to me. I see now it is this story which
has made some of the girls treat me so, and it explains something Mrs.
Henry Edgar said."
"What was that?" asked Mrs. Riker. "You said she was very kind the
other day."
"So she was, extra kind; and she began to say something about 'not
believing,' and then she caught herself up and turned it into something
quite different. And Ida too did not seem like herself. Oh, mother,
what shall we do?"
"I don't know," said Mrs. Riker; "I feel perfectly stunned."
"Well, I'll give you my advice, if you care about it," said Sarah, "for
I have been thinking the matter over all day."
"Do," said Eunice.
"I needn't tell you to commit your way to the Lord," said Sarah, "for
you are Christian women, so of course you will do that, anyway. You
can't make any move to-night, Mrs. Riker, because it is Sunday, and
you are sick besides. But to-morrow morning, do you and Eunice go up
to Mrs. Ferarra the first thing, tell her the whole story, and ask her
about it. She is a lady, and she will tell you the truth; but my own
opinion is that you will find she doesn't know the first word about the
matter. Then do the same by Mrs. Ackerman, and have them to right you.
Never mind your washing; if you get behindhand, I'll help you."
"Thank you, Sarah; you are a true friend, and I am sure your advice
is good," said Mrs. Riker. "We will go as soon as we can to-morrow
morning."
"And now, Eunice, do you make the tea and give your mother some, for
she is ready to drop," continued Sarah. "You'll find the tea as good as
any you ever tasted, for my folks know what's good."
"Do stay and have some tea with us," said Eunice.
"Bless you, child! I haven't taken a meal out of my own house in twenty
years. Don't you know the folks say I'm a witch and never eat at all?"
"Well, you needn't eat if you don't want to; only sit down with us,"
urged Eunice.
Sarah smiled, and suffered herself to be persuaded. She made herself so
agreeable that Mrs. Riker and Eunice almost forgot their trouble, and
it was not till she had gone that poor Mrs. Riker burst into a flood of
hysterical tears.
"Don't, mother," said Eunice almost sharply—"don't cry. I can't stand
it."
"I won't if I can help it," said her mother, trying hard to compose
herself; "but oh, Eunice! What have we done that this trial should be
allowed to fall upon us?"
"Perhaps we haven't done anything," replied Eunice. "It doesn't always
follow that people have done wrong because they have to take medicine."
"But what can the story have grown out of? The Ferarras have never
hinted such a thing to you?"
"No; and, as Sarah says, I have no idea that they know anything about
it. As to the yarn-story, I think I do see a little daylight, but I
may be mistaken, so I won't say anything at present. We will go to see
Mrs. Ferarra the first thing in the morning. Come, mother, let us have
prayers and go to bed, or you won't be fit to stir to-morrow."
"I am glad you take it so quietly and easily," said Mrs. Riker.
"Quietly?" repeated Eunice, who was decidedly the strong member of the
firm. "The fact is, mother, I have got to take it quietly. If I should
once let myself get excited, I don't know what I might say or do, and
for both our sakes I must keep cool. Good-night, mother dear."
Eunice might talk about "keeping cool," but she had a storm raging in
her own breast. She did not in the least mistrust either Anita or her
mother. She could not believe that they could play such a treacherous
part, and there was no reasonable motive for their doing so. But she
did believe that the story about the yarn had originated with Julia
Hazleton. Julia had been the only person in Mrs. Ray's shop when she
left Mrs. Ackerman's yarn to be matched, and she remembered how Julia
had watched her.
Eunice knew that she ought to forgive her enemy, for such she might
well call her, but she did not feel as if such forgiveness was in her
power. To play such a part toward a classmate—toward one who had never
injured or tried to injure her—to one whose very bread, and that of her
mother, was dependent on her good name! It seemed more than she could
bear.
She walked up and down her little room, shedding bitter tears, for a
long time. At last, however, she did what she ought to have done at
first: she cast her burden on the Lord. She threw herself on her knees
and begged to be made forgiving, as God for Christ's sake had forgiven
her. She begged that, as she could not do the work, it might be done in
and for her. Then she lay down, and was soon asleep.