THE POOR WOMAN OF THE PLAIN--THE NOTE--MOURNFUL MUSINGS--THE CUP OF
TEA--THE STRUGGLE--CHARITY AND SELF--EMMA'S HISTORY.
Seated upon her low door-stone was Mrs. Graffam, the poor woman of the
plain. It was almost night; the sun had gone down, leaving a long red
line upon the western horizon, which cast a lurid ray upon the
gathering twilight. The poor children of that log-house were fast
asleep: for all that day they had been out upon the plain, where the
sun, from a cloudless sky, glared down upon them; and now the evening
shade was beautiful, and so soothing too, that neither the hard pallet
of straw, nor the hungry musquitoes could drive sleep from eyes so
weary. The sick babe was asleep too: all day it had moaned in its
comfortless little cradle, for the mother had work to do--hard work,
and abundant--for a family so large and poor. Heavily sat poor Mrs.
Graffam upon the door-stone, waiting, she could not tell for what. Many
years before she had waited at twilight for her husband's return, and
listened, as the wind rustled the leaves, because she loved to go out
and meet him as he neared their home. But those years were gone, and
with them the lovelight and beauty of both heart and home. The contrast
between that barren, desolate plain and her former home, was not
greater than the contrast between the glad heart of other years, and
the one sinking despairingly as she sat upon the door-stone that night.
At last she heard a heavy step along the path leading from the narrow
road to that lone hut; but the sound of that step only deepened the
shadow that gloomed around her. She sat motionless; and there was
something in her manner like the resignation of a stricken, but
trusting heart: but it was not that; it was only the sullen gloom of
despair. Nearer and nearer drew the footstep, and she rose from her
seat, that her poor besotted husband might pass to his bed of straw;
but he did not pass in,--he only looked at her for a moment, and then
averted his eye, for very shame because she had perceived that he was
not drunk. The bag which he had carried week after week to the mills
and brought home every night empty, because he deemed rum more
necessary for himself than food for his family, was now filled with
flour; but he said nothing, and she too was silent, as she followed him
into the hut, and took the large basket which he offered her. Opening
this basket, she found a note, and returning to the door, read as
follows:--
"MRS. GRAFFAM:--_Dear Madam_,--I was not able to come and fetch our
good Dora to see you to-day; but your husband has kindly promised to
call this evening, and take the little matters which I have put up for
the dear sick baby; and to-morrow, if it please God, we will see you at
your own house.
"Your friend, EMMA LINDSAY."
Graffam looked at his wife as she came in with the note, and,
notwithstanding she had lately spoken very harsh words to him, he
pitied her, and somehow felt as though she was not greatly to blame for
calling him an "unfeeling brute." On the other hand, as Mrs. Graffam
took the things from the basket, she glanced toward her husband, and
thought to herself, "He is sober to-night, and it is all owing to the
kind politeness of that dear girl. His self-respect is not entirely
gone, for he would not appear drunk before Emma. If I could command
patience to treat him with civility, there might be some hope in that;"
so turning toward him she asked, "Have you taken supper, Mr. Graffam?"
The poor man hesitated. He was really hungry; for that which had proved
to him both victuals and drink, was now wanting; but he feared to speak
of his hunger, lest his wife should say, "The children have no rum to
drink, and it takes all the food _I_ can supply, to keep them from
starving."
"Here is a nice loaf of bread," continued Mrs. Graffam, cheerfully, as
she took the things from the basket, "and a paper of tea; Miss Emma
could not have intended these for poor little Sammy: so, if you please,
Mr. Graffam, just light a fire under the kettle, and I will make you a
cup of tea."
"And a cup for yourself," said Graffam, as he lighted the dry sticks in
the large stone chimney, and then peered into the corners of the room
in search of his children.
"They are all asleep," said his wife; and the poor man turned quickly
toward the fire again, for he feared that she would add, "The poor
creatures have been out upon the plains all day: Heaven knows what we
shall do when the berries are gone." But Mrs. Graffam said nothing
more. She set out the pine table, and going to an old chest brought a
white cloth; it was of bird's-eye diaper. Graffam remembered well who
wove it; and a pleasant vision came along with that white table-cloth.
He saw his mother, as in olden times, weaving; while he stood by her
side, wondering at the skill with which she sent the shuttle through
its wiry arch, and noticing how the little matter of adding thread to
thread filled the "cloth beam" little by little, until the long "web"
was done. "Such is life," thought Graffam; "the little by little of
human action goes to fill up the warp of time, and decides the worth of
what we manufacture for eternity." Then he looked sadly over his own
work, and could but say to himself, "It is all loose ends, loose ends.
What a web for eternity!"
"Supper is ready," said Mrs. Graffam, and the poor man turned toward
the table. The white loaf was there, and a basin of the berries his
little ones had picked from the plain. In a solitary cup (for it was
the only one saved from their wreck of crockery) Graffam saw his tea,
and offered to exchange with his wife for the broken mug, into which
was poured a scanty portion for herself.
"No, thank you," said she, "this is very well;" and they were seated at
the table.
It was upon the whole a cheerful meal. It seemed as though each one had
been a long journey, and had just returned; they were pleased with each
other, and talked of old acquaintances, and other days, themes upon
which they had held no converse for a long, long time past.
As their supper was finished, the little one in the cradle moaned
again, and Mrs. Graffam brought from the basket a long flannel dress,
and put it upon "wee bit," gently rubbing its blue limbs; then, with
something of the freedom and confidence of other days, she laid poor
baby upon its father's knee, and going again to the friendly basket,
brought thence a bottle, from which she dropped a little fine-flavored
cordial into warm water. The babe opened its large eyes upon its
mother, as though wondering what it could be that was so good upon its
poor little tongue and lip; then rubbing its tiny hands up and down the
flannel dress, it looked smilingly into the father's face, and uttered
an expressive "goo!" The parent was not quite dead in that father's
heart, though long buried beneath the waves of selfish indulgence. He
looked upon that poor little creature, and wondered that he could ever
forget one so suffering and dependent. "The baby feels better," said
Graffam to his wife; and he thought to himself, "I too should feel
better, could I break my chains and be a man."
Through most of that night Graffam thought the same thing, and wondered
if it could be done. "I have dug my own grave," thought he, "and
officious hands have helped me in; they have cast over me the dirt of
scorn and ridicule, until I am well-nigh buried alive. O, if there was
left in others one particle of respect, I might come forth from this
grave! I know that I might, from the little of kindness and civility
shown me this day. I was once respected, and so was my wife; but I have
dragged her down, down with me. It is a shame, for she is worthy a
better fate." Thus thought poor Graffam through many hours of that
night, and in the morning he turned from his hut again, with but little
hope of seeing it as he did then, with open eyes, from which his soul
looked forth; thinking, hoping, fearing, yet ready to struggle once
more for life.
It was a beautiful morning, and Emma sat beside the open window, less
languid than she had been the day before. Dora was putting things in
order, when Emma asked this question:--"Through what medium do we see
people, Dora, when we discover nothing but their faults?"
"Through the medium of self," was the ready reply. "If there is
anything offensive in a person, self is nettled on its own account, and
in its excitement sees nothing but the offense."
"How would charity act toward a person whose manners are extremely
rude?" asked Emma.
"Charity is always giving," replied Dora, "while it exacts nothing. It
is never jealous of its own dignity. It never behaveth itself unseemly;
but beareth, hopeth, and endureth all things, even from those who know
nothing of its own sweet expression--courtesy."
"I must see Fanny Brighton again," thought Emma, "and ask Charity to
lend me her eyes, that I may see if there is nothing good in her; or if
I can manage to put out the eyes of self, by seeing nothing through
this medium, perhaps charity will become eyes to the blind."
It was by the blessing of God upon the humble efforts of that pious old
lady called Dora, that Emma had become what she was. Mrs. Lindsay was a
worldly woman, and the time had been when she had no higher hopes for
her children than to see them richly gifted with worldly
accomplishments. Her two eldest daughters, Helen and Amanda, had been
models in this respect; and for a season the mother rejoiced in this
pride of her eyes. But there is a strange intruder often found where he
is least desired, and never retiring simply because his presence is
deprecated--that is death. Who has not entertained this uninvited
guest?
When Helen and Amanda began to droop, as Emma now did, Dora was the
oldest servant in Mrs. Lindsay's family, and highly esteemed, both on
account of her fidelity and her pleasing manners. "There is something
peculiar about Dora," Mrs. Lindsay would say, "she is never untruthful
and never impolite; two ideas which, in the eyes of fashionable
etiquette, seem antagonistic. It was not, however, until her daughters
began to show symptoms of decline, that Mrs. Lindsay understood this
peculiarity in Dora.
"You must turn that religious woman out of your house," said the
physician, "or I cannot save your daughters." And Dora was severely
reprimanded by her mistress for the extreme discourtesy of offering to
read to the young ladies from the Bible.
"What can she think?" asked Helen, with concern. "The doctor says that
I shall be well in a few days; but Dora looks serious, and offers to
read to me from the Bible. You will not have me deceived, mamma?"
"No, love," said her mother, trying to persuade her own heart that
there was no cause for alarm. "Dora is religious, and such people
always have fits of being disobliging."
"She is extremely kind to me in everything else," said the poor girl;
"it is only in this thing that she makes me unhappy."
"She shall make you unhappy no more; I will forbid her to approach your
room." And so she did. Dora was accused of impertinence, and felt most
keenly that truth and the world's etiquette were at war.
Days passed on, and there were serious faces, more than one, in that
house where it was impertinent to speak of death and eternity. It is
true, that for a time gay visitors were admitted to Helen's chamber,
and there was hollow laughter there, as they talked of balls, parties,
and new fashions, and told the poor girl that she was looking better
every day: but Dora saw them whisper, and shake their heads to each
other as they passed out; and she saw that every day the mother grew
more fearful as it regarded the daughter, and kinder toward herself.
At last she was told that Helen wanted her; but she was charged to be
careful, as the poor girl was extremely weak.
"Dora, Dora," said Helen, "_you_ will tell me the truth. Mother said
that I should not be deceived; but I have been, O, I have been cruelly
deceived."
Dora talked soothingly of Him who is the resurrection and the life: but
the poor girl had opened her eyes all too suddenly upon the startling
picture of death; and now shrinking from his cold embrace, she could
not hear of hope and comfort. Her dying words were to the mother
fraught with keenest anguish, for she spoke of this cruel deceit unto
the last. Amanda soon followed her young sister to the tomb; but the
mother was spared the self-accusation and bitter sorrow attendant upon
Helen's death. Early in her sickness Amanda was consigned to the care
of Dora. It was in vain that the physician expostulated; Mrs. Lindsay
feared nothing so much as again to hear words of reproof from a dying
child for having deceived her. Dora kept her post with Christian
fidelity, and Amanda entered the dark valley and shadow of death
fearing no evil.
Emma was at that time five years of age, and Martha ten. "My dear
madam," said Dora, "fashion has robbed you of a great treasure. Your
daughters, predisposed to consumption, cannot safely obey its whimsical
demands."
"Nonsense, Dora!" replied Mrs. Lindsay. But when alone, she thought
seriously upon what the good woman had said. Memory brought before her
mind pictures from which she could not turn. The thin-soled shoes, and
silken hose, in which fashion had required her delicate daughters to
promenade the damp walks of the city; the flimsy ball-dress, the
prolonged dance, and joined with these, the sudden exposure to a wintry
air, were shades upon the bright picture of pleasures past,--dark
shades indeed, but awfully true.
"Perhaps Martha and Emma may be spared to me," said the mother to her
fashionable friends; "but how can I think of the conditions!" and her
friends talked over the matter among themselves, and concluded that,
after all, a person's life was of but little value, if they must live
secluded from the world; and they gave Mrs. Lindsay a remote hint, that
it was best to let her daughters live _while_ they lived.
Mrs. Lindsay, however, had more than once stood upon the threshold of
another life, having followed a husband and two daughters to the silent
tomb: and in her secret heart she suspected the small value of what she
had purchased at so great a cost. It seemed hard indeed to deprive her
beautiful children of a fashionable education, and the struggle was
very severe; but the mother triumphed over worldly vanity, and Monsieur
de la Beaumont was told that his services in the family as
dancing-master were no longer desired.
"One strange ting!" said monsieur; and the world at large thought the
same.
Mrs. Lindsay considered herself as having made a great sacrifice to
affection, and sometimes feared that she might live to see the day when
she should wish her little novices out of sight, somewhere. One thing
she determined on, however; and that was to take as much of the world
as she could get herself, and thus solace herself for what she was to
lose in her daughters. It cannot be supposed, that with this resolution
the mother would reserve time for the care and culture of these little
ones, who were given over to Dora with but one hope--the forlorn
one--that she would save them alive. This the old lady could not
promise to do; for she understood that having the sentence of death in
ourselves, we are not to trust human means and precautions, but only
Him who raiseth the dead. She, however, cheerfully undertook the
precious charge committed to her trust; glad from her heart that the
poor lambs had been saved from the slaughter, and praying most
earnestly that they might be claimed by the Great Shepherd, and
gathered to his fold.
Martha was a very quiet, thoughtful child, with speech and manner much
beyond her years; she was not, therefore, strictly confined to the
nursery, but allowed to mingle freely with her mother's guests. Emma,
on the contrary, was much younger, and full of wayward humors. She
greatly needed a mother; but the sacred writer has declared, "She that
liveth in pleasure is dead while she liveth." How many little hearts
have proved the bitterness of that truth! God in mercy saved little
Emma from this sad experience, by raising up for her infancy and
childhood such a friend as was the pious, faithful Dora.
"It is a promising bud," thought the good woman, "but it may wither
even without the blight of fashion; so I will try to secure for it an
immortal bloom."
Thus in the morning Dora sowed her seed, the "good seed" for an
immortal harvest; and soon the tender blade began to appear--a most
ungainly thing in the eyes of her mother; for the first fruit of Dora's
good seed, as shown by little Emma, was a great love of truth--a love
which as yet she knew not how to regulate or apply. She was a beautiful
child; and for a time her mother's vanity was gratified by having her
brought from the nursery to her drawing-rooms, to be caressed, admired,
and praised for her smart speeches; but after a time her truth-telling
propensity became too evident. The polite occupants of the drawing-room
began to whisper among themselves that Miss Emma was a spoiled child,
and had better be kept in the nursery.
Mrs. Lindsay was soon of the same opinion; for scarcely a day passed
when Emma's truthfulness did not prove a nettle to her own vanity.
"The child is rude," she would say to Dora,--"insufferably so. She told
Madame A. that she looked like an apple-tree; which might have been
taken for a compliment, had not the saucy little sprite explained
herself by pointing to that old tree in the garden which the flowering
shrubbery has decked with every variety of blossom: Mrs. A. is
extremely fond of fancy colors. And when I took her to Bowker's the
other day, that sick Miss Ellenwood was examining his new French goods,
and called my attention to a splendid piece of muslin, and asked if it
was not of beautiful texture. 'Dear Miss Ellen-wood,' interposed Emma;
'you will not want a _figured_ muslin for a _coffin_ dress.' Think of
that, Dora."
"Well, my dear madam," replied Dora; "the child heard some of your
friends say that this vain sick girl, who is spending all her slender
income in dress, would want money soon to pay for a shroud."
"Certainly, Dora, that has frequently been said; but the child should
know better than give such a hint to the young lady herself! Several
ladies were in the store, and I felt extremely mortified and shocked."
Such complaints were frequent; and at last the good Dora answered all,
by begging the mother to have patience both with herself and with the
child. "This truthfulness," said she, "is of excellent quality, but it
is now rough from the quarry. By-and-by charity will make its rough
places smooth; for love not only refines and purifies, but it
_polishes_ the hewn stone after the similitude of a palace."
Mrs. Lindsay did not understand these words, and derived but little
comfort therefrom. She could not see how Emma's bluntness was to be
refined, save by putting her into fashion's crucible; and this she more
than once resolved to do, at any risk. With this resolution, however,
there always came a fearfulness, which seemed a warning voice from the
tomb, bidding her "beware;" and to this voice of warning she took
reluctant heed.
Pursuing a quiet course of study under private tutors, Emma was still
left morally and physically to the care of her pious friend. Dora
planted in hope, and now the precious shoot was caused to spring forth
by Him who giveth the increase. This precious shoot of moral strength,
ungainly, and without form or comeliness to the world, she watered,
tended, and watched, with earnest faith for the Husbandman, whose
pruning knife should convert it into a goodly tree. Emma sometimes came
to her friend with puzzling questions; among those most frequently
asked were the following:--
"How mamma could be 'not at home,' when she was in her chamber?"
"How she could be extremely glad to see people who, she said, were
'bores, and not to be endured?'"
"Why it was more impolite to tell people what was foolish in their
appearance, than to laugh about this appearance in their absence?"
It was difficult to answer these questions, without casting a shade
over those whom Dora wished the child to love and respect. Sometimes
she told the little girl that it would often hurt people's feelings and
make them very miserable, to know just what others thought of them. And
yet the child would reply: "You say that if we would listen to God's
little voice in our hearts, it would tell us all that is wrong. Why
does he want to hurt folks' feelings? You had me read in the Bible
about the truth, how, if we come to love it, it would make us free; but
mamma says it is often impolite to speak the truth."
Dora felt, as many under similar circumstances have felt, the earnest
question pressing upon her heart: "Who is sufficient for these things?"
and with greater trembling was it asked, as Emma grew in stature and
increased in knowledge; for she saw that with the good seeds thorns had
sprung up. Emma began to pride herself upon independent thought and
action, and to show symptoms of haughty disdain toward those who
stooped to the deceit of fashionable etiquette. Dora was often pained
to hear her speak of things done and said, not for truth's sake, but
because it _plagued_ others. It was evident that she was beginning to
exult in the embarrassment which she often occasioned, but saw not the
wicked self hiding beneath her garb of truth. Dora tried hard to point
out this inward foe, but, with the blindness of a natural heart, Emma,
having eyes, saw not; and the good woman knew well, that the child
could not see, unless He that openeth the eyes of the blind should say
unto her, "Receive thy sight." She told her of that charity which
hopeth, believeth, and endureth all things; which, giving no place to
falsehood, still never behaveth itself unseemly. She warned Emma of the
heart's Ishmaelite--that truth which, incased in the armor of human
pride, ever turns its hand against its fellow: but Emma did not fear
this "strong man armed;" so she was led captive by him at his will.
Thus she was growing up like a beautiful flower thickly set with
thorns. There were, however, some among her mother's fashionable
friends who professed themselves charmed with her wit and originality.
Martha had passed the age at which her young sisters began to decline,
and gave evidence of established health. She was now allowed to attend
evening parties, and was found very tolerably, though not what the
world calls "highly accomplished." There were those, however, who
thought that Martha's solid education, good judgment, good sense, and
good taste, were accomplishments enough. Mrs. Lindsay could not help
feeling very well satisfied with her discreet, amiable daughter, though
she was not eligible to a place in the ball-room, having never learned
to dance.
But it was not until people began to call Emma a comical little beauty,
and beg her mother to fetch her to their select evening parties, that
Mrs. Lindsay ceased to feel chagrined at the sacrifice made to
affection. Emma was not long in learning by what pretty names she was
called; and with this knowledge came the strong desire to sustain a
reputation for wit and beauty. Dora saw the canker-worm at the root of
that precious plant for whose perfection she had waited with long
patience.
Emma sometimes came home and repeated her triumphs and comicalities to
this faithful friend, but receiving no answering smile, but, on the
contrary, a solemn word of reproof or warning, she would often burst
into a flood of peevish tears, saying that Dora was getting cross, and
did not love her as formerly. In this the good woman saw signs less
fearful than those of moral disease, but no less true; saw that this
exposure and excitement were rapidly wearing away the frail foundations
of health; and all that she feared was frankly expressed to the mother:
but Mrs. Lindsay having once more allowed the film of vanity to blind
the maternal eye, saw not the danger. The question, however, came to a
speedy issue; for, attending a party one evening where the rooms were
newly papered, and where, notwithstanding she felt chilly, her mother
would not allow of her being wrapped in a shawl, Emma took a violent
cold, which was immediately followed by a cough, and many other
symptoms of rapid decline. Greatly alarmed, Mrs. Lindsay consulted her
former physicians, and was again flattered with the hope that change of
air, change of scene, and other changes, would speedily produce a
change of health.
Emma knew the history of her family, and understood well why she was
hurried from land to sea, and from thence to other places remote from
her home. Dora was not allowed to accompany her, because the physician
said that her "long face" would be an incalculable injury; but that
face, always beaming with the soul's deep interest and affection, was
ever present to the sick girl. Through many a night-watch of suffering
and feverish anxiety, those loving, earnest eyes seemed looking into
her own; and Emma would say to her sister Martha, "Dear Dora! how I
long to see her! she loves me, and prays for me; it seems to me that
with Dora near I should not be afraid to die."
Thus Emma talked; and the sensible, affectionate Martha saw that change
of air and change of scene could not benefit her young sister, while
her mind was so fevered and tossed; she therefore entreated her mother
to return home, and after a time succeeded in making her understand
this to be the best course.
"O my dear Dora," said the poor weary child, as she found herself once
more in her own room at home, with the good woman at her side, "I am so
glad--_so_ glad to see you. And now I want you to stay with me, and
talk as you used to when I was a little child. O, it makes me miserable
to think how my heart wandered away from you, and from the Saviour,
Dora; for I used to feel when a little girl that he loved me."
"And he loves you still, dearest," replied the old lady, her heart
swelling with gratitude to God. "He loves you, Emma, and will receive
you freely, dear, without one word of reproach, if you will only come
back."
"I think so," said Emma, while the tears ran freely down her pale
cheeks. "I did not spend those long dreadful nights, Dora, without
thinking of him; and though ashamed of myself, I ventured to ask him,
over and over again, to pity my wretchedness, and love me still. One
night--it was not long ago--he seemed to come to me, and say the very
same things which you have just said,--that he would not cast me off;
that he loved me, even then."
What a moment of joy to the faithful Christian, who had sowed in hope,
but whose faith had been so severely tried.
The tranquillity of mind which followed Emma's return home, operated
favorably upon her health, and in a few weeks she was able to mingle
with the family as formerly. Her mother did not propose her going
abroad for company; but Emma seemed to take pleasure in being one of
their small parties at home. Very different, however, was this pleasure
from that which she had formerly sought and experienced.
"What a change in Emma Lindsay!" was an exclamation frequent among her
mother's friends. "Her pertness, repartee, and saucy witticisms are all
gone. What have they been doing for her? This winning softness and
grace of manner seems foreign to her nature."
"I never thought," said another, "that I should come to love Emma
Lindsay; but I do, and cannot help it--she is so lovely, so polite, and
yet so _sincere_." A mystery, indeed, to the worldly wise, how
politeness and sincerity could be made to embrace each other.
The solemn subjects of death and eternity were matters of frequent and
free conversation between Emma and her pious friend; and now, though
there seemed some respite from the speedy execution of the sentence,
"Thou shalt die, and not live," neither thought of the matter in any
other light than that of a _little_ time given for work important to be
done. Happy for Emma that she took this view of the subject, since it
saved her from that remissness too common among the followers of
Christ.
"The Lord seems to have need of me," Emma would say to the good Dora;
while she would answer, "Yes, dear, but be ready for him at his coming;
be sure that you are able to say, 'I have _finished_ the work thou
gavest me to do.'"
Notwithstanding these favorable indications, as it regarded the health
of her daughter, Mrs. Lindsay was sometimes roused from her security by
symptoms less favorable, and at last resolved to follow the advice of
Emma's physician, and take up a permanent residence in the country.
Hence their removal to Appledale.