THE SUNDAY SCHOOL.
PERHAPS Amy's business-like tone about the school classes fell a little
flat upon Jessie's ear. She had not been to a Sunday school in her
childhood. Her father had been a prosperous upholsterer's foreman in
Minsterham, and Grace and Jessie had gone to an "academy" till, when
they were sixteen and fourteen years old, their father died of a fever,
and their mother, who had a cottage of her own at Langley, resolved on
coming back and setting up a small shop there for all sorts of wares,
with Clementina Hollis over the door.
Jessie was about eighteen, two years younger than her sister. She had
always been a bright, quick, lively girl, but never very thoughtful, and
much too inquisitive, till her curiosity had brought on her a terrible
accident, which had kept her laid up in a hospital for many weeks. She
had come home quite well at last, and much improved. A fellow patient,
and likewise a lady who had visited her and lent her books, had both
made much impression on her. She cared about right and wrong as she had
never done before, was more useful at home, and tried to restrain her
inclination to find out all about everything; she said her prayers more
carefully, went to Church more often, and heeded more what she heard;
and altogether she was what her mother called an altered girl. This was
Lent, and a clergyman was staying with Mr. Somers to preach a course of
sermons on the Friday evenings, and it was one of these that had so much
struck these young girls, and had put into their minds for the first
time, with any real force, the full sense that the true Christian must
seek to work for the good of the household of Christ as well as his own
household, and that "bringing forth good fruit" does not simply mean
taking care of oneself, and trying to save one's own soul.
The language had been beautiful and stirring, and there was a burning
desire in more than one heart to be doing something for Christ's sake.
The first thing that Jessie thought of was the Sunday school. She had
read books about it, and her fellow patient was full of ardour about
"training little lambs," as she called it, so that it seemed the most
beautiful and suitable task she could undertake.
Amy Lee, on the other hand, hardly knew how to spend a Sunday without
the school. She had been a scholar there until she had quite outgrown
the first class, and had been more than a year confirmed, and then she
had become a teacher of the little ones. She liked the employment, and
was fond of the children; she would have been sorry to drop the
connection with Miss Manners or with Miss Joy, the mistress, and the
rest of the school staff; she was pleased to work for and with Mr.
Somers and Miss Manners, and she had been trained to be reverent and
attentive; but it had never occurred to her to think of it as more than
a nice and good thing to do, or to look on it as a work undertaken for
Christ's sake.
"Teaching at school, I do that already," she said to herself, when Aunt
Rose's entrance had made her work her machine more and her tongue less.
"I must get something more to do. Oh! I know. There's poor old
half-blind Mrs. Long. She is left to herself terribly, they do say, and
I'll go and tidy her up, and see to her and read to her every day. I
could do it before my work and after. Maybe I might get her to be a
better old woman than she ever has been. Books say that nothing so
softens an old woman as a nice, bright young girl coming in to make much
of her, and I'm sure I'm nice and bright--not so much in myself, but
compared with the whole lot of Longs."
So Amy told her plan to her aunts, as soon as Florence and Jessie had
gone home to dinner.
The two aunts looked at one another, and Aunt Charlotte said, "Did the
sermon make you think of that?" in rather a doubtful tone.
"Yes," said Amy. "One seemed to long to be doing some good, not be only
an empty flower, as he said."
"Mrs. Long," said Aunt Rose; "she ain't a very nice person to fix
upon."
"But no one wants it so much, aunt," said Amy.
"That's true," said Aunt Charlotte. "Well, Amy, we must think about it,
and speak to your father. Run out now, and gather a bit of parsley for
his cheese."
Amy knew it was to get her out of the way, and felt rather disappointed
that the proposal was not seized upon at once, and applauded.
"She's a good girl," said Aunt Rose.
"Well, so she is, and I don't like to stand in her way," said Aunt
Charlotte.
"But to pitch on old Sally Long of all folk in the world!" said Rose.
"There's no doubt but she does want something done for her; but I
misdoubt me if she will choose our Amy to do it. Besides, I don't like
her tongue. That's what daunts me most."
"Yes. If she took it kind of the girl, she would never be satisfied
without talking to her of all the old backbiting tales that ever was!
And we that have kept our girl up from hearing of all evil just like a
lady--"
"What is it?" said Ambrose Lee, himself coming in, after putting up his
cart.
"Why, that sermon last night has worked upon our Amy, so that she wants
to do something extra," said Aunt Rose.
"A right down good sermon it was," said the father; "a bit flowery, to
suit the maidens, I suppose."
"And she said it all off to me, quite beautiful," said Rose, who had
stayed at home.
"And what does the child want to be doing? I won't have her go back to
her books again, to worry her head into aching."
"No, that's not what she wants. Her notion is to run in and out and see
to old Widow Long."
"Widow Long!" exclaimed the baker. "Why, she's got as slandering a
tongue as any in the parish! Give the poor old soul a loaf or a sup of
broth if you like, but I'll not have my girl running in and out to hear
all the gossip of the place, and worse."
"I knew you would say so, Ambrose," returned Charlotte. "All the same,
the child's thought shames me that I've never done anything for the poor
old thing; and she won't harm me."
Ambrose chuckled a little. "I don't know but aunt likes a spice of
gossip as much as her niece. 'Tis she tells us all the news."
"Well, I can get plenty of that in the shop, without going to Dame Long
for it," said Charlotte, laughing. "I like the real article, genuine and
unadulterated."
They were laughing at Aunt Charlotte's wit when Amy came in, and she
looked from one to the other, afraid they were laughing at her project,
and ready to be offended or hurt. She did not like it when her father
said, "Look here, my girl, Aunt Charlotte says Dame Long's dish of
tongue is too spicy for you, and she must have it for herself."
"I don't know what you mean, father," said Amy, nearly crying, "I didn't
want it for that."
"No, you didn't, child," said Charlotte; "but come along here, I want
you to help me dish up."
Amy came with the tears standing in her eyes into the back kitchen,
vexed, angered, and ready to be cross. Her aunt set her to prepare the
dish for the Irish stew, while she said, "Father was at his jokes with
me, Amy. He don't like you to be running in and out to old Sally Long by
yourself; no more does your Aunt Rosy nor I; but the poor old body
didn't ought to be neglected, and the sermon was just as much for me as
for you, so I've made up my mind to look after her a bit, and you may
come in with me sometimes if you like."
"That was not what I meant," said Amy, rather fretfully.
"I dare say not. There, mind what you are about, or you'll have that
dish down. Where's the flour? Come, now, Amy, don't be daunted, if you
can't do good quite in your own way; why shouldn't you ask Miss Dora
now?"
Amy muttered and pouted. "I'm not such a child now!"
"Ain't you then, to be making such a pout at not getting just your own
way."
Down came the dish with a bounce on the table, and away ran Amy up the
stairs, where she cried and choked, and thought how hard it was that she
should be hindered, and laughed at, and scolded, when she wanted to do
good, and bring forth the fruit of good works.
She heard Aunt Rose ask where she was, and her Aunt Charlotte answer,
"Oh! she will be down in a minute."
She felt it kind that no one said that she was in the sulks. The relief
did her good; she could not bear that any one should guess what was
amiss. So she washed her face in haste, tidied her hair and collar, and
hoped that she looked as if she had gone up for nothing else.
Perhaps her father had had a hint, and she was his great pet, so he took
care that the apprentices should not suspect that Amy had been "upset."
So he began to tell what had made him late at home. He had overtaken
poor Widow Smithers in much trouble, for she had had a note from the
hospital to say that her little boy, Edwin, must be discharged as
incurable. It was a hip complaint, and he could not walk, and she had
not been able to find any way of getting him home.
It so happened that all the gentlefolks were out for the day, and she
did not get her letter in time before the market people set off. She was
indeed too poor to hire a conveyance, and was going in, fearing that she
might have to carry this nine-year-old boy herself five miles unless she
could get a lift. So Mr. Lee had driven her into the town, and after
doing his work there, had come up to the hospital, and had taken her in
with poor little Edwin, who was laid on a shawl in the cart, but cried a
good deal at the jolting. The doctors said that they could do no more
for the poor little fellow, and she would have to take him home and do
the best she could for him.
It fell very hard upon her, poor woman, for she was obliged to go out to
work every day, since she had four children, and only Harry, the one who
was older then Edwin, earned anything--and indeed he only got three
shillings a week for minding some cows on the common. The two girls
_must_ go to school, and indeed they were too young to be of much use
and the boy would have to be left alone all day, except for the dinner
hour, as he had been before the hospital had been tried for him.
"There, Amy," said Aunt Charlotte, as they were clearing away the dinner
things after the menfolk had gone out, "there's something you could do.
It would be a real kindness to go in and see after that poor little
man."
"Yes," added Rose; "you might run in at dinner time, and I'd spare you a
little time then, and you might read to him, and cheer him up--yes, and
teach him a bit too."
"Edwin Smithers was always a very tiresome, stupid little boy," said
Amy, rather crossly, from her infant school recollections.
"Then he will want help all the more," said Aunt Rose, and it sounded
almost like mimicry of what Amy had said of old Mrs. Long.
She did not like it at all. It is the devices of our own heart that we
prefer to follow, whether for good or harm, and specially when we think
them good. And yet we specially pray that we may do all such good works
as our Lord hath _prepared for us to walk in_, as if we were to rejoice
in having our opportunities set out before us, yet the teaching a dull
little boy of whom she had had experience in the infant school, did not
seem to her half such interesting work as converting an old woman of
whom strange things were said.
However, Amy was on the whole a good girl, though she had her little
tempers, and did not guard against them as she ought, thinking that what
was soon over did not signify.
By and by, Jessie came back radiant with gladness, and found a moment
to say, before Florence Cray came in, that her mother was quite
agreeable to her teaching in the Sunday school, if Miss Manners liked
it. She had gone there herself for some years when she and Miss Manners
were both young, and she was well pleased that her daughter should be
helpful there.
Amy, who was fond of Jessie, was delighted to think of having her
company all the way to school, and her little fit of displeasure melted
quite away. But when Florence was heard coming in, both girls were
silent on their plans, knowing that she would only laugh at their
wishing to do anything so dull.