AND LAST.
FOR two or three days Ethel bore her confinement to the sofa very well;
but as Saturday drew near, she began to fret. What was to become of the
sewing-school and the infant-class, and the music, and all the rest of
it? She was sure she could ride up to the Hill if the doctor would only
let her, and made an attempt to demonstrate the fact by walking across
the room. Unfortunately for the success of the experiment, she dropped
down half-way, and nearly fainted with the pain in her ankle.
Dr. Ray was very much displeased. "Ethel," said he, "do you want to be
lame for life? Do you think your own interests or those of any one else
will be promoted by your becoming a helpless cripple?"
"Of course not," replied Ethel, rather alarmed. "Do you think there is
any danger of that?"
"There is imminent danger of it, if you go on trying to walk at
present. If you keep quiet, and do as you are bid, I think you may be
about again in six weeks at farthest. If you don't, you are likely to
be laid up for life. And what is more, Ethel, unless you will follow my
directions exactly, I will have nothing to do with your ankle. You will
have to find some other surgeon, for I will have no patient who will
not obey directions."
Dr. Ray was by no means one of those wonderful heroes whose
"irresistible wills" make such a figure in the minds of some (usually
single) ladies. He had no ambition to "sway all who came under his
influence," or to "make everything bend to his indomitable resolution."
Nevertheless, when he set his foot down, he meant to be obeyed, and he
had a way with him at such times which did not invite discussion.
Ethel gave up the point, sullenly enough it must be confessed; but she
did give it up, and tried no more experiments.
She was lying still, without any pretence of employment and feeling
very forlorn and rebellious indeed, when Dr. Ray came back and sat down
beside her. Ethel roused herself and tried to speak, if not pleasantly
at least indifferently.
"You sitting down at this time of day?" said she. "That is a wonderful
sight."
"Yes, a rare one, at any rate; but I am likely to have a spare
half-hour for once, owing to the stupidity of the blacksmith, who has
put on my horse's shoes so that they hurt him. These rests which, so to
speak, come of themselves, or, at least, without our seeking, are very
grateful sometimes."
"Yes, if one does not feel all the time that one ought to be up and
doing," replied Ethel, with a sigh. "In that case they are anything but
grateful."
"My dear," said the doctor, "shall I impart to your youthful mind a
piece of wisdom learned by experience, which has been a great comfort
to me?"
"If you please," said Ethel.
"It does not sound like anything so very remarkable," continued
the doctor; "in fact, at first sight, it may sound like a truism.
Nevertheless, I was thirty years in learning it. My comforting truth
is simply this: 'It never is or can be our duty to do what it is
absolutely impossible that we should accomplish.' In other words, the
work which we cannot possibly do is not our work, and therefore we are
to feel no responsibility about it."
"I understand your truth and its application," said Ethel, after a
moment's consideration. "You mean that as I cannot possibly go to Iron
Hill, it is not my duty to go."
"Exactly."
"But, brother, one may feel anxiety and grief, if not responsibility,"
remarked Ethel. "My conscience may not reproach me for staying away
when I am not able to go to the sewing-school; but I cannot help
feeling uneasy lest things should go wrong, and grief at not meeting my
scholars."
"I grant that," replied Dr. Ray; "but, my dear, you should know by this
time where to lay all such burdens as that. Don't you think the Master
whom you are trying to serve at Iron Hill can get the work done without
you? And don't you believe he will hear you if you ask him in faith to
supply your place? And ought you to repine if he sees fit for a time to
give your work to somebody else?"
Ethel was silent for a little space; then she said, in a low voice, "I
believe the truth is I don't want him to let any one else do my work."
"That is it! A good deal, you see, depends on whether you call it
'your' work or 'his' work. 'Your' work can only be done in certain
times and places, and under certain circumstances; his work can be done
at all times, and in any place where he puts you."
"I believe you are right," said Ethel; "but yet—" She did not finish
the sentence.
"But yet—" said the doctor.
Then, as Ethel did not answer, he drew his chair closer to her, and
went on talking in the peculiar gentle quiet tone which had soothed and
comforted so many sick nerves and hearts.
"My dear, I don't want to penetrate your secrets, if you have any; but
I believe I see what your mind is running on, and what makes it so
peculiarly hard, as you think, that you should be laid up just now.
Unless I have read you wrongly during the last few months, you have a
grand purpose in view, and you have been resolutely training yourself
for that end,—conquering your fears and fancies, and learning all sorts
of ways of making yourself useful. You feel particularly interested in
your school at Iron Hill, not only for its own sake, but because there
you are all the time learning and practising what will fit you for
usefulness in the great career you have marked out for yourself. Have I
guessed rightly?"
"You have, indeed," replied Ethel. "But how did you guess it?"
"Oh, I am not an absolute 'non compos!'" said the doctor, smiling. "I
can put two and two together, and find out the sum. And tell me, do you
believe your great aim to be such as the Master can approve and bless?"
"Yes, indeed, I do," answered Ethel. "And you mean that all you do
shall be done to his service?"
"I do, indeed!"
"Then, my dear, let me ask you a simple question. Which do you think
best understands the training which is to fit you for this great work,
the Master or yourself? Whose lessons are likely to be the best worth
learning,—those which he gives you, or those which you select for
yourself?"
"Those which he gives me, of course," replied Ethel, without
hesitation. "I am sure of that. I see your meaning, brother. You mean
that as this misfortune is sent or allowed by him, I may use it in
preparing myself for his service as I have used my work at the Mission!"
"Just so; exactly. You may learn a great many different things while
you are lying here on the sofa—"
"You mean patience and humility, and so on."
"Yes; all the passive virtues, and more than that. You can use your
head pretty well, can't you? I have not heard of any new symptoms of
'softening of the brain,'" he added, mischievously; for brain disease
used to be one of Ethel's favourite bugbears.
Ethel laughed. "I have come to the conclusion of old Father William in
'Little Alice,'" said she. "I am so perfectly sure I have none, that I
do it again and again. I believe my brain was made so soft originally
that it admits of no more softening. How I used to torment myself
with such fancies when I had nothing to do but to notice every little
disagreeable feeling."
"Well, then, to keep the fancies from coming back, suppose you go to
work at some study. How would you like reading a little Italian with
me?"
Ethel thought it would be charming; but the next day, when the doctor
came in to see her, she had something new to talk about.
"Brother, don't you think that, if I am to teach or have the charge of
girls, I ought to know something of physiology?"
"Certainly, my dear. Every one ought to know something about the
structure and functions of the human body."
"I was going to say that I should like to have you give me some lessons
on the subject, if you thought it would be a good plan," said Ethel.
"We might read our Italian all the same. There is time enough," she
added, sighing.
"I think that a very good plan," said Dr. Ray, very much pleased. "But,
dear, I thought you used to detest all such studies."
"Well, I do think they are horrid," replied Ethel, candidly. "The
pictures are so perfectly ghastly. But, then, if one ought to know it,
that does not matter."
"Perhaps you will not think it so very horrid, when you learn something
about the science," said the doctor. "But come, let us have some Dante.
Don't begin at the beginning. Turn over to the twenty-eighth canto of
the Purgatorio."
Ethel did as she was bid, and, as they read on, she was surprised
at not only the poetical feeling but the learning displayed by her
brother-in-law.
"You must have studied a great deal at some time or other," said she.
"Now 'please' don't quote that horrid proverb about the toad. But why
did you never tell me you knew Italian, brother? You might have helped
Anna and me so much."
"Why, to give you an Italian proverb this time, do you know why the
toads have no tails?"
"I am sure I don't."
"Because they never asked for any," replied the doctor, smiling. "You
never asked me to help you about that or anything else."
"I was very unjust to you in a great many ways," said Ethel, blushing
as she remembered her fancies about her brother-in-law. "I used to
think you had no feeling and no sympathy for me."
"I know. I understood it exactly. I thought you would find me out in
time."
With all the patience that Ethel could muster, and all that her friends
could do to help her, she found her confinement very tedious. She
missed the interests which had lately occupied her, and she found it
rather hard to keep herself in a proper frame of mind,—hard not to be a
little jealous when Anna told her how well Mary Rose managed the infant
room, and how useful Margaret Fleming and Nelly Davis were in the
sewing-school; for Nelly had really been "drawn into the vortex," as
she declared, and her friends were much amused to see how enthusiastic
she became. Ethel began to feel a little as if her place were filled—as
if she were likely to be no longer wanted or cared for in the school,
and the feeling cost her a few tears and a pretty sharp struggle with
herself.
But she forgot all about her jealousy the first time she was allowed
to ride up to Iron Hill, on a Saturday afternoon, and saw how heartily
glad both children and teachers were to see her again. Her scholars
almost quarrelled as to who should take her hat and cloak, and who
should sit next her in the class. The Sunday-school had enlarged
greatly in her absence, and now contained almost every child on the
Hill.
The evening congregations had also increased, and there was serious
talk of a subscription for building a chapel and organizing a church.
The partners in the foundry promised a good large subscription to begin
with, and Mr. Melsence offered the gift of an eligible lot of land for
building purposes.
There had also been some opposition to contend with. Mr. Millar lost no
opportunity of ridiculing the whole affair and imputing the worst of
motives to those engaged in it, and his wife tried her best to make the
mothers of the children jealous of their teachers' influence. She had
taken Jenny out of the school; but Jenny, being used to have her own
way, had soon come back again, and attended with great regularity. The
proprietor of the lager-beer saloon had also done his best to break up
the services, even setting some of his customers to make a disturbance
under the chapel windows; but the second time this was done, two
policemen were on hand, and the disturbers were promptly taken into
custody.
The Roman Catholic priest was also very bitter against the
Sunday-schools especially, and for a while, several of the German
children were withdrawn. But they presently came dropping back one by
one, and at last one family became regular attendants at the chapel.
The Iron Hill Mission was evidently a success, and Mr. Dalton did not
hesitate to say that this success was more owing to his young lady
assistants than to his own labours.
"Ethel has a special aptitude for teaching," said he, one day, talking
over the matter with Emily. "She knows how to keep the attention of the
children awake and to keep them interested, not by amusing them all the
time, but by making them do their work well and thoroughly. Moreover,
she has the art or knack, or whatever it is, of government. She knows
how to 'prevent' disturbances and to keep up discipline without making
a fuss about it."
"In short," said Emily, smiling and sighing at the same time, "she is
exactly made for a missionary."
"Exactly."
"I think you ought to be careful how you influence her, Henry," said
Emily, gravely. "You know how she looks up to you, and how much weight
she attaches to your opinion."
"I mean she shall decide the matter wholly for herself," replied Mr.
Dalton. "It has always been a favourite project of mine, I may say ever
since she was born, to have Ethel educated for the missionary work; but
I have never but once mentioned the matter to her. She knows what my
wishes are, of course; but I have said not one word to persuade her,
and I do not intend to do so; but if Ethel herself makes up her mind
that she wishes to go out with me when I return, I shall certainly do
all in my power to advance her purpose and assist her preparations."
"I shall not say a word against it," said Emily, sighing. "Nobody knows
how much I shall miss her; but, after all, my sister is no more to me,
I suppose, than other people's sisters and daughters are to them. I
believe in my heart that Ethel is unusually fitted for the work of a
missionary, and that if her father and mother were here to speak, they
would approve of her devoting herself to this work. When do you mean to
talk to her again?"
"Whenever she comes to me desiring me to do so. She particularly
wished that nothing should be said to her till after Christmas. That
was when we began our work together at Iron Hill. I think she then put
herself upon a certain probation to convince herself as to her own
qualifications. I imagine she will open the subject after holidays, and
of course she will have no secrets from you."
The Christmas holidays were a success at Iron Hill. There was a
chapel trimming, of course, to which Richard Trim contributed some
beautiful nasturtiums and geraniums, carefully raised for the purpose.
There was a missionary lecture with the magic-lantern, and finally
a Christmas-tree for the Sunday-and sewing-schools, with plenty of
pretty presents, and good things to eat, for which latter the executive
committee were largely indebted to good Mrs. Fowler's generosity.
Everything went off delightfully, and the next Sunday Mr. Dalton
gave notice of a meeting of the men to take measures for building
a permanent chapel and school-room. Yes, the Iron Hill mission was
certainly a success.
"I have come to ask a favour, brother Henry," said Ethel, entering her
brother's room on the last day of the old year.
"Well," said Mr. Dalton, "I am pretty safe, I suppose, in saying 'Yes'
beforehand, since your requests are not commonly unreasonable. Do you
want me to hold your worsted while you wind it?"
"You may, if you please, though that is not what I was going to ask."
Mr. Dalton held out his hands, and Ethel invested them with the wool,
which she proceeded to wind into a "haycock," after the approved
fashion of skilful crochet-workers.
"Well, now tell me what is your great favour?" asked Mr. Dalton, when
the haycock was well under way. "You have me at advantage, for I cannot
get away from you."
"I want you to teach me Syriac, or Turkish, or whatever it is you speak
out there," said Ethel, trying to speak lightly, though her hands
trembled.
"Syriac!" said Mr. Dalton. "And why does the little sister want to
learn Syriac?"
"I shall have to speak it, I suppose, when I go out there with you,"
replied Ethel. "And if I learn it beforehand, it will be so much clear
gain, will it not?"
"It certainly will," replied Mr. Dalton. And then, after a little
pause, "So you have decided?"
"I have decided to try, if you think I have any chance of success,"
replied Ethel. "You can begin to judge by this time, I should think,
whether I am likely to be a help or a hindrance to you."
"I see no reason why you should not be a great help, not only to me,
but to every one around us," said Mr. Dalton. "I was remarking to Emily
the other day that you seemed to have a special aptitude for teaching
and governing children. But, little sister, have you counted the cost?"
"I have counted it so far, I suppose, as any one can count it
beforehand," said Ethel. "I have considered the grief of parting from
friends, the dangers and inconveniences of the journey, and the many
annoyances to which I must necessarily be exposed. I have read over and
over all Miss Beecher's letters, and everything else which I can find
to read on the subject. Yes, I think I have counted the cost, as far as
it is possible beforehand, and still I desire to go. I have promised
Matthew one thing—that I will be governed by his judgment as to the
matter of health; and if he says I am not well enough, I will give up
the undertaking: but I am not very much alarmed about that."
"Then you have talked to the doctor?"
"He talked to me," replied Ethel. "He found out my secret, as did Mrs.
Jones; and we have had several conversations on the subject. He says he
wishes he could go himself."
"I wish, with all my heart, he would!" exclaimed Mr. Dalton. "Such a
medical man as he would be worth everything."
"Of course, that is out of the question," said Ethel; "but Matthew says
he means to talk to Dr. Denman,—that unfortunate young man to whom
Jones sends the people who come on stormy nights. But, Henry, you have
not answered my question. Will you teach me Syriac?"
"I will, indeed, my dear little sister," said Mr. Dalton, kissing her;
"and more gladly and thankfully than I can tell you. You could not ask
me to do anything which would give me so much pleasure. When shall we
begin?"
"To-morrow, if you like. I should like to begin on New Year's day."
"But what about the roaches and the spiders, and so on?" asked Mr.
Dalton, smiling.
"I am going to make a collection of them to send to Aunt Dorinda!"
replied Ethel, smiling in her turn. "I wonder what she will say to me?"
"She will say it is just what she expected, and that she always foresaw
it; and, what is more, she will really think so," replied Mr. Dalton.
"I am thankful that she does not turn her own attention that way. What
a fine kettle of hot water she would have worked up for us in about a
month's time."
"Oh, you do not do Aunt Dorinda justice!" said Ethel. "As she would
say, you cannot forgive her for lecturing you about your sermon. There
is a great deal of good in Aunt Dorinda, after all."
"I have never thought of denying it," replied her brother. "The more is
the pity that she neutralizes it by her disagreeable manners."
"She told me, after Cathy Lee asked her to come and see her, that Cathy
was the very first poor person who ever invited her cordially to call
again," continued Ethel. "I was always glad that Aunt Dorinda stayed
that last week. I have had quite a different feeling toward her ever
since. But to return to our great subject: Henry, do you think I may
consider the matter settled—settled, I mean, as far as anything can be
so long beforehand?"
"I think we may, my dear and may that Divine Master, to whom you have
dedicated your life's work, bless that work to his service, and you in
doing it, so that you may at last hear the sentence, 'Thou hast been
faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things;
enter thou into the joy of thy Lord."
There is little more to be added to this history.
The Iron Hill Mission has ceased to be a mission, and become a healthy,
self-supporting free church, well attended and growing all the time.
Old Mrs. Trim has gone home; and Richard has taken to wife that very
Matty McHenry whose taste in dress was moulded upon Ethel's. Cathy Lee
is well, and, though one leg is a little contracted, she can walk as
well as ever. The two sisters are once more living together, making
money at dress-making, and already talk of buying back their old home,
and living once more in the country among old friends. Anna Burgers is
married, but still lives at home, and finds time for many good works
among the poor and ignorant.
The doctor's house is more full of children's voices. Aunt Dorinda is a
frequent visitor, rather to the detriment of family government, it must
be confessed, for she thinks the children ought to have everything they
want, and fears that Emily will spoil them by over-strictness. But,
as Emily herself says, she does no great harm, and it is worth some
trouble to see the old lady so happy.
Ethel's third year of probation is rapidly drawing to a close, and it
is no secret now that she is to go to Persia with her brother in the
spring. Of course a great many different opinions are expressed about
the matter; but Ethel herself has never wavered for a moment since
that New Year's eve when she made her final resolution. She has all
the time been preparing herself for the work she has in view; and she
is quite ready to take it up in humility indeed, but without fear,
resting in Him who has promised to them that lay down their lives for
Him a thousand-fold more in this life, and in the world to come life
everlasting.
Which of my readers, on finishing this book, will lay it down,
and honestly, in the fear of the Lord, ask herself, "Have 'I' any
responsibility in this matter? Is there any one better able to go
out on this work than I am?" Lift up your eyes, dear girls, and see
the fields white to the harvest, and the good grain being wasted and
stolen, and trodden under foot, because there is no one to gather it,
and then ask yourselves, "Is there no place for me to work in all this
wide field?"
THE END.