The saving of Nellie Sherman became an intense and passionate
purpose in Sara Wharton’s life. Day by day, hour by hour, she
watched and fought and prayed. She invented (according to the
most approved charity methods) work for the vain and shiftless
child; she had her taught to sew; she was careful to provide
plenty of bright and wholesome amusement for her; by and by
Nellie felt yearnings to be a bookkeeper, and Sara Wharton sent
her to a commercial school. “You can pay me back when you get
work,” she said, as cheerfully as though she believed that Nellie
was capable of feeling a money obligation. She entered Nellie’s
name at her Girls’ Club; she took her to concerts, and sent her
books, and planned and thought and hoped; and always, always
prayed. Furthermore, she loved the girl. That is to say, she
called it love; and perhaps it was, in its way; at least it was
that greater love that is content to give and not receive. Sara
gave her very self--her power, her charm, her sweet and generous
enthusiasms--fully and freely into the little, mean hands that
were held out to take all they could get. “Because,” she said to
herself, again, “the only way to reach her is to love her. Love is
the greatest thing in the world! I’ve no doubt I would have been
just as bad as Nellie if I hadn’t had so much love.” This thought
made the girl rise, and go and push her mother’s sewing aside, and
kiss her, with a little half laughing break in her voice, and her
eyes suddenly wet with tears.
“What is it? What is it?” Mrs. Wharton said breathlessly, adjusting
her spectacles, which the impetuous embrace had disturbed; “is
anything the matter, Sara?”
“No,” her daughter answered, with a laugh, winking away the tears,
“I was just thinking how lucky I was to have you for a mother, you
darling! If I’d had some cross old mother I should have been--I
should have been a fiend! I haven’t a doubt of it. I’d have been
just as wicked as poor Nellie Sherman.”
“Nothing of the sort!” retorted Mrs. Wharton, much ruffled; “please
remember what kind of people your grand-parents on both sides were,
and don’t say such unladylike things, Sara. Dear, dear, I don’t
know what girls are coming to in these days. When I was young,
young ladies didn’t know that such improper persons existed as your
Nellie Sherman. I wish you would have nothing to do with her.”
Sara, on her knees beside the little, rosy, kindly lady, pulled her
cap straight, and scolded her for making her forefinger rough with
so much sewing.
“You are always making petticoats for poor people,” she said
severely, “instead of talking to me about my winter clothes. I
want a new dinner dress, ma’am, and you’ve got to buy it. I’ve
used up all my allowance, and borrowed from father on the next
quarter; so please help the deserving poor of your own household.
Charity begins at home, let me tell you! Who is to have this
petticoat?--while your own poor child is in want of a satin gown!”
“Well,” Mrs. Wharton said, with some confusion, “the fact is,
Nellie looks so sickly I am afraid she is not warmly enough clad”--
Sara shrieked with laughter. “Consistency, thy name is Mother,”
she cried; and began to pour out her plans for Nellie, which Mrs.
Wharton amended several times, objecting to Sara’s assertion that
Nellie should repay the money expended for her tuition at the
commercial college.
“The poor thing will have so little money, anyhow,” she entreated.
But Sara held to her theory.
“We’ll make it up in other ways,--petticoats, and things, but she
must feel it a loan,” she said.
However, Miss Wharton’s theories were far too fine for the material
with which she worked. When the three terms at the commercial
college were over, Nellie was languidly grateful, but she doubted
whether she should like bookkeeping; she was, however, willing to
“give it a trial;” so Sara found a place in a shop for her, and,
as the proprietor (another friend and dependent) could not pay
the full wages, made up the sum herself. But it never occurred to
Nellie to begin to pay her debt; and Sara, fearful of antagonizing
the child, cast her theory to the winds, and did not suggest it.
So the first year passed. The anxious, courageous, artificial fight
never flagged; and Nellie, for twelve months, was “straight.” There
had been great expenditure of time and strength and money to save
the little creature; and in a purely negative way the effort had
been successful. Nellie was “straight.”
Yet Sara Wharton was sometimes dreadfully discouraged; she could
not see a single large or noble trait in the girl, although it was
her sweet and loving theory to believe in what she did not see.
“Goodness is there, somewhere!” she used to say to herself, with
a beautiful and courageous belief which was part of her own
character; and then she fell back on what she had called “the
greatest thing in the world:” “Goodness is there, and I’ve got to
_love it out_!” She took Nellie’s latent goodness for granted,
especially in her effort to overcome the child’s enveloping
selfishness. She was constantly trying to make her realize the
happiness of sacrifice.
“Nellie,” she said once, “now that you’ve got your place as
bookkeeper, and are earning some money, of course you want to pay
me; but I think, even before that, you must want to pay for your
board at your aunt’s. She has been so good to you, you know; and
I’m sure you’ll be glad to help her along a little?”
“Oh, certainly!” Nellie replied, with a blank look.
“How much do you think you can pay?” Sara suggested cheerfully.
“Well, just now,” Nellie demurred, “I really have to have a new
dress; perhaps, later, I can give her a little something.”
Sara looked at her wistfully. “Don’t you _want_ to, Nellie? I
should think your very first thought would be to do something for
her. Just think what she has done for you!”
“Of course, I mean to,” Nellie said, tossing her head, “but I’ve
got to have a dress--and things.”
“If only,” Sara reflected, “she could once understand how awfully
nice it is to give!” and then she planned that every Saturday
Nellie might come to the greenhouse and get some roses from the
gardener,--“and take them to the hospital. It is delightful to
do that!” she said. And Nellie smiled faintly, and said, “Oh,
certainly;” but only came once for the flowers.
Nevertheless, Nellie Sherman had been “rescued.” Almost the same
sort of rescue would have been achieved if Sara had fastened her
into a strait-jacket and locked her into a room. But with Miss
Wharton on one side, and her aunt on the other, day and night, the
strange, boneless, unmoral little nature “kept straight;” and in a
glimmering way the girl even began to see that there were certain
views which were thought admirable, and once in a while she tried
them on, as it were, and regarded herself in the mirror of Miss
Wharton’s warm and joyous approbation.
“I was so sorry not to see you at the club last night, Nellie,”
Sara said to her one day, dropping in to buy a pair of gloves at
the shop where Nellie kept the books.
“My aunt wasn’t well,” said Nellie, “and I stayed at home to take
care of her.” Such a light came into Sara Wharton’s sweet face,
such tenderness and triumph and quick hope, that Nellie looked at
her curiously.
“That was right, Nellie, dear,” she said; “I’m so glad you did it.
I’m _so_ glad,” she repeated, and went away, her eyes misty and her
heart lifted up. She could not help going in to see Mrs. Sherman,
making the excuse of bringing her some fruit because she was ill,
but really to share her exultation.
“Sick?” said Mrs. Sherman, “why, no, ma’am, I’m not sick, no
more than I always am with worry about that there Nellie. She
didn’t come home from the club last night until after eleven, and
I was scared to death for fear she’d gone off with them Caligan
girls--they’re fast girls, that’s what they are; and she’s struck
up a great friendship with ’em. My, she’ll worry me into my grave,
Nellie will. But she said you’d kept her late to help you putting
away the club books,--and of course that was all right.”