THE FIRST VISIT.
"Bruce is right; whenever a disagreeable duty is to be done, the sooner
we get over it the better," said Emmie to herself, as, accompanied by
Susan, she started on her walk before luncheon on the following day. A
cloud of care was on the youthful face which looked so fair and gentle
under the shade of the broad-brimmed garden-hat which the maiden wore.
Emmie had "screwed up her courage to the sticking-point," and had
resolved not to return home without having performed her self-allotted
task of, at least, entering two of the cottages inhabited by her
father's tenants. The young lady had a couple of fly-leaves in her hand,
with their attractive pictures outermost,--these were what Bruce had
called her ammunition; but the timid recruit had a reserve, on which she
counted more, in the form of a half-crown slipped into her left glove,
ready to be produced in a moment. There are many district visitors who
may remember the time when they started on their first campaign as
reluctantly and as timidly as did the inexperienced Emmie.
It may have been observed that the maiden undertook her work simply as a
hard duty. She was urged onwards by a brother's counsels, and pricked by
the goad of conscience. There was in Miss Trevor none of the hopeful,
earnest spirit which hears the Master's call, and answers it with the
cry, "Here am I; send me!" Emmie had indeed prayed for help in entering
on her new sphere, but her prayer was not the prayer of faith. She did
not realize that God could indeed make her a channel through which His
stream of blessing might flow on a parched and thirsty land. She did not
believe that her dumb lips might be so opened that her mouth might show
forth His praise. Emmie had a profound mistrust of her own powers. Such
mistrust is safe and may be salutary; but she confounded that innocent
diffidence with what was really mistrust of God. The girl knew her own
weakness; so far, all was well; but there was unbelief in not resting on
the almighty strength of her God. Emmie would have been startled and
shocked had the truth been clothed in words, but she was really
regarding the Most High as a Master who commands that bricks should be
made without giving the needful straw, as a Leader who sends forth
feeble recruits to the fight all unprovided with armour. The maiden's
courage was not sustained by the thought, _I will go in the strength of
the Lord God_; nor did she rest on His promise, _My grace is sufficient
for thee, for My strength is made perfect in weakness._ It was not the
love of God, but the dread of incurring His displeasure, which made the
poor, hesitating, unwilling girl combat the fear of man.
And if Emmie was not impelled forwards by a loving desire to please a
loving Master, still less was she influenced by tender concern for the
souls of those whom she felt that she ought to visit. The child of
luxury, in her pleasant home, had scarcely regarded the poor as being of
the same class of beings as herself. They were creatures to be pitied,
to be helped, to be taught by those trained for the work; but as beings
to be objects of sympathy and love, as children of the one Great Father,
Emmie could not regard them. Charity was thus to her but a cold dry
duty, like the timber which may be shaped into a thousand useful
purposes; but not like the living tree whose branches are bright with
blossoms or rich in fruit, because through it flows the life-giving sap.
Such Christian charity belongs not to fallen nature; it is a special
gift of God, and comes through close union, by faith, with Him whose
nature is love. Emmie's faith was so weak, that it is no marvel that her
prayers for guidance were little more than forms, and that her
compassion for her poor fellow-sinners was cold. The young Christian had
_not_ conquered mistrust.
"Susan, have you not told me that the ladies with whom you once lived
used to visit the poor?" said Emmie to her attendant as the two
proceeded along the drive.
"Yes, constantly, miss," was the answer.
"I wish that I knew how they made their way with the cottagers. Did they
not find it very difficult at first?" asked Emmie.
"I do not know how they found it at first," replied Susan; "for when I
entered the service of the vicar's lady, even her little ones were
accustomed to go to the homes of the poor whom they knew, to make some
good old creature happy with a jug of warm broth, or a bit of flannel,
or, perhaps, a text in large letters, painted by themselves, to be hung
up in a sick person's room."
"But there is just the difficult point," observed Emmie,--"how did the
family come to know the poor so well? If one were once acquainted with
the 'good old creature,' there might be some pleasure in taking the
broth or the flannel."
"My young ladies used to go on their regular rounds, miss, and exchange
the books which they lent to the poor. I have often gone with the ladies
to carry the books," said Susan. "The visitors were always asked to sit
down in the cottages, the people were so much pleased to see them."
"And when the ladies sat down, what happened next?" asked Emmie, who
felt herself to be ignorant of the very alphabet of district visiting,
and who was not too proud to learn from her maid. "What did your ladies
say? Did they begin directly to teach and to preach?"
"Oh dear, no, miss!" cried Susan, a little surprised at the question; "I
think that my ladies talked to the poor much as they would have talked
to other people. They spoke to the cottagers about their health and the
weather, and to the mothers about their children, and they gave any
little bit of news, perhaps out of a missionary paper, that they thought
would amuse the poor folk. The talking came all quite natural-like."
"It would never come natural-like with me," observed Emmie; "nor, to own
the truth, do I see that much good is gained by that kind of talk. One
does not make the effort of going into the dirty homes of the poor just
to gossip with them, as one might do with a friend, but to teach them
their duty and make them better."
Susan knew her proper place too well to reply to this observation of her
young mistress; the maid thought, however, to herself that her former
ladies had found real friends and dear friends too amongst the poor, and
that to form a tie of sympathy between the higher and lower classes _did
do good_, even if there were no direct religious teaching. Susan
remembered also that she had heard the most pious of her young ladies
observe that she had herself learned more from the poor than she had
ever been able to teach them. The district visitor should recognize the
possibility of mutual benefit when she goes on her charity rounds.
"Did your ladies never talk to the people about their souls?" inquired
Emmie. "Was nothing said about religion in these visits which they paid
to the poor?"
"Oh yes, miss," answered Susan, "but it came so natural-like. A blind
woman would like to be read to; then the visitor read from the Bible,
and afterwards the two talked over what had been read. Or a mother, may
be, had lost a baby; and then the lady would speak of Him who carries
the lambs in His arms. The poor liked to open their hearts to the ladies
and tell them their troubles, because, you see, miss, they felt that
the ladies cared. I'm sure when little Amy Fisher died, Miss Mary cried
for her as much as her own mother did. Mrs. Fisher had been a hard sort
of woman,--I think she was given to drink,--but after her little one's
death Miss Mary got her quite round. But all that came quite
natural-like," added Susan, again using her favourite phrase, by which
Emmie understood that there had been no forced talk on religious
subjects, no hard dogmatical teaching.
"I wish that I could acquire this art of comforting and helping and
sympathizing," thought Emmie; "but I feel sure that I never shall do
so."
Emmie and her maid had now reached the entrance gate. The young lady was
relieved not to see at it the figure of Harper, whom she regarded with
almost a superstitious dread. She passed his hovel, a mere tenement of
mud, with a thatched roof, green with moss and stained with yellow
lichen. The door was shut, and no smoke rose from the single chimney of
the dilapidated dwelling.
Picking her way along the muddy road, Emmie, with a beating heart,
proceeded towards the next cottage, which, though it was far from being
neat and clean in its appearance, had at least glass in its windows, and
was able to stand upright. Her conversation with Susan had been rather
encouraging on the whole to the inexperienced lady visitor. A faint
hope sprang up in the breast of Emmie that after a while district work
might come "natural-like" to her as it had done to other ladies. The
fair girl could not but be conscious that she possessed a more than
common power of pleasing, such a power as might smooth down some of her
difficulties in winning her way to the hearts of the poor.
Emmie went up to the door of the cottage, hesitated a moment, murmured
to herself, "Now for an effort!" and gently tapped with the end of her
parasol. No brief silent prayer was darted up from her heart,--that
prayer which is as the child's upward glance at the parent who holds his
hand to support and guide him. When first entering on what she regarded
as work for God, Emmie's thoughts were not rising to God.
There was a slight stir audible within the cottage after the lady had
knocked, followed by the click of the latch, and a woman threw open the
door. A scent of bacon, greens, and porter pervaded the cottage, and
Emmie saw that the family were seated at dinner. A burly-looking man in
shirt-sleeves, whose back had been towards the door, turned round his
unshaven, unwashed face to see who had tapped for admittance. Several
dirty, untidy children stared open-mouthed at the unexpected appearance
of a well-dressed lady. Emmie shrank back, for with intuitive delicacy
she felt that to enter a cottage at meal-time was an intrusion.
"Won't you step in, miss?" said the woman who had opened the door, with
that civility which is generally met with in the cottage homes of
England.
"Oh--not now--I did not know--I never meant--" stammered forth poor
Emmie, as nervously polite as if she had by mistake intruded herself at
the repast of a duchess. The gruff looks of the man, who did not rise
from his chair, took from the timid girl all self-possession. Emmie
expected him to growl out, "What brings you here?" And as the only
apology which occurred to her mind for calling at all, she nervously
thrust her half-crown into the hand of the astonished woman, and with a
muttered "I thought you might want it," made her retreat from the door.
Emmie in her confusion dropped her papers; they were picked up and
returned to her by Susan.
"You might have left them by the door," observed Emmie.
Susan thought, though too respectful to say what she thought, that her
young ladies had never _dropped_ tracts in the mud for the poor to stoop
to pick up; the vicar's daughters had always given such papers with the
pleasant smile which had insured for them a welcome. In distributing
religious literature, as in most other matters, success greatly depends
on the manner in which a thing is done.
Emmie was not satisfied with this her first essay in cottage-visiting.
"I never thought of finding workmen at home," she observed to Susan.
"I think, miss, that twelve is a common dinner-hour," said Susan, "and
that then some of the men come home from their work."
"Then assuredly twelve is a bad visiting hour," cried Emmie; "we had
better return home directly." The young lady walked back to Myst Court
at a much quicker pace than had been hers when she had started on her
little expedition. She was glad to find herself within the gate and in
the shrubbery again.
"I have not had much success, but still I can tell Bruce that I have
made a beginning, that I have broken the ice," thought Emmie. "That
woman was civil enough; I should not have much minded going into the
cottage had I chanced to find her alone."
As Emmie's brothers were, as usual, passing the day at S----, Mr. Trevor
was his daughter's only companion at luncheon. The master of Myst Court
was a pleasant, kindly-looking man, who had reached the shady side of
fifty, but with a form yet unbent and hair but lightly touched with
gray. He had been from youth a steady hard-working man, and Bruce had
probably derived his habits of business from his father's example. But
with Mr. Trevor the wheel of labour had hitherto run in one groove, or
rather, one may say, on a tramway made smooth by habit. It had been as
natural to Mr. Trevor to go to his office, as it had been to partake of
his breakfast. The complete change in his mode of life caused by the
removal to Wiltshire, was like the jarring caused by turning suddenly
off the tramway into a stone-paved road. Mr. Trevor had not been trained
to perform the duties of a landlord and country squire, and he more than
suspected that what he might have gained in dignity of position he had
lost in comfort. Now as he sat at table in the lofty dining-room of his
stately mansion, Mr. Trevor's brow wore an expression of worry which
Emmie had never seen upon it when the family had resided in Summer
Villa.
"You look tired, dear papa," she observed.
"I have had a good deal to annoy me, Emmie," said her father, who was
making very slow progress indeed with his plateful of beef, tough and
not much more than warmed through. "I find that Farmer Vesey has been
taking, in a most unscrupulous manner, a slice off my west field which
borders upon his lands. The steward says that I shall have to go to law
about it. I detest going to law! Why are not boundaries clearly marked!
Then I've had endless complaints from the people whose cottages border
the brook below Bullen's dye-works; they say that the dye kills all the
fish, and makes the water unfit for drinking. Really the complaints have
good foundation. I walked down to-day to the place, and saw that the
water is so discoloured that I would not let a dog slake his thirst in a
stream so polluted."
"And are the cottagers your tenants, papa?"
"Yes; so it is my business to defend their rights," observed Mr. Trevor.
"I went at once to Bullen, hoping that we might come to some
satisfactory arrangement, without having recourse to the lawyers."
"And I hope that you found the manufacturer open to reason?" said Emmie.
"I found him to be a low, vulgar, money-making man, who would not care
if he dyed all the rivers in England scarlet and blue, so that he could
fish his profits out of them. I have heard that Bullen gives infidel
lectures in S----, so that he tries to poison the springs of knowledge
as well as the waters of the brook."
"What a dreadful man!" exclaimed Emmie.
"I shall have to go to law with him," observed Mr. Trevor, with a yet
more troubled look; "I cannot let my tenants be poisoned, and yet I hate
the worry and expense of a suit. I shall wait a while, and see if this
fellow Bullen will not come to terms. Then I've had another annoying
thing brought to my notice this morning: it is certain that there is
poaching on my estate. There has been no proper care taken to preserve
the game during the time of my predecessor, and if matters go on in the
same way, pheasants will be as rare here as black swans. Really the
cheapest and easiest way to get game is from a London market!"
The same reflection had just occurred to Emmie. Joe, in his noisy way,
now entered the room, and told Miss Trevor, with awkward bluntness, that
a woman was asking to see her.
"What is her name?" inquired Emmie.
"She didn't give none, miss," said Joe; "but she has brought a lot of
children with her."
"Miss Trevor is engaged; desire the woman to wait a little," said the
master of Myst Court.
Joe went out, banging the door behind him, but in less than three
minutes returned.
"There be two other women come to see you, miss," said he. "One says as
you told her to call."
"I bade no one call," said Emmie. "I am sorry, papa, that you should be
thus disturbed at your meal."
"I had better myself see what is the cause of this irruption of the
Goths and Vandals," observed Mr. Trevor, rising from his seat, and then
quitting the room. Mr. Trevor had scarcely more experience than his
daughter in dealing personally with the poor, but he felt heavy upon his
conscience the responsibility belonging to the owner of landed property.
Mr. Trevor in a short time returned, looking grave and somewhat
perplexed. "How one misses clergy, and district visitors, and organized
societies in a place like this!" he exclaimed, as he resumed his seat at
the table. "All these women declare that they are in want, that their
husbands are out of work; and how am I to tell whether this be or be not
the fact? I have given each of the beggars a trifle, and told them not
to come here again, that we will make inquiries about them. I cannot
have my door thus besieged. I wonder what brought on us this sudden
invasion!"
"I'm afraid that it was my unlucky half-crown," observed Emmie.
"To whom did you give a half-crown?" asked her father.
"I gave it at the first cottage to the left of the gate, beyond
Harper's wretched little den," replied Emmie. She read something very
unlike approbation in the eyes of her parent, and shrank from their
questioning gaze.
"What! you gave it at the cottage of Blunt, the man who earns higher
wages than almost any one else in the place!" cried Mr. Trevor, slightly
raising his voice.
"The cottage did not look _very_ comfortable," said Emmie in an
apologetic tone. She felt that the excuse was scarcely sincere, for the
comfort or discomfort of the abode had had little to do with her giving
the money.
"Of course the cottage is not comfortable, for the man Blunt is
notoriously given to drinking," said Mr. Trevor, "and doubtless your
half-crown is already turned into gin. You must really exert your common
sense in visiting my tenants, my dear child," he continued in a tone of
vexation, "or you will do incalculable mischief where you intend to do
good."
It was so strange a thing to Emmie to receive anything like reproof from
her tender indulgent parent, that her eyes glistened with tears of
distress and mortification. Mr. Trevor could not bear to give her pain,
and instantly softened his tone to that of kindness.
"You had the best intentions, my darling, and we shall all in time
understand our new duties better. But you must be a little more careful
in future where you visit, and how you give alms. I wish that instead of
Blunt's cottage you had taken the one to the right of the gate. A poor
respectable widow lives there; if I recollect rightly, her name is
Brant. I have seen her several times at her cottage-door, looking tidy,
but so poor and so ill that she has been rather upon my mind. It is not
in my way to visit sick women, but I should like you to call with Susan,
and ascertain whether the poor creature be really in want."
"Yes, papa, I will go," said Emmie humbly; "I will this afternoon visit
the poor respectable widow, and try to keep my half-crowns in future for
those who need and deserve them."