"Don't strangle me, Jessie! Put down your arms, and listen to me.
Sobbing will not mend matters, and you might as well make up your mind
to be patient. Of course I should like to take you with me, if I had
a home; but, as I told you just now, we are so poor that we must live
where we can, not where we prefer. Because I wear nice pretty clothes
do you suppose I have a pocketful of money? I have not a cent to buy
even a loaf of bread, and I can't ask Miss Jane to take care of you as
well as of Stanley and myself. Poor little thing, don't cry so! I know
you are lonely here without Stanley, but it can't be helped. Jessie,
don't you see that it can not be helped?"
"I don't eat so very much, and I could sleep with Buddie and wouldn't
be in the way,--and I can wear my old clothes. Oh, please, Salome! I
will die if you leave me here."
"You will do no such thing; you are getting well as fast as possible.
Crying never kills people,--it only makes their heads ache, and their
eyes red and ugly. See here, if you don't stop all this, I shall quit
coming to see you! Do you hear what I say?"
The only reply was a fresh sob, which the child strove to smother by
hiding her face in Salome's lap.
The matron, who sat by the open window, looked up from the button-hole
she was working, and, clearing her throat, said,--
"Better let her have her cry out,--that is the surest cure for such
troubles as hers. She was always manageable and good enough until
Stanley ran away, and since then she does nothing but mope and bite
her finger-nails. Cry away, Jessie, and have done with it. Ah, miss,
the saddest feature about Asylums is the separation of families;
and if the matron had a heart of stone it would melt sometimes at
sight of these little motherless things clinging to each other. I'm
sure I have shed a gallon of tears since I came here. It is a
fearful responsibility to take charge of an institution like this,
for if I try to make the children respect my authority, and behave
themselves properly, outsiders 'specially the neighbors, says I am
too severe; and if I let them frolic and romp and make as much din
and uproar as they like, why, then the same folks scandalize me
and the managers, and say there is no sort of discipline maintained.
I verily believe, miss, that if an angel came down from heaven to
matronize these children, before six months elapsed all the
godliness would be worried out of her soul by the slanders of the
public and the squabbles of the children. Now I don't confess to be
an angel, but I do claim a conscience, and God knows I make it a
rule to treat these orphans exactly as I treated my own and only
child, whom I buried three years ago. Do you suppose that any woman
who has laid her first-born in its coffin could be brutal enough to
maltreat poor little motherless lambs? I don't deny that sometimes I
am compelled to punish them, for it is as much my duty to whip them
for bad conduct as to see that their meals are properly cooked and
their clothes kept in order. Am I to let them grow up thieves and
liars? Must I stand by and see them pull out each other's hair and
bite off one another's ears?"
"Of course not, Mrs. Collins. You must preserve some discipline."
"Must I? Well, miss, I will show you how beautifully that sounds and
how poorly it works. There is your brother Stanley (I mean no offence,
miss, but special cases explain better than generalities),--there's
your brother Stanley, who ran away--for what?"
"Because he was homesick and wanted to see me."
"No such thing, begging your pardon. Perhaps he told you that, but
remember there are always two sides to every tale. The truth of the
matter is just this: Stanley has an ugly habit of cursing, which I
will not tolerate; and, twice when I heard him swearing at the other
children, I shamed him well and slapped him soundly. Last week I told
him and Joe Clark to shell a basket of peas, while the cook was making
some ginger-bread for them, and before I was out of the room they
commenced quarrelling. They raised such an uproar that I came back and
saw the whole fray. Stanley cursed Joe, who expostulated and tried to
pacify him, and when he finally threatened to tell me that Stanley was
cursing again, your brother snatched a hatchet that was lying on the
dresser and swore he would kill him if he did. He aimed a blow at
Joe's head, but slipped on the pea-hulls, and the hatchet struck the
boy's right foot, cutting off one of his toes. Now what would you have
done, under the circumstances,--allowed the children to be tomahawked
in that style? You say I must have discipline. Well, miss, I tried to
'discipline' Stanley's wickedness out of him by giving him a whipping,
and the end of the matter was that he ran away that afternoon. That is
not the worst of it,--for the children all know the facts, and since
they find that Stanley Owen can run away and be sustained in his
disobedience, of course it tends to demoralize them. So I say that if
I do my duty I am lashed by the tongues of people who know nothing of
the circumstances; and if I fail to perform my duty I am lashed by my
own conscience,--and between the two I have a sorrowful time; for I
declare to you, miss, that Stephen's martyrdom was a small affair in
comparison with what I pass through every week. I love the children
and try to be kind to them, but I can't have them cursing and swearing
like sailors, and scalping each other. I must either raise them like
Christians, or resign my situation to some one who is 'wise as
serpents and harmless as doves.' It is all very fine to talk of
'proper discipline' in charitable institutions; but, miss, in the name
of common sense, how can I get along unless the friends of the
children sustain me? Did you punish Stanley, and send him back? On the
contrary, you countenanced his bad conduct and kept him with you, and
it is perfectly natural that little Jessie here should be dissatisfied
and anxious to join him. I can't scold her, for I know she misses her
brother, who was always very tender and considerate in his treatment
of her."
"I appreciate the difficulties which surround you, and believe that
you are conscientiously striving to do your duty towards these
children; but I knew that if I compelled Stanley to return it would
augment instead of correcting the mischief."
At this juncture the matron was summoned from the room, and, during
the silence that ensued, Jessie climbed into her sister's lap, wound
her thin arms around her neck, and softly rubbed her pale cheek
against the polished rosy face, where perplexity and annoyance were
legibly written.
"Salome, don't you love me a little?"
"Of course I do; Jessie, don't be so foolish."
"Please let me go with you and Stanley."
"Do you want to starve,--you poor silly thing?"
"Yes; I would rather starve with Buddie than stay here by myself."
"I want to hear no more of such nonsense. You have not tried starving,
and you are too young to know what is really for your good. Now,
listen to me. At present I am obliged to leave you here,--come, don't
begin crying again; but, if you will be a good girl and try not to
fret over what cannot be helped, I promise you that just as soon as I
can possibly support you I will take you to live with me."
"How long must I wait?"
"Until I make money enough to feed and clothe you."
"Can't you guess when you can come for me?"
"No, for as yet I know not how I can earn a dollar; but, if you will
be patient, I promise to work hard for you and Stanley."
"I will be good. Salome, I have saved a quarter of a dollar that the
doctor gave me when I was sick,--because I let the blister stay on my
side a half hour longer; and I thought I would send it to Buddie, to
buy him some marbles or a kite; but I reckon I had better give it to
you to help us get a house."
She drew from her pocket a green calico bag, and, emptying the
contents into her hand, picked out from among brass buttons and bits
of broken glass a silver coin, which she held up triumphantly.
"No, Jessie,--keep it. Stanley has plenty of playthings, and you may
need it. Besides, your quarter would not go far, and I don't want it.
Good-bye, little darling. Try to give Mrs. Collins no trouble, and
recollect that when I promise you anything I shall be sure to keep my
word."
Salome drew the child's head to her shoulder, and, as she bent over
and kissed the sweet, pure lips, Jessie whispered, "When we say our
prayers to-night, we will ask God to send us some money to buy a home,
won't we? You know he made the birds feed Elijah."
"But we are not prophets, and ravens are not flying about with bags of
money under their wings."
"We do not know what God can do, and if we are only good, He is as
much bound to take care of us as of Elijah. He made the sky rain manna
and partridges for the starving people in the desert, and He is as
much our God as if we came out from Egypt under Moses. I know God will
help us, if we ask Him. I am sure of it; for last week I lost Mrs.
Collins' bunch of keys, and, when I could not find them anywhere, I
prayed to God to help me, and, sure enough, I remembered I left them
in the dairy where I was churning."
Jessie's countenance was radiant with hope and faith, which her sister
could not share, yet felt unwilling to destroy; and, checking the
heavy sigh that rose from her oppressed heart, she hastily quitted the
house.
In the midst of confused and perturbed reflections, rose like some
lonely rock-based beacon in boiling waves her sacred promise to the
trusting child, and ingenuity was racked to devise some means for its
prompt fulfilment. Consanguinity began to urge its claim vehemently,
and long dormant tenderness pleaded piteously for exiled idols.
"If I were only a Christian, like Dr. Grey! His faith, like strong
wings, bears him high above all sloughs of despond, all morasses of
moodiness. People cannot successfully or profitably serve two masters.
That is eminently true; not because it is scriptural, but _vice
versa_; because it is so obviously true it could not escape a place in
the Bible. Half work pays poor wages, and it is not surprising that
neither God nor Mammon will patiently submit to it. I suppose the time
has come when I must bargain myself to one or the other; for,
hitherto, I have declared in favor of neither. I am not altogether
sanctified, nor yet desperately wicked, but I hate Satan, who ruined
my father, infinitely more than I dislike the restrictions of
religion. I owe him a grudge for all the shame and suffering of my
childhood,--which, if God did not interfere to prevent, at least there
is strong presumptive evidence that he took no pleasure in witnessing.
I don't suppose I have any faith; I scarcely know what it means; but
perhaps if I try to serve God instead of myself, it will come to me
as it came to Paul and Thomas. I wonder whether mere abstract love of
righteousness and of the Lord drives half as many persons into
Christian churches as the fear of eternal perdition. I don't deny that
I am afraid of Satan, for if he contrives to smuggle so much sin and
sorrow into this world what must his own kingdom be? If there be any
truth in the tradition that every human being is afflicted by some
besetting sin that crouches at the door of the soul, lying in ambush
to destroy it, then my own 'Dweller of the Threshold,' is love of mine
ease. Time was when I would have bartered my eternal heritage for a
good-sized mess of earthly pottage, provided only it was well spiced
and garnished; but to-day I have no inclination to be swindled like
Esau. Idleness has well-nigh ruined me, so I shall take industry by
the horns, and laying thereon all my sins of indolence, drive it
before me as the Jews drove Apopompoeus."
She walked on in the direction of the town, turning her head neither
to right nor left, and keeping her eyes fixed on the blue air before
her, where imagination built a home, through whose spacious halls
Stanley and Jessie sported at will. On the principal street stood a
fashionable dress-making and millinery establishment, and thither
Salome bent her steps, resolved that the sun should not set without
having witnessed some effort to redeem the pledge given to Jessie.
Panoplied in Miss Jane's patronage, she demanded and obtained
admission to the inner apartment of this Temple of Fashion, where
presided the Pythoness whose oracular utterances swayed _le beau
monde_.
What passed between the two never transpired, even among the
apprentices that thronged the adjoining room; but when Salome left the
house she carried under her arm a large bundle which furnished work
for the ensuing fortnight.
Evening shadows overtook her, while yet a mile distant from home, and
as she passed a small cottage, where candle-light flared through the
open window, she saw Dr. Grey standing beside the bed, on which,
doubtless, lay some sufferer.
Ere many moments had elapsed, she heard his well-known footstep on
the rocky road, and involuntarily paused to greet him.
"What called you to old Mrs. Peterson's?"
"Her youngest grandchild is very ill with brain fever; so ill that I
shall return and sit up with him to-night."
"I was not aware that physicians condescended to act as mere
nurses,--to execute their own orders."
"Then I fear you have formed a very low estimate of the sacred
responsibilities of my profession, or of the characters of those who
represent it. The true physician combines the offices of surgeon,
doctor, nurse, and friend."
"Mrs. Peterson is almost destitute, and to a great extent dependent on
charity; consequently you need not expect to collect any fee."
"Knowing her poverty, I attend the family gratuitously."
"Is not your charity-list a very long one?"
"Could I divest myself of sympathy with the sufferings of those who
compose it I would not curtail it one iota; for I feel like Boerhaave,
who once said, 'My poor are my best patients; God pays for them.'"
"Then, after all, you are actuated merely by selfishness, and remit
payments in earthly dross,--in 'filthy lucre,'--in order to collect
your fees in a better currency, where thieves do not break through nor
steal?"
"'He that oppresseth the poor reproacheth his Maker; but he that
honoreth Him, hath mercy on the poor.' If a tinge of selfishness
mingle with the hope of future reward, it will be forgiven, I trust,
by the great Physician, who, in sublimating human nature, seized upon
its selfish elements as powerful agencies in the regeneration of
mankind. An abstract worship of virtue is scarcely possible while
humanity is clothed with clay, and I am not unwilling to confess that
hope of eternal compensation influences my conduct in many respects.
If this be indeed only subtle selfishness, at least we shall be
pardoned by Him who promised to prepare a place in the Father's
mansion for those who follow His footsteps among the poor."
She looked up at him, with a puzzled, searching expression, that
arrested his attention, and exclaimed,--
"How singularly honest you are! I believe I could have faith if there
were more like you."
"Faith in what?"
"In the nobility of my race,--in the possibility of my own
improvement,--in the watchful providence of God."
"Salome, there is much sound philosophy in the eighty-seventh and
eighty-ninth maxims of cynical Rochefoucauld, 'It is more disgraceful to
distrust one's friends than to be deceived by them. Our mistrust
justifies the deceit of others.' My opportunities have been favorable
for studying various classes of men, and my own experience corroborates
the truth of Montaigne's sagacious remark, 'Confidence in another
man's virtue is no slight evidence of a man's own.' Try to cultivate
trust in your fellow creatures, and the bare show of faith will
sometimes create worth."
"Did Christ's show of confidence in Judas save him from betrayal?"
"Let us hope that he was the prototype of a very limited class. You
must not expect to find mankind divided into two great castes--one all
angels, the other comprising hopeless demons. On the contrary, noble
and most ignoble impulses alternately sway the actions and thoughts of
the majority of our race; and the saint of to-day is not unfrequently
tempted to become the fiend of to-morrow. Remember that the conflict
with sinful promptings begins in the cradle--ends only in the
coffin,--and try to be more charitable in your judgments."
They walked a few yards in silence, and at length Salome asked,--
"Were you not kept up all of last night?"
"Yes; I was obliged to ride fifteen miles to set a dislocated
shoulder."
"Then you must be exhausted from fatigue, and unfit for watching
to-night. Will you not allow me to relieve you, and take charge of
Mrs. Peterson's grandchild? I admit I am very ignorant; but I will
faithfully follow your directions, and I think you may venture to
trust me."
Confusion flushed her face as she made this proposition, but in the
pale, pearly lustre of the summer starlight, it was not visible.
"Thank you heartily, Salome. I could implicitly trust your intentions,
but the case is almost hopeless, and I fear you are too inexperienced
to render it safe for me to commit the child to your care. I
appreciate your kindness, but am too much interested in the boy to
leave him when the disease is at its crisis, and a cup of coffee will
strengthen me for the vigil. You have been to the Asylum this
afternoon; tell me something about little Jessie."
"She is still rather pale, but otherwise seems quite well again. Of
course she is dissatisfied since Stanley has left, and thinks she
ought to be allowed to follow his example; but I finally persuaded her
to remain there patiently, at least for the present. It is well that
the poor have their sensibilities blunted early in life, for they are
spared many sorrows that afflict those who are pampered by fortune and
rendered morbidly sensitive by years of indulgence and prosperity."
A metallic ring had crept into her voice, hardening it, and although
he could not distinctly see her countenance, he knew that the words
came through set teeth.
"Salome, I hope that I misunderstand you."
"No; unfortunately, you thoroughly comprehend me. Dr. Grey, were you
situated precisely as I find myself, do you suppose you would feel
your degradation as little as I seem to do? Do you think you would
relish the bread of charity as keenly as one, who, for courtesy's
sake, shall be nameless? Could you calmly stand by, and with utter
_sang froid_ see your brothers and sisters--your own flesh and
blood--drift on every chance wave, like some sodden crust or withered
weed on a stormy, treacherous sea? Would not your family pride bleed
and die, and your self-respect wail and shrivel and expire?"
"You have so grossly exaggerated and overcolored your picture that I
recognize little likeness to reality."
"I neither gloze nor mask; I simply front the facts, which are,
briefly, that you were nurtured in independence and trained to abhor
the crumbs that fall from other people's tables, while all heroic
aspirations and proud chivalric dreams were fed by the milk that
nourished you; whereas, I grew up in the wan, sickly atmosphere of
penury; glad to grasp the crust that chance offered; taught to
consider the bread of dependence precious as ambrosia; willing to
forget family ties that were fraught only with humiliation and
wretchedness; coveting bounty that I had not sufficient ambition to
merit; and eager to live on charity, as long as it could be coaxed,
hoodwinked, or scourged into supporting me comfortably. Yesterday I
read a sentence that might have been written for me, so felicitously
does it photograph me, 'Temperament is a fate oftentimes, from whose
jurisdiction its victims hardly escape, but do its bidding herein, be
it murder or martyrdom. Virtues and crimes are mixed in one's cup of
nativity, with the lesser or larger margin of choice. _Blood is a
destiny._' You, Ulpian Grey, are what you are because your father was
a gentleman, and all your surroundings were luxurious and refined; and
I, the miller's child, am what you see me because my father was coarse
and brutal; because my body and soul struggled with staring
starvation,--physical, mental, and moral. Be just, and remember these
things when you are tempted to despise me as a pitiable, spiritless
parasite."
"My little friend, you have most unnecessarily tortured yourself, and
grieved and mortified me. Have I ever treated you with contempt or
disrespect?"
"You evidently pity me, and compassion is about as welcome to my
feelings as a vitriol bath to fresh wounds."
"Are you not conscious of having more than once acted in such a manner
as to necessitate my compassion?"
She was silent for some moments; but as they entered the avenue, she
said, impetuously,--
"I want you to respect me."
"If you respect yourself and merit my good opinion, I shall not
withhold it. But of one thing let me assure you; my standard of
womanly delicacy, nobility, gentleness, and Christian faith is very
exalted; and I cannot and will not lower it, even to meet the
requirements of those who claim my friendship. Thoroughly cognizant of
my opinions concerning several subjects, you have more than once,
premeditatedly and obtrusively outraged them, and while I can and do
most cordially overlook the offence, you should not deem it possible
for me to entertain a very lofty estimate of the offender. When I came
home you took such extraordinary pains to convince me that not a
single noble aspiration actuated you that I confess you almost
succeeded in your aim; but, Salome, I hope you are far more generous
than you deign to prove yourself, and I promise you my earnest respect
shall not lag behind,--shall promptly keep pace with your deserts. You
can, if you so determine, make yourself an attractive, brilliant,
noble woman; an ornament--and better still--a useful, honored member
of society; but the faults of your character are grave, and only
prayer and conscientious, persistent efforts can entirely correct
them. I am neither so unreasonable nor so unjust as to hold you
accountable for circumstances beyond your control; and, while I warmly
sympathize with all your sorrows, I know that you are still
sufficiently young to rectify the unfortunate warping that your nature
received in its mournful early years. To ask me to respect you is as
idle and useless and impotent as the soft murmur of this June breeze
in the elm boughs above us; but you can command my perfect confidence
and friendship solely on condition that you merit it. Salome,
something very unusual has influenced you to-day, forcing you to throw
aside the rubbish that you patiently piled over your better self until
it was effectually concealed; and, if you are willing to be frank with
me, I should be glad to know what has so healthfully affected you. I
believe I can guess: has not little Jessie wooed and won her sister's
heart, melting all its icy selfishness and warming its holiest
recesses?"
At this moment Stanley bounded down the steps to meet them, and,
bending over to receive his kiss and embrace, Salome gladly evaded a
reply. That night, after she had taught her brother his lessons for
the next day and made him repeat the prayer learned in the dormitory
of the Asylum,--when she had read Miss Jane to sleep and seen the
doctor set out on his mission of mercy, she brightened the lamp-light
in her own room, and, opening the parcel, drew out and commenced the
dainty embroidery which she had promised should be completed at an
early day.
The night was warm, but the sea-breeze sang a lullaby in the trees
that peeped in at her window, and now and then a strong gust
blew the flame almost to the top of the lamp-chimney. Stanley
slept soundly in his trundle-bed, occasionally startling her by
half-uttered exclamations, as in his dreams he chased rabbits or
found partridge-eggs. Oblivious of passing hours, and profoundly
immersed in speculations concerning her future, the girl sewed
on, working scallop after scallop, and flower after flower, in
the gossamer cambric between her slender fingers. Stars that looked
upon her early in the night had gone down into blue abysms below
the horizon, and the midnight song of a mocking-bird, swinging in
a lemon-tree beneath her window, had long since hushed itself with
the chirp of crickets and gossip of the katydids.
A tap on the facing of her open door finally aroused her, and she
hastily attempted to hide her work, as Dr. Grey asked,--
"What keeps you up so late? Are you dressing a doll for Jessie?"
"What brings you home so early? Is your patient better?"
"Yes; in one sense he is certainly better; for, free from all pain, he
rests with his God."
"What time is it?"
"Half-past three. Little Charles died about an hour ago, and, as I
shall be very busy to-morrow, I came upstairs to ask if you will
oblige me by going over to Mrs. Peterson's and remaining with her
until the neighbors assemble in the morning. It is an unpleasant duty,
and unless you are perfectly willing I will not request you to perform
it."
"Certainly, sir; I will go at once. Why should I hesitate?"
"Come down as soon as you are ready, and I will make Harrison drive
you over in my buggy. As it is only a mile I walked home."
When she stood before him, waiting for the servant to adjust some
portion of the harness, Dr. Grey wrapped her shawl more closely around
her, and said,--
"What new freak keeps you awake till four o'clock?"
"It is no freak, but the beginning of a settled purpose that reaches
in numberless ramifications through all my coming years. It does not
concern you, so ask me no more. Good-night. I suppose I ought to
tender you my thanks for deeming me worthy of this melancholy mission;
and if so, pray be pleased to accept them."