NELLY had now reached the height of her ambition. She was actually
employed in the same store with her dear Miss Powell, and under her
eyes,—in that same store which had so often attracted her longing gaze
as being a paradise of every thing-wonderful and beautiful.
She was learning something new every day. She had the pleasure of
feeling that she gave entire satisfaction to her employers, and of
knowing that even granny was gratified with her improved condition.
Yes, Nelly had attained the height of her ambition.
Like other and greater people, however, Nelly discovered that in
reaching this height she had by no means left all her troubles behind
her. The store was a very popular one, and Nelly entered at the busiest
season. They were thronged with customers from morning till night.
Nelly must learn to attend to two or three at once, to answer questions
upon two or three different subjects without becoming confused, to
remember where every thing was, and to employ every spare minute with
her crochet-needle; for there was a greater demand even than usual at
that season for babies' jackets and blankets, scarfs and afghans, and
all the other worsted articles in which Mrs. Kirkland dealt so largely.
She must learn to do all this, to preserve her patience and presence of
mind, and not lose her temper when, as now and then happened, customers
were rude or unreasonable. It was far harder work than tending Crummie,
and tried Nelly's nerves much more severely. No matter how hard she
might have worked or how far she might have run out-of-doors, she could
always fall asleep the instant she went to bed, and never wake till it
was time to get up. But now she found her work haunting her at night in
a very unpleasant fashion. The patterns she had been working stared her
in the face; she saw endless buttons, of all possible and impossible
styles, whenever she shut her eyes; and her dreams were tormented with
visions of wrong change, of bundles mis-sent, and customers hopelessly
offended: so that she seemed to rise in the morning as tired as she
went to bed. She began to grow thin, pale and nervous. Miss Powell
herself noticed the change in her.
"You are growing nervous, Nelly," said she. "What is the matter?"
"I do get so tired," said Nelly, laying down her work and leaning back
in her chair (a rare luxury, which a hopelessly rainy and slushy day
allowed her to enjoy). "I never was so tired before in all my life. I
used to think it was very hard work running after Crummie; but it did
not weary me any thing like so much as this does. It makes my head so
tired!"
"I am afraid you carry too much of your work home with you," said Miss
Powell. "Don't you sit up at night to work?"
"No, ma'am granny won't let me."
"I am glad she has so much sense. But Nelly, you must learn not to
carry it in your mind, either. Try, as soon as you get home, to put
every thing which concerns the shop out of your head, and think about
something else."
"I do try," said Nelly; "but I don't make out very well; and I get
so fidgety in the store,—so afraid of making mistakes in change, or
prices, or something! I do want to do just right and please Mrs.
Kirkland. But I am afraid I never shall learn. I am afraid she doesn't
like me, after all; and I do so—"
Nelly's voice was lost in the tears which would come in spite of her.
Miss Powell laid down her work and took Nelly's hand in her own.
"You are a little fanciful, my child. Why should you think that you
don't please Mrs. Kirkland?"
"She looks so sober," said Nelly; "and she hardly spoke to me all day
yesterday."
"Is that all?" asked Miss Powell. "You don't consider, Nelly, how much
care Mrs. Kirkland has on her mind. She has all her business, in the
first place; then she is uneasy about Miss Alice, whose ankle does not
get any better; and she has other troubles more serious still. But
she is so far from being displeased with you, that I heard her tell
Mr. Willson only last night what a comfort and help you were to her.
She said you repaid her twice over for all she had ever done for you;
for, though you made mistakes sometimes, you were honest and faithful
in sight and out of sight: you did not idle away half your time in
gossiping or looking out of the window the moment her back was turned."
Nelly blushed high with delight. "I am sure I want to please her," said
she, earnestly.
"And you do please her: so you may set your heart at rest about that.
And as for the rest, Nelly, do you remember the chant they sung in
church yesterday morning before service?"
"Yes, ma'am: it was, 'Cast thy burden on the Lord, and he shall sustain
thee.' I thought it was beautiful. I kept singing it all the afternoon."
"But I fear you did not think of applying it to your own case, Nelly.
Why don't you do the same thing? Why don't you cast your burden on the
Lord, and trust him to sustain you?"
"I don't know," replied Nelly. "I never thought I could."
"Try it, and see. Tell him all about what troubles you."
"What!" interrupted Nelly. "About my puzzles in making change and
remembering the prices of things?"
"Yes, to be sure. Why not?"
"I did want to; but I did not know as it would be right," said Nelly.
"Kitty Brown says she does not believe it is right to pray about such
things,—only about our souls."
"I rather think Kitty has not looked into her Catechism lately," said
Miss Powell. "Are we not to ask God to give us all things needful for
our souls and bodies?"
"Yes, ma'am. I didn't think of that, though, when we were talking about
it."
"You need never be afraid to ask God for any thing," said Miss Powell.
"If you have a desire that you are afraid to ask God to bless, be sure
that desire is wrong and ought to be put down."
"It can't be wrong for me to want to keep my place and earn money to
pay for our house," said Nelly.
"No, indeed. But Nelly, you must pray in faith, my child. You must not
ask God in the morning to give you strength and wisdom to do your duty
through the day, and then go on worrying for fear you shall not do it.
That would be casting your burden upon the Lord and then taking it up
and carrying it away again. A great many people go on in that way all
their lives, and get very little good from it. You must ask him to help
you and then believe he will, and go on in the strength of that prayer.
Try it, and see if he does not keep his promise."
Nelly followed her friend's advice, and found, as every one will
who honestly trusts Him, that he does keep his promise. She strove
resolutely to put away all thoughts of the store and her work as
soon as she went to bed, and to give her last waking thoughts to
God, by repeating the hymns, verses and prayers she had learned in
Sunday-school. She presently found herself beginning to sleep much
better, and her work no longer troubled her dreams. Mrs. Kirkland took
care to send her upon all the errands, and Nelly found the exercise
very beneficial to her.
It troubled Nelly a good deal that she had so little time for her
lessons. She could not go to Mrs. Caswell with her arithmetic more
than twice a week, and then she found time to prepare only a very
short recitation. She comforted herself with the thought that she was
learning in one way, if not in another (which was true; for she was
learning to be very ready in making change and calculating prices), and
also in thinking that she would have more time after the holidays, when
the rush of work and trade should slacken a little.
Nelly had another trouble in the store, which she did not mention to
Miss Powell, but which distressed her greatly. She was pretty sure that
she several times missed little articles, which had not passed through
her hands. They were not things of any very great value,—a stick of
braid of some special sort, a few odd buttons of some particular
pattern, a spool or two of coloured silk out of a box which should have
been full,—but Nelly was sure that they did not go properly. She could
not suspect any one in the shop. There was no one employed but herself
and Miss Powell down-stairs and Miss Lennox up-stairs. Mrs. Kirkland
was usually at the desk, busied, when not making change or engaged with
the books, in some wonderful piece of embroidery.
Nelly came to the conclusion that the thief was one of the habitual
customers of the store. She resolved to watch closely. She did so,
and at last made up her mind. The thief was that very lady who had
called her a ragamuffin while she was learning to make tatting on
her first entrance to the store! Nelly was very slow in coming to
this conclusion. She could not make up her mind to think that a lady
belonging to a respectable family; who had always been well taught,
always gone to church and to Sunday-school, could be guilty of
stealing. She even accused herself of uncharitableness and bearing
malice because the lady had affronted her. But the more closely she
watched the more sure she became that her suspicions were correct.
Then arose the very grave question, what to do about it? Suppose she
should tell her suspicions: would Mrs. Kirkland believe her word
against that of a lady, an old customer? Would she not run the risk
of losing her own place, without doing anybody any good,—that place
for which she had prayed and worked, and in which she was striving so
hard to give satisfaction? On the other hand, was it right to allow
her employer to be robbed? The thefts grew bolder and bolder every
day; and Kelly began to be afraid that she should herself be accused.
Mrs. Kirkland had missed some little articles; and Nelly fancied that
she began to watch her more closely. She could not ask advice without
mentioning her suspicions; and she did not like to do this till she was
quite certain. It was a great responsibility to fall upon the shoulders
of a girl like Nelly, and it almost weighed her down. She was conscious
that something should be done directly, and yet she could not make up
her mind what to do. But one thing she did know,—that God had always
helped her before whenever she had asked him; and she went again and
again to the same source of strength and wisdom. The light and the
counsel came at last, and from rather an unexpected quarter.
Granny had lately learned to take great pleasure in hearing Nelly
read, especially in the Testament,—at first from pride in the child's
achievements, but latterly from interest in the book itself. Granny had
rather fallen between two stools, if I may say so, in the matter of
religious belief. Her mother's family were Romanists; but the Butlers
were Protestants; and granny's mother, partly from pride, partly from
affection, had professed to follow her husband's faith; though, in
fact, she knew little about it. She had taught her little girl to call
herself a Protestant, and to feel a pride in adhering to her father's
religion and setting at defiance all the coaxings and persecutions
of her aunts and cousins. She sent the little Gracie to the Ladies'
school, instead of to the Sisters'; and, though Gracie was neither
very regular in her attendance nor very diligent when there, she had
learned her creed and some few rudiments of doctrine. She had always
called herself a Protestant, even after she married Tim Ryan (who was
a Romanist of the very-easy-going kind); but her religious notions
were dim and obscure. Such as they were, they began to be awakened by
Nelly's reading and by her accounts of what she heard in Sunday-school.
She began to take pleasure in recalling and repeating things which she
had learned in her youth; and when Nelly was away she would sometimes
take the large-print Testament Miss Powell had given the child, and
spell out a chapter by herself.
One Sunday afternoon, Nelly had been reading aloud the parable of the
talents. When she had finished it, she exclaimed at the stupidity and
laziness of the slothful servant.
"I'm thinking there was more than that the matter; though that's bad
enough, mind," said the old woman, shrewdly. "I'm thinking the poor
crater was a coward, me dear."
"How?" asked Nelly. "What was he afraid of, granny?"
"Why, ye see, dear, he would run some risk in trading with his lord's
money," replied granny. "He might lose it, or make some bad speculation
with it, and so be blamed when his lord came home; and he was so afraid
of being found fault with that he just did nothing at all,—which was
the very worst thing he could do."
"I see," said Nelly, thoughtfully.
"I remember a story that would show you what I mean—" continued granny,
"a true story, too, that happened in Ireland when I was a girl like
yourself."
"Oh, do tell it, granny!" exclaimed Nelly. "I love true stories."
"Well, you must know, dear, that one of my uncles—Martin was his name,
and a good, steady lad, but not wonderful knowing—was groom at the
great house,—that's not Kilmane Park, you understand, but Dunsandle
House, the seat of Sir Patrick Byrne. Sir Patrick was wonderful fond
of horses, and his children took after him,—especially his eldest
daughter, Miss Una, the boldest rider to hounds in all the county, and
as constant at the hunt as the huntsman himself. Well, there was one
horse in the stable that was a terror to all the grooms and to Sir
Patrick himself,—a chestnut mare. She was named Pooka; and you would
think an evil spirit was in her, by the look of her eye. Well, this
very mare it was, above all others, Miss Una was possessed to ride; and
ride her she would, for all her father and friends could say; and at
last Sir Patrick forbade the grooms to saddle Pooka for Miss Una. So
what does Miss Una do, but get up very early in the morning, open the
stable with a key she had, saddle the horse herself—"
"A young lady saddle a horse!" interrupted Nelly.
"Sure she could do it as well as any man; for she had been, as you
might say, brought up with horses,—more was the pity! So she saddled
the mare herself, and was off for a gallop before any of them was up;
and when Martin, who was head-groom, came to the stable, there was the
mare gone and the door unlocked. Here was a pretty to-do! At first,
Martin thought the baste had been stolen; but then he remembered that
she would never let a stranger touch her; and, looking about, he picked
up Miss Una's handkerchief; which she had dropped in the stall. That
gave him a guess at the truth; and while he was standing debating in
his own mind what to do, up comes Miss Una, with the mare all in a
foam. She started and laughed when she saw Martin standing there."
"'Ah, Martin, so you have caught me! but I was too quick for you,'
said she, giving her head a saucy toss, and looking beautiful, my
uncle said. 'I'm determined not to lose my rides on Pooka,' said she,
patting, the mare's neck."
"'And what am I to say to Sir Patrick?' said Martin."
"'What you like,' answered Miss Una, with another toss; 'only you will
repent if you tell tales; that's all.'"
"She wasn't much of a lady, anyhow," observed Nelly.
"We won't be hard upon her," said granny, gravely. "She was a
motherless girl from her birth, and had grown up as wild as a hawk,
petted by her father out of all reason one day and crossed out of all
reason the next. Well, you see, my dear, Martin was between two fires
if Sir Patrick knew that he had let Miss Una ride the mare, he would
be turned off, and may-be thrashed into the bargain,—for Sir Patrick
was a violent man; and again, if he made an enemy of Miss Una, he knew
what that would come to; for she was sure to have her own way with her
father, by hook or by crook, and it was a boast with that family that
they never forgot a friend or forgave an enemy; and the latter part was
true, whether the former was or not."
"The right way would have been the brave way,—of telling the truth, and
doing as he was bid; but Martin was afraid to do that. So he rubbed
down the mare and did the best he could with her; and when Sir Patrick
noticed that she did not seem fresh, he made some excuse, being mighty
knowledgable about horses. So every morning Miss Una takes a gallop on
the mare, and Martin saddles the beast for her; for he thought that
was one risk the less, anyhow. And Miss Una—poor dear!—was wonderful
pleased with having her own way, and gave Martin and Martin's wife many
a present; for she was laundress at the house, which was another reason
that Martin was afraid to tell."
"But now see the end. One morning, Pooka had been more than commonly
vicious and spiteful, and Martin begged and prayed Miss Una, on his
knees almost, not to ride her; but all in vain. He might as well have
talked to the mountain-torrent. So away she went in her beauty and her
pride; but she never, never came back alive."
"Martin waited and waited, blaming himself all the time, and wishing,
too late, that he had done the straightforward thing at first. Well,
it came breakfast-time, and Miss Una was not there, nor in her room;
and there was great wonderment where she could be, and no little alarm
and stir; for you must know there had been a love-affair between her
and her cousin, whom Sir Patrick had forbidden the house; and the
first thing every one thought, was that Miss Una had gone off with her
cousin."
"At last the stir came to Sir Patrick's ears; and when he found out
that Miss Una was missing, he raved like a madman about the house,
declaring and swearing that he would never see her face again. At
last he went down to the stable for his own horse, to follow the
runaways,—alas! alas! just in time to see the chestnut rush home
covered with sweat and dirt, the saddle turned half round, but no Miss
Una."
"They followed the track of the mare in the road till they found the
poor girl lying by the way-side, all torn and disfigured by having been
dragged over the rocky roads. At first they thought she was dead; but
as they lifted her to lay her on a turfy bank under a tree, she just
opened her eyes, and, seeing her father standing over her, she said,
faintly,—"
"'Papa, Martin was not to blame.'"
"I'm glad she said that, anyway," said Nelly, who was crying heartily
over the story.
"It was the last word she ever spoke," continued granny, wiping her own
eyes. "They made a litter to carry her home, but she breathed out her
life there, under the great ash that is called Miss Una's tree to this
day; and it was only her bleeding and mangled body that was carried
home to the great house."
"Sir Patrick was like one out of his mind, with grief and rage. He
cursed Martin so, it was awful to hear him; and not only that, but
he turned him and his wife away, and drove the whole family off his
land, where they had lived for generations,—since the flood, for aught
I know,—to wander where they would. He declared the mare should be
starved.* But Martin saved him from that sin; for he just took a pistol
and shot her dead before his master's face."
"So you see, honey," concluded the old woman, "it would have been far
better for Martin to have done his duty, leaving the consequences to
take care of themselves. He was a broken man ever after, and never
could sleep without dreaming it all over again. And, my dear, take my
advice, and always do the straight thing and the open thing, even if it
should seem to be the greatest risk in the world, and you be ever so
much blamed. The blessing of God shines on the straight path."
"And that's true," said Nelly, drawing a long breath, as if relieved
of a heavy weight; "and I'll do it, too, cost what it may. Thank you,
granny, for telling me the story."
* A fact.