THE FEIGNED AND THE REAL.
ON reaching the parsonage, Sybil announced that her father had been
called away to the bedside of an aged parishioner. Helen and her
brother resolved, therefore, to improve the time of his absence by
calling on some of their old protégés.
Every where they met with the most cordial welcome. But in one poor hut
lay an old woman, bedridden and almost blind, who could not find words
to express her joy and gratitude at having her dear friends once more
under her roof.
"I told my heavenly Father," she said at length, "that I wanted to hear
your voices once more. There's the Testament, Miss Helen, just where it
used to be, on the shelf. If you'd read a few verses of the good Word,
and yer brother 'd say a prayer, as yer father used to, I'd be more
than content."
During the whole morning the young girl had been quite her former self.
But now, as she took the Bible to gratify the old woman's request,
Frank saw large drops running down her cheeks.
Her voice quivered a little as she asked:
"Where shall I read, Mrs. Barnes?" But then turning to the place
indicated, the fourteenth chapter of St. John, she read in a tolerably
calm voice, that, and the three succeeding chapters.
"It's like heaven, Miss," faltered the poor sufferer. "It's like
hearing His voice calling to my poor heart, 'Father, I will that they
also whom thou hast given me be with me where I am, that they may
behold my glory which thou hast given me.' Think of that, Miss Helen,
'his glory'! When you pray, Mister Frank, ask Him to give me patience
to wait his call."
After leaving the hut, they were hurrying back to the parsonage, when
they met Mr. Knowles.
He saluted them with fatherly tenderness, taking Helen's hand and
tucking it under his arm. But his face had a worn, anxious expression
which did not escape their notice.
"Is the sick man very bad?" inquired Helen.
"All is well with him, my dear. His victory over death is complete
through our Lord Jesus Christ. It was a privilege to see him die. More
than ever my prayer is, 'Let me die the death of the righteous, and let
my last end be like his.'"
Helen's lips quivered, as she murmured:
"It scarcely seemed like dying when papa went home."
"You are right, my child, to call it home. It shows me you are looking
forward to heaven as your own abode."
"No, I am not! I dare not!" passionately exclaimed the young girl, with
a burst of tears. "In order to go to heaven, I must forgive, and I
cannot do that. You would not love me at all if you knew how bad I have
grown."
"I shall never cease to love you, my poor child. But who has so deeply
offended you that you cannot forgive? It is very unlike you, Helen, to
feel so."
"Mr. Knowles, if you had been our guardian, all would have been
prevented."
"Yes, sir," urged Frank, "we are dissatisfied, certainly Helen is, with
Mr. Tracy. Would it be possible for us to request his resignation, and
for you to assume the charge?"
The clergyman gave a searching look in the young man's face, but did
not speak for several minutes, walking on slowly, gazing upon the
ground. Then he answered:
"I must inquire into this. You shall tell me all about it at another
time. Now I have a letter to write in answer to one I have just taken
from the office. And by the way, Helen, did you ever meet a young girl
in the city named Sarah Barrows?"
Helen started, the color flashing into her face.
"Yes, indeed, sir, I have seen her at Mr. Tracy's. I pity her with all
my heart."
"She writes me she is in great trouble. But you may read the letter for
yourself. It will enlist your sympathies in her behalf."
The epistle was as follows:
"REVEREND MR. KNOWLES:
"KIND PASTOR AND FRIEND: Excuse me for intruding once more on your
time. But I am in sore distress, and know not another friend to whom I
can appeal. My mother is very feeble; she cannot sit up an hour and the
pain in her back is incessant.
"Of course the care of her occupies much of my time. But by sewing late
into the night, I might be able to earn sufficient to pay our rent and
buy enough to keep us alive, were it not for the carelessness of the
rich about paying for work."
"At this very time I am threatened with being turned out of my room
into the street, which I feel sure would cause my dear mother's death,
because Mr. T—, one of the richest men in the city, will not pay me 'my
just dues.' I have done embroidery for his wife, and she always screws
me down to the lowest rates, but instead of paying promptly, as she
promised, and which I told her was absolutely necessary in order to
keep us from starving, she puts it off from time to time on the paltry
plea that she can not get the money from her husband.
"This morning, after a visit from my landlady, I resolved to go
directly to his office. Nothing but my extreme necessity would have
given me courage enough to do so. I was shown into his counting-room
where there were two or three gentlemen. And when he asked my business,
supposing I was a book-agent, I told him my sad story, and begged him
by the love he professed for his Saviour, to pay me my just debt.
"He expressed the greatest surprise: said he had never heard of me
before: apologized repeatedly for the inconvenience caused by the
mistake, and asked me to follow him to the desk, where I should be paid
with interest.
"I did so with a light heart; but what was my terror when I found he
was conducting me to the door. And when beyond the hearing of any one,
he abused me in the vilest language, threatening me with imprisonment
if I ever dared show my face in his office again.
"Now, dear sir, for the want of thirty dollars, justly earned, I must
leave my shelter, see my poor mother die in the street, and be left a
helpless orphan to end my days,—where? I do try to forgive my enemies,
but it is very hard to do so.
"Your miserable friend,
"SARAH BARROWS."
"Yes, Mr. Knowles, that's all true," exclaimed Helen, thrusting the
open letter back into the gentleman's hand, with an unnatural laugh.
"That's the kind of piety that prevails in the family of my revered
guardian. I happened to overhear him talking to Sarah once in the hall.
And if I had not run after her and emptied the contents of my purse
into her hand, I think she would never have come to this last trial,
she would have starved to death.
"Ah, yes!" added Helen with crimson cheeks, and eyes fairly blazing
with indignation. "And when the poor couple were found dead in their
beds, and the jury had pronounced a verdict of 'Death from Starvation,'
what an eloquent plea Monson P. Tracy would have made for the poor in
our garrets. How touchingly he would have described their destitution
and want, their struggles and sufferings, before they would yield to
vice, or death. What a prominent place would be secured for his speech
in the journals, with the ostentatious heading:
"'MONSON P. TRACY'S PLEA FOR OUR POOR CITIZENS.'
"'Monson P. Tracy's offer to head a paper for our respectable poor,
with a subscription of five hundred dollars.'
"Yes, I understand all about it."
"Helen, Sis," plead her brother, after gazing at her with mingled
wonder and alarm. "Don't look so. I don't know you. Think of dear
father."
"No, I dare not think of anything so sweet and precious. Poor Sarah's
wants must be relieved." She pulled out her netted purse, her face
growing every moment more hard and defiant, and impulsively tore open
a roll of bills. Then, with a groan of regret, exclaimed, "I have only
twenty-six dollars, and thirty are needed at once."
"Give me the address," urged Frank, "and I will forward the money
by this morning's express. Fifty dollars will not be too much, and
fortunately I have some bank notes with me."
"Come with me, my poor child," urged the pastor, taking Helen's hand,
as with a face from which all the color had vanished, she stood gazing
after her brother's retreating form. "Come with me. I must inquire into
this."