THE CHAPEL SERVICE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
The morning sunshine streamed through the lofty windows of the
children’s ward, lighting up cheerfully the snowy beds and the pale
faces of their little occupants, and waking Berty from her feverish,
uneasy slumber. She was puzzled at first by the unfamiliar objects
around; but the bandage on her forehead, with the powerless arm and
aching side, brought back the remembrance of the accident, even
before the kind nurse appeared with her cheerful, motherly face and
pleasant greeting. This good lady’s watchful attentions, the morning
bath so tenderly administered, the delicate invalid breakfast so
invitingly spread upon the little tray, and the bright room where
even suffering was made to look so cheerful and comely, were all so
new and so delightful, that Berty thought it almost a privilege to be
ill in such a place.
Afterwards, too, when breakfast was over, and the nurse propped her
up with pillows, and left her to attend to other duties, Berty was
very happy, though her arm and side were still very painful. She
thought she could never tire of looking at the beautiful prints upon
the walls, nor of watching and listening to her young companions,
who seemed to be quite at home, and called to each other, from bed
to bed, as merrily as any well children could do. But presently some
one spoke of the Doctor, hoping he would come early; and, at the
mention of that name, all Berty’s joy and contentment melted away in
a moment, and she sank back upon her pillow, with a look of care and
weariness upon her face which made all the children pity her very
much indeed.
The old tormenting question, What to do, had come back again, and it
seemed to Berty more troublesome than ever before. The Doctor had
been so kind, both to her and to her little ones,—how could she bear
to do him such injury as to keep his property? But he evidently knew
nothing about her possessing it,—he had held it in his hand without
seeming to have the least suspicion; and now she was ill she had no
chance of earning anything: she could never accomplish her design in
any other way.
Just in the midst of these painful thoughts, the nurse came in
ushering Tim to pay her his morning visit. Tim had left home with
the firm determination to make Berty do the right thing about the
pocket-book, or else refuse to have anything more to do with it;
but, remembering her strange conduct about it from the first, he was
a little shy about beginning. So he sat down by the bed, and gave
Berty a long and glowing account of the Doctor’s kindness to the
children, and the great fancy they had taken to him,—a very good
way of beginning, if Tim had only known it. After he had spun this
subject out as long as he could, and answered all Berty’s questions
about little Fritz, he came to a dead stop for a moment, and was
just mustering courage to commence his lecture, when a strain of
sweet music floating in seemed to fill all the hall with a cheerful
solemnity.
“What is it, Tim?” asked Berty, after listening a moment.
“It’s the organ, I think,” answered Tim.
“The organ! Where?”
“Why, in the chapel, sure; don’t ye know, Berty, there’s a chapel
here, a little church like, right in the middle of the building? All
the halls open into it; and it’s beautiful, I tell you.”
“But it’s not Sunday, Tim.”
“No; but I think they has service every day,—leastways, I saw the
people sitting there whin I wint out last night, waiting like. But
it’s a feast to-day, Berty; it’s All-Saints, ye know,—the first of
November. Belike they’d have service to-day, if ever. I was to go to
Mass meself but for you; thin I put it off till Vespers,” answered
devout Tim.
“All-Saints,” said Berty, thoughtfully. “Ah, yes, I know,—_Das Fest
Allerheiligen_: they keep it in my country, too. Mother took us to
_die Kirche_ last year, because of father, and now she is with him in
_das Paradies_. I _meant_ to remember them to-day; I’m so glad this
puts me in mind.”
The music ceased, and a nurse, watching her patient near, held up a
warning finger. There was a moment’s silence, Tim bending his head
reverently, and Berty closing her eyes, the only outward sign of
which she was capable; then the service began. “If we say that we
have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us; but if
we confess our sins, God is faithful and just to forgive us our sins,
and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” A strange beginning,
perhaps, for a service in commemoration of the saints departed; but
very well suited, assuredly, to make saints of those who were left
behind. Perhaps the good clergyman had some such case as Berty’s in
his mind; certainly, he could have chosen no sentence which would
have fixed her attention more securely.
The beautiful ritual which followed was quite unfamiliar to both
Tim and Berty, the one being a Lutheran, and the other a Papist;
but the slow, distinct utterance of the minister rendered every
word perfectly audible, and the solemn confession of sin is
fitted for all who have named the name of Christ. When it came to
the Lord’s Prayer, all the children joined. Tim, recognizing the
_Paternoster_, fell upon his knees; and Berty, lifting her well hand
in supplication, repeated her _Vaterunser_ with the rest.
As the service went on with Psalm, and Lesson, and Collect, Tim
noticed that the children seemed to consider themselves quite a part
of the congregation, joining in the responses, and singing with a
hearty zeal which pleased him very much; but as for Berty, though
she still lay with her eyes closed and her hand raised, her mind had
wandered far away from the scene, around the dear ones she had lost.
She tried to recall her father’s dying words, her mother’s parting
counsel. She wondered in her troubled heart whether they could still
look down upon their child,—whether they could know her uncomfortable
secret. Then she thought of the Doctor again, and of his kindness to
the little ones. Ah, if her mother knew it, how grateful she would
be, how she would think nothing too much to do for her children’s
friend. What _would_ she say, how _would_ she feel, if she knew how
her daughter proposed to requite him?
But, all at once, as the notes of a hymn died away and the
clergyman’s voice was heard again, it seemed to Berty that it took
a more stern and solemn tone. She could not help listening, and,
while she listened, the words seemed to carry her straight into the
presence of Him “to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and
from whom no secrets are hid.” She had thought of her mother, and of
the Doctor, and wondered what they would think _if_ they knew; but
here was One who _did_ know, from whom she could not hide her secret
if she would. What did He think? How would her “desires” bear His
inspection?
Berty trembled with terror as she asked herself this question, and,
even as she asked it, the answer came; for the solemn voice went on
to the rehearsal of the familiar Commandments which she had learned
at her mother’s knee; while, at the end of each one, the response
swelled up from the chapel,—“Lord, have mercy upon us, and incline
our hearts to keep this law.” Berty held her breath as if waiting
for a blow; and at last it came, in that stern, solemn voice,—_“Thou
shalt_ NOT _steal_.” Tim, too, had been waiting for this, and his
voice joined in the response, “Lord, have mercy upon us, and incline
our hearts to keep this law,” with a startling emphasis, which went
to Berty’s heart; then, almost before the words had left his lips,
he leaned forward and whispered earnestly, “Say it, Berty,—say it
for your life.” It seemed to Berty almost as if her life did hang
for a moment in the balance,—only a moment though, for she could not
hesitate. She raised her hand again, and murmured the petition so
faintly that Tim could scarcely hear. Another heard, and answered it,
as we shall presently see; and Tim heard, too, and gave thanks upon
his knees that his Berty was saved.
“Now, Berty,” said he, rising when the service was ended, and taking
the package from his pocket,—“now, Berty, you know what I’m going to
do,—take this to the station right off.”
“To the station! What for, Tim? Of course that would be easier; but
maybe they wouldn’t find him; and then, Tim, don’t you think he ought
to know? It would be very hard, to be sure, but don’t you think I
ought to tell him?”
“An’ who’s him, Berty?” asked Tim, quite puzzled.
“The Doctor, of course. Oh, Tim, didn’t you know it was the Doctor’s?
That’s one thing why I couldn’t do it.”
“The Docther’s! You don’t mane to tell me now, Berty, that this
pocket-book belongs to the Docther?”
“Yes, Tim; he gave me a dime there at the crossing, and this dropped,
and I ran after the stage, but they didn’t notice me, and then at
first I meant to take it to the station or something; but I thought
of my Christmas tree, and so—and so—I didn’t.”
“Well, Berty,” said Tim, after a long, thoughtful pause, “I’m glad I
didn’t know the rights of the matther till ye had come to a betther
mind, for I can’t say I think well of it. So it’s running away from
_him_ ye were, and no wonder; and he had it in his own hand too,
sure enough. Yes, it’s well I didn’t know, for I should have given it
back to him straight, and it’ll look betther coming from you.”
Berty quite agreed that it would look better coming from her, and yet
her heart sank within her when she saw the Doctor’s pleasant face
appear at the door. He came straight towards her bed, only nodding to
the other children as he passed them.
“Good morning, Berty,” said he; “how do you find yourself to-day?”
Berty did not wait to answer. Her courage was melting away so
rapidly, that she felt she had no time to lose. She took the
pocket-book from Tim and held it out to the Doctor.
“Here it is. Oh, take it! take it, quick!” said she, and burst into
tears.
The Doctor took the package in his hand, and stood looking from one
to the other. He had put his suspicions so entirely away that they
did not readily return.
“What is it, Tim?” said he, at last.
“It’s a pocket-book, sir, that Berty found. She says it’s yours.”
The Doctor changed color then, and tearing the cover away, examined
the enclosure.
“Yes,” said he, “it is mine. Where did you get it?”
“Please count the money then, sir,” said honest Tim, before Berty
could command her voice to answer. “I kept it for her last night. I
should like you to see if it’s all right.”
“Why did you not give it to me then?” asked Dr. John, sharply,
opening the pocket-book, and glancing rapidly over the contents.
“Oh, sir,” said Berty, finding her voice instantly,—“Oh, sir, you
must not blame Tim; he did not know it was yours. I never told him,
and he was always at me to find the owner. I meant to give it back at
first, and I should, but for the Christmas tree. I wanted it so much,
so very much, and I could never earn enough. I’m very, very sorry;
but you must not blame Tim.”
“It is all right,” said Dr. John, nodding to Tim, and putting the
purse in his pocket. “Now, Berty,” he added, soothingly, “you must
not cry any more; it is all right and safe, and I’m very much obliged
to you for bringing it back; it is not every one who would have
done it. Stop crying now, and tell me how you got it, and about this
Christmas tree. I do not understand.”
“I wanted one for the children, sir,” said Berty, composing her
voice a little; “they never saw one, you see, but I did; and Madame
Hansmann told them about those in the old country. So I heard them
one night wishing for one,—only they said they could not have it,
because they had no one but me. Then I wished so much to get one,
because I promised mother to take such care of them; and I asked
Biddy, and she said they cost pounds and pounds; and I did not
believe quite in the fairy, so I thought I must earn it; and I felt
very bad, and almost gave it up. Then I thought about Jesus, and
how mother said he would be our friend; so I prayed, and I hoped he
would help me. Then, the very first day, when you gave me a dime, the
pocket-book came tumbling down beside me, and I did not know if it
was yours; but I ran after the stage, but nobody noticed; and then
I thought it might be sent because I prayed, you know,—only, when
I showed it to Tim he said it was as bad as stealing. That made me
angry, and I would not speak to him; but I was not happy with it at
all when I meant to keep it. Then in the morning I saw you at the
crossing, and I thought you were looking for me, so I ran away; and,
while I was talking to the little girl, you came again, so I got all
wild like, and ran into the street. Then you were so kind, I did not
know about keeping it last night, only for the tree; but this morning
I thought of mother, because of the feast of All-Saints, and the
minister said the Commandments, and I could not keep it any longer
for the children, or anybody,—don’t you see?”
I am not at all sure that Dr. John did see, for I know that his eyes
were full of tears when Berty finished; but he seemed to understand
quite clearly for all that.
“Yes, Berty,” said he, “I see that you have had a great temptation,
and have won through it bravely. And as for Tim here, I beg his
pardon; I perceive he is a very honest fellow. But he must bid you
good-morning now, for I want to look at that side of yours.”
Tim felt a little disappointed that Dr. John did not offer Berty
something as a reward for bringing back his money, for Tim could not
bear that the Christmas tree should be given up after all; but still
he had great confidence in the Doctor, and did not doubt but he would
make it all right somehow. So he went away to his peddling with a
light heart.
As for Berty, she thought she had never felt so happy in her life,
even though her wounds were very painful, and the Christmas-tree
tapers had utterly gone out; for there was something shining upon
Berty which lighted up her heart far more brightly than any Christmas
tapers ever could,—her Heavenly Father’s smile. And the Doctor, too,
instead of being angry, seemed kinder than ever. He dressed her side
and ankle very tenderly, and then sat down by the bed and talked for
a long time, asking many questions about her family, and especially
about the uncle Gottlieb in the old country, of whom little Mary had
told him. Berty knew very little about him, except that he was her
mother’s only brother,—that he lived in Frankfort, and belonged to
one of the bands which she remembered with such delight as playing at
the concerts on the feast-days. Madame Hansmann had written to him,
it seemed, after her mother’s death; but they had never received any
answer.
“Well, Polly,” said Dr. John, when he went home that evening, “I have
found my pocket-book; and, what is more, I have got hold of a famous
plan for spending your surplus money.”
“I have a plan, too, cousin John,” said Polly; “but let us hear yours
first.”
So the Doctor told Berty’s story, which you will not care to hear for
the third time; and as for his famous plan, I mean to keep that for a
good ending to my story. Polly liked it very much, and so I dare say
will you; but she could not give up her own, and so it was decided
that both should be carried out.
“I am glad,” said Polly, when all was finally arranged,—“I am glad,
cousin John, that you found your pocket-book, for I should not wonder
if you had to lend me some money, after all;” and Dr. John thought
to himself, as he looked down at the little girl’s glowing, happy
face, that any amount of money would have been well spent in working
such a change as these kind schemes had made in his sad, little
cousin.
[Illustration: Decoration]
[Illustration: Decoration]