“WHAT IF I BELONGED?”
You think things are taking very rapid strides? Well, don't you know
that there come periods when they do just that thing, or appear to? Why,
even the buds on the trees teach us the lesson. How many springtimes
have you gone to your bed feeling that the season was late, and the
trees were bare, and the fruits would all be backward, and Nature was
dawdling along in a very wearisome fashion; and awakened in the morning
to find that there had in the night been a gentle rain, and a movement
of mysterious power among the buds and the grasses, and that now, in the
morning sunshine, the world had burst into bloom? Yet, did you really
suppose, after all, that the _work_ was done in one night?
There was progress of several sorts in the class at the South End. Even
a casual observer could have seen a change in the boys that first Sunday
after they had attended Dirk's mother to the grave. The dignity of
that hour of sorrow was still upon them. Even the very reckless and
world-hardened will offer a certain degree of respect to death. On
ordinary occasions, the boys might have been merry at Dirk's expense,
for they saw changes in him; but the memory of his mother's coffin kept
them silent, and let his changed manner have its effect.
That Sunday was full of small events to Dirk; at least they are small
enough when one puts them on paper, though I admit that they looked
large to him. Several people interested themselves in his welfare.
“Poor fellow!” said Mrs. Saunders, “I suppose his mother tried to do
for him. Just as likely as not she had a clean shirt for him of a Sunday
morning.”'
You will perceive that Mrs. Saunders, though all her life a resident
of a large city, was not very well-acquainted with the abject poor. In
point of fact, Dirk Colson had had no extra clothing for his mother to
make clean. But Mrs. Saunders, full of the motherly thought, yet finding
no trace of a shirt in the bundle of rags that Dirk had brought with
him, went down one day into the depths of an old trunk, and brought to
light and mended and washed and ironed a shirt that had long been laid
aside.
It lay in its purity on a chair at the foot of Dirk's bed on Sabbath
morning. He lay still and looked at it for a while, then arose and gave
such careful attention to the soap and water as was new to him, and
arrayed himself in the clean linen.
His clothes were whole and clean. Mr. Roberts had seen to it that he
went respectably dressed to his mother's funeral.
A tap at his door a little later, and young Ried appeared, shoe-brush
and blacking-box in hand.
“Want to borrow?” he said, in the careless tone of one who might have
supposed that the blacking of his boots was an every-day matter to this
boy. “I always keep my own; it is cheaper than to depend on the street
boys.”
Dirk said nothing at all, but reached forth his hand, and took the
offered tools, and the hint which came with them. When he went down
to breakfast his boots shone, and his fresh paper collar was neatly
arranged; altogether he was not the boy to whom I first introduced you.
I am not sure that Policeman Duffer would have recognized him. A
collar and a necktie make a great difference in some people's personal
appearance. Dirk wondered a little as to where the box of paper collars
came from. The necktie he had just found lying in the bottom of the box.
It was the mate of the one young Ried wore, but that told nothing, for
both were simple and plain, and could be bought by the dozens in any
furnishing store.
It is small wonder that the boys in the class looked at him. Nimble Dick
wore at first a roguish air, but a sudden memory of Dirk's face when he
turned away from his mother's grave came in time. Open graves are not
easy things to forget.
Dirk went to the church that day; went with young Ried by invitation,
and sat in the pew behind Mr. Roberts.
By the way, the seat which he occupied was another of Mr. Roberts'
peculiarities. Three seats were rented by him in a central part of the
large church. One of these seats he and his wife regularly occupied. The
others were almost as regularly occupied by the clerks from the store
who chose to make that their church home. Six sittings to a pew. When
a young man chose, Mr. Roberts was ready to enter into a business
engagement with him, whereby the sitting should be considered his own;
Mr. Roberts considering it to be no part of any one's concern that the
sum for which he thus sub-let the sittings was not a tenth of what the
first rental cost. It was in this way that Mr. Ried owned sittings in
the pew just back of that occupied by Mr. Roberts; and brought with
him constantly one and another young man. Today the young man was Dirk
Colson.
It was all a strange world to him. He had wandered into the gallery
of the Mission Chapel, and looked down from his perch on the crowd of
worshippers; but this morning he was in the very centre of things, as if
he were one of them. Perhaps it is not strange that the startled inquiry
came to his heart: What if I belonged? Where did he belong now? He
had lost his place; he must make another. What if it should be in this
neighborhood, among these surroundings? Such thoughts did not take
actual shape to him, so that he could have put them into words; they
merely hovered in his atmosphere. Mrs. Roberts sat so that he could look
at her, which thing he liked to do. It had long since been settled
in his mind that he had one friend, and that one was Mrs. Roberts. He
admired Gracie Dennis, too, with a different sort of admiration from
that which he gave to the matron. She might be all very well; and she
was a splendid reader; and he knew that he could imitate her on certain
sentences, at least. And she had taught him to use the type-writer--an
accomplishment which he meant to perfect himself in as soon as he had
a chance. In fact, his ambition reached higher than that: one of these
days he meant to make one of his own with certain improvements! Who
shall say that Dirk was not growing?
On this particular day there sat beside Mrs. Roberts a lady,--a
stranger. He could not see her face, but for some reason, which he did
not understand, Dirk liked to look at her. She suggested something to
him that seemed like a familiar dream. He thought much about her, and
resolved to see if in her face she looked like any one he ever saw. As
she turned at the close of the service he was looking at her steadily.
Lo! it was Mart.
Now the possibility had not once suggested itself to his mind. If you
think this doubtful, you merely show that you know nothing about the
transforming effect of a becoming dress, no matter how simple it may
be. Remember, Dirk had never but twice seen his sister in a bonnet.
The first time it was Sallie's, and though the effect was sufficiently
startling, yet Sallie's bonnet did not fit her face, as this creation
of Gracie Dennis' fingers did. The second time the bonnet had been a
hideous black one, proffered by an old woman who lived in the story
above them, and whose thoughtfulness Mrs. Roberts would not mar by
making any mention of the neat one which she had brought in a box that
day. The black bonnet had been like a mask, hiding Mart's beauty.
The bonnet that she wore now was not of that character. It told a
wonderful story to Dirk's astonished gaze. Now, indeed, the likeness was
plain; without doubt, the girl whose face lighted with a curious smile
at sight of him, bore a striking likeness to the woman who had smiled at
him whenever she met him!
A curious effect this had on Dirk. There was that in his sister which
made it possible for her to be something like the woman who had won his
heart; and that sister was in his care: she had said so; he must work
for her, and watch over her!
I suppose that Sabbath was really the beginning of the surface changes
in Mrs. Roberts' class. Not the beginning to the teacher, but to those
people who only have eyes for strongly marked things.
I know that it was but a few weeks afterward that Mrs. Roberts came home
with such an unusual light in her eyes, and with her face so full of
brightness, that her husband said, inquiringly:--
“What is it, Flossy?”
She turned to him, eagerly, ready to laugh.
“It is what you will understand, but a great many people wouldn't. It is
so nice that you understand things! I feel just like saying, 'Thank the
Lord.'”
“Do you mean to convey the idea that only a very few favored people feel
like that? I don't know of a person who has not great occasion. What is
your special one?”
“Evan, the last boy had his boots blacked, and a fresh paper collar on!”
Mr. Roberts threw back his head and laughed,--a genial, hearty laugh.
His wife looked on, smiling. There is a great deal of character in a
laugh, remember; you would have known that this was a sympathetic one.
Mr. Roberts was entirely capable of realizing what this said to his
wife about the future of her boys. It was becoming certain that their
self-respect was awakened.
A few days thereafter occurred another of those little things which mark
some characters.
Dirk, at Mrs. Saunders' breakfast-table on Sabbath morning, heard talk
that on Monday he recalled. By the way, I should have told you of one
other way in which the Sabbath became a marked day to him. He slept in
the little room which opened from Ried's, but his meals were picked up
at a restaurant, as occasion offered,--a much nicer and surer method of
living than he had ever known before. Even the commonest restaurant had
great respectability to him. Yet you will remember that he had by this
time taken several suppers in Mrs. Roberts' dining-room. He knew that
there was a difference in things; in fact, his experience now stretched
over infinite differences; but the first time he sat down to Mrs.
Saunders' breakfast-table, on a Sabbath morning, he discovered another
grade: this by no means belonged to the restaurant class? The Sunday
breakfasts and dinners were some of Mrs. Saunders' quiet ways of helping
along the work of the Christian world. Many a young man appeared at her
table as the guest of Ried or of Dr. Everett, or of some other of the
boarders, who was unaware that he owed the pleasant experience to the
landlady.
Well, Dirk at the Sabbath-table heard talk of one General Burton, famous
as a soldier, a scholar, and an orator. General Burton was in the city,
the guest of a prominent man; he was to speak on the following evening
in one of the great halls, and much eager talk was had concerning him;
great desire was expressed to hear him, to get a glimpse of him. Dirk
listened in silence, but had his own thoughts about what it must be
to have people talking about one, wanting to get a glimpse of one, and
next, what it must be to be intimate with such people. Did Mrs. Roberts
know the great man? he wondered. And then Dirk smiled as he thought how
queer it was that he should know Mrs. Roberts; that he might, in fact,
be called intimately acquainted with her!
Remembering this reverie of his, you will better understand how he felt
on Monday morning, as he made his way in haste down a quiet part of one
of the up-town streets, intent on an errand that required promptness, to
hear his name called by Mrs. Roberts.
“Good morning!” she said. “Are you in too great haste to recognize your
friends? I want to introduce you to a friend of mine. General Burton,
Mr. Colson. General, this is one of my young men, of whom I told you.”
Whereupon the famous general, hero of many battles, held out his honored
hand, and took Dirk's in a cordial grasp. I don't suppose I could
explain to you what an effect this action had on a boy like Dirk.
There is this comfort: you may be a student of human nature, and
therefore may understand it all without explanation.
This is only one of many so-called trifles which occurred during the
weeks, to make their indelible impress on the characters of the boys.
Of course, the Monday Evenings prospered. Reading-lessons and
writing-lessons, and, as time passed, lessons of all sorts made good
progress.
Neatly-blackened boots, carefully-arranged hair, and fresh collars
became the rule instead of the exception.
Other avenues for improvement opened. It became noised abroad in
Christian circles that great transformations were being worked among a
certain set of hard young fellows who had hitherto been best known to
the police. Mr. Roberts was interviewed by one and another, and one
outgrowth of the talks was that tickets for a course of expensive and
valuable and attractive lectures on popular subjects were placed in
large numbers in Mr. Roberts' hands for him to use at discretion.
Moreover, seats were rented in the church towards which most of the boys
gravitated--the one connected with their Mission; seats re-rented after
Mr. Roberts' plan, so that as often as there appeared a young man who
cared to have a spot in the church which belonged to him, it could be
had for a very small sum; in fact, as pews rented in that church, a
ridiculously small sum.
These are only hints of the channels which time and patience and thought
opened for these young men, on whom, but a short time before, Satan
believed himself to have so firm a grip.
One feature of the “Monday Evenings” had, in the course of time, to be
changed. The young teacher of elocution went home.
“I want to go,” she said at last, in answer to her hostess' pleading.
“I think it quite likely that papa would let me stay and attend school
here; but I am in haste to get home. You need not look sober, Flossy.
I have had a happier time than I have ever had in my life before; and I
have found here a sort of happiness that will last. It almost breaks my
heart to think of leaving those boys,--especially my dear Dick Bolton;
but really, I need to go home and undo certain things that I left badly
done. You don't half know me, Flossy Shipley. When I came here I was a
regular goose. If you had known what a simpleton I was, and how hateful
I had been about some things at home, you would never have invited me.
“Among other things that were hateful about me, I was a real horror to
my mother. I thought I had reason to distrust and dislike her; when
the truth is that I have cause to go down on my knees and thank her for
keeping me from some things. I'm in a real hurry to get home, and show
that young mother of mine what a perfectly angelic daughter I can be.”
And Mrs. Roberts smiled and kept her own counsel; and this was all that
she was supposed to know about her young guest. She never knew the whole
story about Professor Ellis; though there was a girl, Hester Mason by
name, in Dr. Everett's Sabbath-school, who could have told her a good
deal about him, and about Gracie Dennis' helping to break the net that
Satan had woven for her unwary feet. The fact is, there is a great
deal concerning all these people--Hester Mason and Dr. Everett and Joy
Saunders and Joy Saunders' mother--which I should have liked to tell you
if I could have found room. You may read of them any time, however, if
you choose, in a book called “An Endless Chain.” Of course, the story of
their lives does not end even _there_, because the chain is, as I said,
_endless_; but there are many of the links presented to view.
So Grace Dennis went home. And neither then, nor afterward, did Mrs.
Roberts hear in detail the story of Professor Ellis. What matter? She
had, however, a short added chapter. It came in a letter from Mrs.
Marion Dennis not long after Gracie's return. It read thus.--
Oh, Flossy Shipley Roberts! blessed little scheming saint that you are!
What did you do? How did you do it! Ah! I know more about it than those
sentences would indicate. The dear Lord did it, working through you,
His servant. He has called our Gracie to higher ground, filled her heart
with that which has made insignificant things take their true place, and
wrong things show for what they are.
You know, of course, that it is all right about Professor Ellis;--or no!
I fear it is all wrong about him, but right with our Gracie. I hear that
he has permanently located in your city. Perhaps your Christian charity
can reach him. He sent Gracie a letter, trying to explain certain
affairs about that Mason girl, with which I presume you are familiar.
She showed me the letter and her answer. He will not write her another!
“_I_ don't know any Mason girl,” said Mrs. Roberts to her husband, “but
it doesn't matter. I don't want to know the story if there is nothing to
be done through it. There are stories enough that one _must_ know.”