EBEN TRIES TO SERVE TWO MASTERS.
"SEEMS to me, Eben, you're getting kind of scatter-brained lately."
"What now?" asked Eben, not very good-naturedly.
"What now? Well, not so much now as yesterday," replied Jeduthun. "You
gave Bassett's account to Williams and his to Bassett, and you dropped
the wrench and hammer out in the shed, just where you'd been using
them, I suppose, and what you've done with that 'ere stencil-plate
maybe you know, but I don't. I've been looking for it for half the
morning. Did you post the letters last night?"
Eben started and coloured. He had forgotten to put the letters in the
office, and had brought them back in his pocket.
"Now, just look here, Eben, I want to talk to you!" said Jeduthun,
seriously. "This ain't going to answer, my boy—not at all. You ain't
doing right either by the boss or by yourself. You have always been a
first-rate boy, but I can't say you have done well the past two weeks."
"I don't know what I have done so very bad," said Eben, trying to speak
carelessly. "I'm sorry I forgot the letters, but I can go and put them
in now."
"Now is just too late. Mr. Bassett is gone, and the letters will have
to wait till to-morrow. It isn't so much what you have done as what
you haven't, Eben, which is most commonly the case. I've picked up and
covered up after you as well as I could, but I can't help you unless
you help yourself, and besides, I don't know why I should. Mr. Antis
didn't like it at all when he heard of the mistakes you made about the
bills, and I'm afraid he'll be awful provoked when he finds out about
the letters."
"Well, everybody makes mistakes sometimes," said Eben.
"Eben," said Jeduthun, impressively—for the miller could be
impressive in spite of his miscellaneous grammar and decided Virginia
accent—"Eben, you are wrong, and you know you are. Your conscience
tells you so this minute. You ain't being faithful to Mr. Antis, though
he pays you large wages for a boy of your age, and though he has been
very kind to you. You ain't doing your duty neither to God nor man,
and unless you turn right round and go on the other track, you'll find
yourself in more trouble than you know."
Eben was silent, and looked steadily out of the window. His conscience
did tell him that Jeduthun was right, but his pride and some other
feelings would not let him own that he was in the wrong.
"The fact is," continued Jeduthun, "you're a-trying to do two things at
once, and that's what you can't do. You can't serve two masters no more
than any one else. I've no objection to your reading your medical books
in the evening if you like, though it must make it rather dull for Miss
Flossy and the old lady, after they haven't seen you all day, but you
have no business to be bringing them into the mill, and letting your
thoughts run on them when you ought to be 'tending to your work. If
you're going to be a doctor, why, be a doctor, and if you're going to
be a miller, why, be a miller, but don't try to be both at once. That's
being too much like my young missus when she emptied the camphire
bottle into the mince pies, thinking it was rose water: it spiled the
medicine, and it spiled the pies too."
Eben went home that night in a very uncomfortable state of mind. Mr.
Antis had been very sharp with him about the letters, and had told
him that the cost of the telegraphing which his neglect had rendered
necessary should be taken out of his wages. But that had not hurt Eben
half so much as the way in which Mr. Antis had said, "I really thought
I had found one boy who could be trusted to do what he undertook."
Eben knew very well where the trouble was, but he was slow to
acknowledge it to himself, because he felt that such an acknowledgment
involved a great deal. He had found the physiology, as Dr. Porter had
said, as interesting as a romance, and his head was running on it all
the time. The book was in his hand the moment he entered the house,
and hardly left it, even at meal-times, and he was impatient of the
slightest interruption to his studies.
Flora, who had set out with being delighted with her brother's new
employment, began to find that in the experience it was rather dreary.
The evenings were now growing long, and she found that after a day of
fine sewing, her eyes were too weary to read by candle light, while
Eben was impatient of any conversation, even when nobody talked to him.
Mary Clarke was bent upon making the most of her last year in school,
and studied every evening up in her own room. Mrs. Fairchild dozed over
her knitting and Flora sat silent with hers, while Eben pored over his
big books without a word to say to anybody for as long a time as his
mother would allow him to sit up.
"Where is my book?" was his first question to Flora as he entered the
house and missed his beloved "Carpenter" from its accustomed place.
"I dare say mother laid it in the other room," replied Flora. "I had to
use the whole table for cutting out and basting my work."
"I wish my things could be let alone!" said Eben, sharply.
"I couldn't help it, Eben," returned Flora, in rather an injured tone.
"My work had to be got ready, and I cannot cut out on the floor. It
breaks my back. It is rather less trouble for you to get your book out
of the other room."
Eben said nothing, but finding his book, sat down to read by the lamp.
"Well, I declare!" said Mary Clarke as Flora came in from the well
bringing a heavy pail of water. "I should think somebody else might do
that."
"Eben don't like to be interrupted," said Flora, demurely.
"Flora could have asked me to bring the water, I suppose," said Eben,
rather loftily.
"I asked you last night," replied Flora, and Eben bit his lip without
replying, for he well remembered the answer he had made and the
ungracious way in which he had performed the service, which he always
used to render as a matter of course.
"Are you going to have any reading to-night?" asked Mary, after tea.
"If not, I will bring my books down stairs and study."
"I presume not," replied Flora. "We never do have any, now-a-days."
"It seems kind of dull to have it all so still," said Mrs. Fairchild,
rather plaintively. "Of course Eben wants to read his book, but I can't
help wishing, sometime, that, it was interesting to the rest of us.
That is one way I miss Mr. Fairchild so much, now that the evenings
are growing long. He used always to read loud to me winter evenings. I
do always enjoy a book read loud so much more than I do reading it to
myself; and besides, my eyes are not so good as they were."
"I do wish," said Eben, laying down his book and speaking in a voice
which trembled with anger—"I do wish I could have a minute's peace
somewhere. I should think, after I had been working hard all day in the
mill and worried about forty different things, that I might be allowed
to spend my evening in quiet with my book, without being snapped at and
hinted at on every side by mother and Flora. Flora, I should think you
might have a little feeling for me, but you haven't one bit."
"Why, Eben, my son, what's the matter?" asked his mother. "Is that the
way to speak to your sister?"
If Flora had been wise, she would not have said anything, but have
left her brother to be ashamed of his petulance. But she was not very
wise, nor was she, with all her good qualities, very amiable; moreover,
she loved Eben with all the love of her heart, and she was, besides,
tired and nervous from too close application to a perplexing piece of
work, and so was therefore in an excellent state for a quarrel. So she
said in the sarcastic tone which she well knew always vexed Eben, "Oh,
never mind him, mother! Of course the vexation and fatigue have been
all on his side. We haven't had any. We have done nothing but enjoy our
elegant leisure—you with Mrs. Badger's sick baby, and I with a perverse
sewing machine. Besides, what are women made for, if not for the lords
of creation to vent their vexation upon? We ought to accept our lot,
and be thankful."
"That ain't my notion, and it wasn't your dear father's, Flora
Fairchild!" said Mrs. Fairchild, who always took things literally. "And
I don't believe Eben thinks so, either."
"Oh, very well!" said Eben. "If I cannot be quiet here, I will go to my
room. It is very kind of you, Flora, I must say—all to revenge yourself
because I forgot to bring you a pail of water, I suppose. You know well
enough how much I have always wished to study, and you pretended to
wish it too. I can see now just how much you were willing to sacrifice
to me."
"Children, now don't you say another word until you can speak
pleasantly!" said Mrs. Fairchild.
"Oh, I don't want to speak," said Flora. "I am glad to understand what
a monster of selfishness and ingratitude I am. Eben is all right, of
course, only, as he is so wise, I should like to know how all this
is to work for his good, when the very thing that he ought to be
thankful for and that he has wished for so long makes him cross and
selfish—that's all!"
"Not a word more, Flora!" said her mother. "No, Eben, not a word! Mind
me! There has been a great deal too much said already."
Mrs. Fairchild rarely roused herself to command. A mild "I guess I
wouldn't," or, "It isn't worth while," was as far as she commonly went
in reproof, but when she did exercise her authority there was that
about her which commanded obedience. Flora sank back in her chair and
knitted furiously, and Eben hid his face behind his book. The rest of
the evening was passed in silence till nine o'clock, when Eben arose
and lighted his own lamp.
"Eben, you are not going to bed before prayers, are you?" said his
mother, looking at him in surprise, for since Mr. Fairchild's death
Eben had been acting as chaplain to the family.
"I don't wonder he feels like it," said Flora, half aloud. "His prayers
would be edifying, no doubt."
"Flora!" whispered Mary Clarice, warningly. Eben turned back without a
word and set down his lamp.
"You may give me the book, my son," said his mother. "I will read for
once."
Without speaking, Eben brought out the great Bible, laid it on the
table before his mother, arranged the lamp conveniently for her, and
then sat down in the corner, turning his own face from the light. It
was the long-established custom of the family to read the New Testament
through in course, but this night, for some reason of her own, Mrs.
Fairchild departed from that custom, turning over to the Gospel of John
and reading our Lord's intercessory prayer. Then she said, a little
tremulously:
"We will sing your father's favourite hymn, children:"
"'How blest the tie that binds
Our hearts in Christian love!'"
"He always loved that hymn, and I remember we sung it at worship in his
room the very day before he died. Mary, will you start the tune?"
Flora broke down at the first verse and Eben's notes were very husky,
but Mrs. Fairchild's weak, sweet voice and Mary's strong and full one
carried the plaintive melody through to the end. Mrs. Fairchild's
prayer was as simple as that of a child. She prayed that they might
all be kept in the love of God and of each other, that no clouds might
come between them, but that they might have grace to see clearly, and
to fulfil their duty, the one towards the other. Mrs. Fairchild's
religious faith was her strong point, and gave to her character all the
force it possessed.
Eben's pride broke down, and he cried like a child, when he heard his
mother give thanks for all the mercies that had been shown even in the
midst of loss and bereavement, and especially for the gift of dutiful
and affectionate children. When they rose, he wiped his eyes and said,
manfully, but in rather a choked voice:
"I believe I have been very cross and disagreeable this evening."
"I am glad you have found it out," interrupted Flora.
"And I am very sorry and hope everybody will forgive me, and I will
try to do better hereafter," continued Eben, without regarding the
interruption. "Flossy, you were quite right in saying that I ought to
do better. I don't make any excuses for myself, but if anybody is good
enough to make them for me, I shall not be too proud to accept them."
"That's right, Eben, and spoken like a Christian. Come, now! Let us all
kiss goodnight and go to bed."
Flora's father was wont to say that Flora, when she gave her mind to
it, could be the best child and the naughtiest child he ever saw in his
life. The naughty fit was on now. To do her justice, her temper was
partly hysterical and the result of over-fatigue. She did not refuse
Eben's proffered kiss, but when he whispered something in her ear, she
answered aloud:
"I don't care much for displays and protestations, Eben; I like deeds
better than words, and I don't think much of a religion that is all
talk, as yours seems to be."
Flora did not say these words because she believed them, but because
she knew that they would hurt Eben more than anything else she could
say. She was wretched herself, and she felt a desire to make others so
as well, and in her perversity, she was more vexed with her brother for
owning himself in the wrong, than if he had justified himself through
all. It was one of her old "moods," which had become very rare of late,
and Eben knew that the best way to meet it was to let her alone till it
went away. He took an opportunity of whispering to Mary:
"Don't say anything to her. She will come round best alone."
Mary nodded in token of intelligence. Unluckily, Flora saw both the
look and the nod.
"I wish—" she began, when her mother checked her:
"Flora, don't you say another word to-night! Now, mind me! Not another
word! You ain't yourself, and you don't half know what you do say, but,
mind! I won't have another word said about this matter."
Flora obeyed, and went to bed without speaking another word.
Christian's fierce conflict with Apollyon came to pass just after
he had descended into the Valley of Humiliation, "catching a slip
or two by the way," a point in the story which shows Bunyan's
wonderful knowledge of human nature and Christian experience. Eben had
fondly imagined that, when he had acknowledged his faults and asked
forgiveness of those he had offended, his task was done, but he was to
find himself mistaken. His enemy was not vanquished, but only lying in
ambush. Pride whispered to him that he had humbled himself needlessly
as well as in vain, that he had been right all the time, that it was
perfectly proper for him to employ all his leisure-time in learning,
and that if Flora had not been very selfish she would have done
anything rather than have him interrupted. Mr. Antis and Jeduthun had
also been very unkind to him, and had made a great fuss about nothing,
and, in short, he, Eben, was more ill-used than any one had ever been
before.
Well as he knew Flora and her moods, the reproach she had cast upon
his religion cut him to the quick, and all the more because he was
conscious that there was some truth in it. He had neglected his
religious duties; his Bible had remained unread in private; his prayers
had been cold and formal, and, for the first time, his Sunday-school
lessons had been forgotten, and only hastily looked over at the very
last moment. He had suffered his armour to become dim and his sword
to rust in the scabbard, and now that he needed them most they seemed
likely to fail him.
But Eben's faith was a very real and strong faith, and he had the fixed
habit of telling himself the truth about himself. There was no use, he
very well knew, in trying to fight the battle in his own strength, and
he did not try. He carried all his troubles to the place where he was
wont to carry them, confessing all his faults and shortcomings, and
praying for forgiveness for himself and the spirit to forgive others.
When he arose, after a long time, his face was sad. He had not found
the comfort he had hoped for. But he said to himself that that must
come in time, and lying down at last, he was soon asleep.