"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
spring-times 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.
Rig 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 Reid 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 Reid wore; but that told nothing, for
both were simple and plain, and could be bought by the dozen 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 Reid by invitation,
and sat in the pew behind Mr. Roberts.
By the way, the seat which he occupied was another of Mr. Roberts's
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 sublet the sittings was not a tenth of what the
first rental cost. It was in this way that Mr. Reid owned sittings in
the pew just back of that occupied by Mr. Roberts, and brought with him
constantly one and another young man. To-day 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 was not strange that the startled
inquiry came to his mind: 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 neighbourhood, 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.
No; 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's 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 on 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's class—not the beginning to the teacher, but to those
people who have eyes only 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 favoured 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's 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 Reid'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
was great respectability to him. Yet you will remember that he had
by this time taken several suppers in Mrs. Roberts's 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's breakfast-table, on a Sabbath morning, he discovered
another grade: this by no means belonged to the restaurant class. These
Sunday breakfasts and dinners were some of Mrs. Saunders's quiet ways
of helping along the work of the Christian world. Many a young man
appeared at her table as the guest of Reid 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
honoured 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's 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's 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's 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's 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's 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
"Workers Together; or, 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 Gracie 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:—
"O 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."