Home Duties
Duty, demands the parent's voice,
Should sanctify the daughter's choice,
In that is due obedience shown;
To choose, belongs to her alone.
THOMAS MOORE.
MR. RUSSELL was as good as his word. He came round to the vicarage the
next evening, and Betty's desire for work was discussed. Mrs. Stuart,
as her daughter feared, would not hear of her leaving home.
"I know it is the fashion nowadays," she said, "but I will not allow
one of my girls to do it. Betty's first duty is to make herself useful
at home; and until she does that, she will be of no use anywhere else.
I can find plenty of occupation for her. Molly will be glad of more
leisure, and Betty can take some of my correspondence off my hands."
"But, mother," pleaded Betty, "you say I write so untidily. I give you
more trouble than help when I take Molly's place."
"Is it not possible to improve in that respect?"
Betty coloured at her mother's words. Then, with a little burst of
enthusiasm, she made one more effort to obtain her freedom,—
"Oh, mother, don't keep me at home! You don't really want me. You would
never miss me if I went, and I want to do great things. I want to take
up a vocation. There is so much in the world to be done, and so few to
do it! You are always telling us so. You don't want us to be idlers.
Let me go!"
"Go where?" asked Mrs. Stuart. "You are not fitted for an independent
rôle, Betty. You are too unformed and childish—too uncontrolled. I will
never give my consent to your going into the Mission Field. You have
neither the health nor qualifications necessary. If you are anxious
for work, you can do it from your own home. We are going back to town
soon, and I shall be able, through various friends, to find you plenty
of occupation. Do not you agree with me, Mr. Russell? Is she fitted
to sally out into the world as so many young girls are doing in this
present generation, and discard her home and friends as if she had no
belongings?"
"I should not be happy if she did that," said Mr. Russell, smiling. "I
think she would be better for outside interests, and I am sure they
will be given her."
"This discontent with home is very sudden," Mrs. Stuart said. "I can
only suppose this country life is not to her taste."
The conversation was not satisfactory. Man like, Mr. Russell felt it
was useless to argue with such a woman as Mrs. Stuart. He tried to
comfort Betty afterwards.
"Your mother is right in her wish to keep you still under her wing.
Your life is all before you. There is plenty of time, and you know I
have a great belief in the corners first being filled up at home."
Betty sighed.
"I will try to be willing and patient. But I know what our London life
is, and I am sick of it. I love the country; I always feel it is so
much easier to be good in it. And can't say it well, Mr. Russell, but
I've given myself for God's service, and I did hope He was going to
take me."
"You need not doubt that," said Mr. Russell, smiling; "but I think
you had better look up the subject of service in your Bible. St. Paul
advises some of the converts—in fact, all of them—to 'abide in the
calling wherein they are called.' I am certain you can serve God in
your own home. Read the first chapter of the Epistle to the Colossians
when you get home, and see what was St. Paul's prayer and desire for
the young Christians—not that they should go out and do great things,
but that they might walk worthy of the Lord unto all pleasing, being
fruitful in every good work, and increasing in the knowledge of God."
"Yes, 'good works,'" interrupted Betty; "and that is what I want to do."
"Wait a bit. If I remember rightly the passage goes on, 'Strengthened
with all might, according to His glorious power.' Now what does a young
Christian want this glorious, mighty strength for? Why should he need
God's almighty power? Is he to work miracles, or preach to thousands?
No. It is to teach him to practise or bring forth in his own home three
fruits of the Spirit—'Patience, long-suffering, joyfulness.'"
"I will look at that chapter," said Betty thoughtfully; "I know I am
not patient or long-suffering. Joyfulness seems a strange thing to
practise."
"It is most essential to recommend our religion to the world at large.
Can't you imagine the young Christian practising a mournful patience,
and a melancholy long-suffering, and exasperating all the members of
her family thereby."
Betty laughed.
"Yes, Mr. Russell, and I do hope I shan't turn into that type. I know a
girl in London who always adopts a superior kind of patience, as if she
were a long-suffering martyr, and she drives her sisters nearly mad!"
"Don't lose your gay spirits, Betty. It is a gift for which you will
have to account, and very few keep it when their youth slips away. I
often think it is such a pity, for it brightens and gladdens all who
come in contact with it."
"I was wondering if I had any gifts," said Betty; "but I am afraid
joyfulness is not mine now."
"I think it is. There is no reason why it should not be. If clouds
come, let them pass; don't hug hold of them, and coax them to stay."
A pink colour rose to Betty's cheeks. She was walking down the drive
with Mr. Russell, and her eyes wandered to the hills in the distance,
which formed a blue foreground to a golden sky behind them.
"The sun isn't always shining," she said wistfully; "but I'm going
to try hard, Mr. Russell, and if I sit indoors all day at mother's
writing-desk, and keep happy all the time, you think that will be a
kind of service?"
"I don't think your mother will be such a hard task-mistress as that,"
was Mr. Russell's amused reply; but Betty shook her little curly head
very doubtfully.
It was very soon after this that General Dormer and his family came to
the Red Manor. Ella Dormer, a bright, handsome girl about Molly's age,
appeared very often at the vicarage with her brother, and the request,—
"Please, Mrs. Stuart, may Molly and Betty come over and spend the day
with us? We want to make up a set for tennis or croquet."
Molly generally ended by going with them, but Betty withstood all
their invitations, and gradually began to take Molly's place in her
mother's sick-room. It was a trial to her at first, for Betty, as
she acknowledged, "was not an indoor person," and the bright summer
weather tempted her sorely to spend her time in the open air. But she
had set herself to learn lessons of "patience and long-suffering with
joyfulness," and if the little songs that she sang about the house had
a somewhat plaintive melody, they sweetened and enlivened her mother's
many quiet hours of seclusion and solitude.
The summer faded; the young green leaves turned from their early
freshness to their dull August tint, and then to their bright September
hues; the woods were clothed in their glorious russet and golden coats,
the days began to shorten, and the nights became cold and misty. And
Mrs. Stuart announced her intention of returning to town.
Molly was invited to stay at the Red Manor with her young friends for
a month later, and so it happened that Betty and her mother went up to
London together.
Betty walked over to wish her old women at the almshouses good-bye the
day before she left. Her heart was full; she tried to face the future
bravely, but it looked dreary and forlorn. There was much lamentation
over her departure; for by this time she had endeared herself to their
hearts. Even Lucy Finch had learnt to restrain her tongue a little
during Betty's visits.
"Eh, me dear, us will say nought about our neighbours to-day. They be
no better nor worse than usual, an uninterestin' set, it seems to me,
an' the fewer words us do have about 'em, the better you'll be pleased.
I've larned that from yer pretty face. For I sez to Mary Dunster
yester-morn, 'tis hard work for such a bright young leddy to listen to
the groans an' moans of those who make such a clamour over their aches
an' pains; an' for meself I allays have kep' a brave heart, an' should
be 'shamed to whine like some folks that I could tell on. Yes, me dear,
I've done; an' I wipe me hands o' their ways an' their folly! But what
us will do when youn'm gone be more than I can tell!"
Mary Dunster had a smile for her.
"You have brought sunshine to my heart, missy, for I'm learnin' fast
to look up and on. Hope keeps the heart young, they say; an' hope
is makin' my old heart quicken an' throb with expectation. When my
rheumatics keep me awake at night, I just count over the blessin's that
are comin' to me in the other land, an' my dreams are often on it now.
I shall miss our talks sorely."
Widow Newcombe and Widow Long received her with long faces. The latter
was always spokeswoman, and her friend echoed her words.
"Well to be sure, Miss Stuart. Us have only just begun to be friendly
wi' 'ee, and now you be departin'; an' tis the way o' the world—here
to-day and gone to-morrow; an' the young squire be gone too, and a
fam'ly already come in his stead. 'Tis to be hoped they have come to
stay. Us be very sorry to lose 'ee, miss. It whiles the time away to
see a young lady."
"It do," assented Widow Newcombe fervently.
Susan Crane cried as she wished her good-bye.
"It has been good, miss, to have a talk about good things. My prayers
will foller you, an' I hope us may see you down in these parts agen. I
have picked up wonderful since I had your visits to look to, an' I'm
settlin' in most comfortable!"
But Betty lingered longest at Martha Button's.
"Martha," she said, "give me some advice to take up to London. I
remember some time ago—the first time I called—you were talking about
stewards. Do you think I am one? Have I anything entrusted to me?"
Martha's face beamed.
"Ay, Miss Betty, ye have. Surely your youth and brightness is like dew
to the dry, parched ground. You have brought sunshine to us in this
little community; take it about you in London, for that be a place that
wants a power o' sunshine, I hear. And there be few folks that make the
best of life, and pick out their mercies; 'tis always the other way. If
only the Lord's people would mind that sunbeams glorify the sun they
come from, perchance they might think a bright face and word as much
their dooty as hymns an' prayers!"
"But, Martha, one can't always be bright. It is strange your talking to
me, too, about being happy. Mr. Russell—a friend of mine—said much the
same thing to me the other day. It seems that I am not to be allowed to
take life gravely. I hope I shan't be like the clown who looked upon
tears as an expensive luxury."
"We'll hope trouble will not touch you for many a day," said Martha.
Betty left her with a brave smile; but she felt that trouble which had
to be hidden, and which in a sense was not lawful, was a difficult
burden to carry. As she neared home she met Mat Lubbock.
"Arternoon, missy. Have 'ee said good-bye to the organ?"
"I'm afraid I have," Betty said, a sorrowful look coming to her face.
"I have a short time now at your biddin', missy."
"Then let us come into church now for half an hour," said Betty,
wondering that Mat should propose what once he had been so loth to do.
She was more surprised when, after she had played over several of her
favourite refrains, Mat said in his gruffest tone,—
"Will 'ee sing that there hymn, missy, on 'The King o' love my Shepherd
is'?"
Betty gladly complied with his request. When her sweet, glad notes rang
through the little church,—
"'The King of Love my Shepherd is,
Whose goodness faileth never;
I nothing lack if I am His,
And He is mine, for ever,—'"
she fancied she heard a hoarse echo of her words, but, thinking she was
mistaken, she said nothing.
As she was shutting up the organ, Mat came out of his corner, and stood
at her elbow. She looked at him, and, seeing he was struggling to
speak, said gently,—
"What is it, Mat?"
"I thought I'd tell 'ee that I hath bin up to passon an' given my name
for bell-ringer agen."
"Oh, Mat, I am so glad! I thought you were looking happier."
"I be that. Tell 'ee missy, I be fair overcome by the King o' Love. He
have bin hammer, hammer at my hard old heart, till He smashed un all to
shiver, an' then He have been soothin', an' comfortin', an' puttin' of
it together agen, till He have got a heart that'll hold Him, an' bless
Him all its days. Do 'ee mind the tex' that the young squire did pass
to 'ee to pass on to me?
"'I have seen his ways, and will heal him. I will lead him also, an'
restore comforts unto him.'
"That be a powerfu' tex', missy, and when I heerd the young squire
were a holdin' his head so straight an' cheerfu' like, for all his own
trouble; an' when he met me the day afore he went ower the sea, an'—
"'Mat, my man,' sez he, 'shake hands, an' wish me well, for I'm
beginnin' life at the bottom o' the ladder,' sez he,—
"I fair broke down, an' I sez to un, 'If the Lord have dealt me hard
knocks, certain He have thee, an' if thee hath not turned agen Him,
more shame to I that have.'
"'Ah, Mat,' he sez, 'we'll both live to thank Him yet, and to own up He
did just the very best for us.'
"An' I come home, and the tex' kept repeatin' of itself, till I thought
it would send me daft; but thank the Lord,—
"'Perverse an' foolish oft I strayed,
But yet in love He sought me,
And on His shoulder gently laid,
An' home, rejoicin', brought me.'"
Betty's eyes filled with happy tears.
"Oh, I am so glad, Mat,—so glad!"
She could say no more, but just outside the church porch she took the
man's hand in hers.
"Good-bye, Mat. I shan't forget you, We must both remember our
favourite hymn when things don't go well with us—
"'I nothing lack if I am His,
And He is mine, for ever.'"
"Ay," said Mat, grasping her little hand with both his; "an' I'd thank
the King o' Love's messenger for what her hath brought me!"
Betty came into her mother's presence a little later with such a
sparkling, radiant face, that Mrs. Stuart asked her where she had been.
"Saying good-bye to the old almswomen and to Mat, mother."
"You seem glad to get back to town," Mrs. Stuart said, looking at her.
"I shall be glad to go or stay now," was the happy reply.
And her mother looked at her again, and wondered.
[Illustration: "I'D THANK THE KING O' LOVE'S MESSENGER FOR WHAT HER
HATH BROUGHT ME."]