CHAPTER IV.
GEORGE and Wilfred were at no pains to conceal from Charity that they had not forgiven her for having drawn upon them their father's displeasure. They had almost ceased to tease Edwin, probably from a fear of arousing it again, but they had now turned their powers to the far from difficult task of "paying Charity out," as they called it. They felt pretty sure that it would be long before she would appeal to her uncle on her own behalf, readily as she had done it for the sake of her brother. In the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Hawke they did not venture to molest her, but at no other time of day was she safe from unkind remarks and jokes.
It was very hard to bear, yet Charity did bear it, and that so patiently that neither her uncle nor her aunt knew anything of what was going on. Lottie by turns grumbled at the boys for being so "tiresome," and wondered at Charity for "taking it all so meekly—" little thinking of the words spoken by our Saviour, "Blessed are the meek; for they shall inherit the earth."
But it was not from Lottie that Charity looked for help. It was to the Fountain of Strength that she went for assistance. And she never forgot her aunt's words,—
"There is always time for one glance upwards."
Many a time as she endured the boys' provoking words, with flushed cheek and unsteady lip, yet without a look of anger in return, they little knew of the mental "glance upwards" which was the secret of her gentleness. Few words are needed at such a time:
"Please help me to be patient, for Jesus Christ's sake," was often
breathed up from little Charity's heart, and received its answer in the
feeling of quiet peace which no unkind words could disturb.
It was not always equally easy. Sometimes they went so far as to make allusions to her home and father, and this always broke her down. Lottie found her on one of these occasions, sobbing afterwards most bitterly, and could not help remarking—
"Well, I do think, Charity, you are going almost too far. Of course one oughtn't to get angry, but if you are so very meek, and never say one word in answer, they will only grow worse and worse."
"Oh no, I hope not," sighed poor Charity. "If only they would not say such things—"
"As what George did—that Edwin had been quite spoiled by uncle, and you not taught to behave properly? Oh, I shouldn't care about that. What does George know about your home? They only say it to provoke you."
"And it does—that makes it worse," said Charity, sadly. "If I did not feel angry, I should not mind so much."
"If that is all, you may be satisfied, I should think," said Lottie. "You certainly bear it wonderfully. It almost provokes me to see you so quiet."
Charity shook her head.
"You don't mean it, Lottie. You know it is wrong to get out of temper. It is not like—"
Charity paused, colouring.
And Lottie looked curious. "Not like what?"
"I was going to say that it was not like the Lord Jesus Christ," said Charity in a low tone. "You know if we love Him, we must pray to be made like Him. Papa often said so."
Lottie looked at her in silence for some minutes.
"I wish I were more like you," she said. "'I' never can keep my temper when I'm provoked."
"But, Lottie, every one may. We only have to pray—and to try—"
"You can, because you are a Christian like mamma," said Lottie, abruptly, and the words sent a thrill of joy through little Charity. "I'm quite different."
"But you may be one too," said Charity, humbly. "You know the Lord Jesus has promised to cast out no one that goes to Him."
A lump seemed to rise in Lottie's throat. "I wish I could," she said. "I know I should be happier."
And then, drawing her hand away, she ran out of the room. But her cousin's words were not forgotten, and before long they bore fruit, though not in the course of a week or a month.
This little conversation was a great help to Charity, in her struggle to "suffer long and be kind," through all the boys' unkind treatment. Her hope and aim were to conquer them by kindness—not to "be overcome of evil," but to "overcome evil with good."
The task was a long one, requiring much patience and many prayers, but Charity did not despair of success, nor would she let Edwin despair. Often the poor little fellow shed tears of distress at the manner in which she was treated, and at his own inability to defend her. But Charity soothed him, and made him promise not to breathe a word of what passed to her uncle or aunt.
"If only I might tell Aunt Lottie," Edwin often said, "I'm sure she would have them punished."
"But I don't want them to be punished for me," said Charity. "I want to make them love me, Edwin, and then they will be kind. They would not dislike me so much if I had not been in such a passion with them, and asked uncle to speak to them."
"They oughtn't to dislike you," cried Edwin, indignantly. "It is very, very wrong of them. Oh, I do wish I were a great strong boy like George."
"I don't," said Charity, smiling. "I would rather keep you, my dear 'little' brother, than have a great strong one. Never mind it all, Edwin. In a little while, I think they will be kinder. You know 'Charity suffereth long,' and I haven't borne it long yet."
"I think you have—very long," said Edwin, sighing. "And you are always kind to them."
"No; I don't feel so, Edwin. I often feel angry, and I know it is wrong. But there is Lottie calling you, so you must run away."
A few days after this, the five children went to spend a long afternoon in a neighbouring wood. Lottie and her brothers had often been there before, but Charity and Edwin had not yet walked so far, and it was a great treat to them. The boys carried a basket full of bread and butter and plain cake. Charity was in better spirits than she had yet been since her arrival, and she walked lightly along by Lottie's side, enjoying the bright sunshine and the cheerful singing of the little birds, while Edwin ran about and shouted with delight. It was not that either of them forgot the past, or ceased to grieve for the dear father they had so lately lost. But they were both very young, and it was not surprising that at times the thought of their sorrow should be for a while banished.
On reaching the wood, a discussion began as to what path they should take. The boys declared for one, and Lottie for another. Charity's bright look was overcast as she listened to the hot argument that followed, and at length she whispered to Lottie—
"Couldn't we go their way, and come back yours?"
"No, we couldn't," said Lottie, pettishly. "It's too bad. The boys always want their own way about everything."
"You don't want yours, of course!" said George, meaningly.
"Not always, as you do. You ought to let Charity decide."
"Catch me doing any such thing," returned George, rudely. "Of course she would go your way just to provoke me."
The colour rushed into Charity's face. "No, I should not," she said, quietly. "Lottie dear, won't you come the boys' way this once, just to please me?"
The boys looked completely silenced, and Lottie annoyed.
"I don't care about the path," she said. "But I don't see why George is always to have his own way."
Charity said no more, but she looked beseechingly, and after a minute's wavering Lottie gave way, with an ungracious—
"Well, do as you like. I suppose we shall have to give up to them in the end," and she walked along the path in silent displeasure.
The boys cared little for the latter fact. They were only vexed at the manner in which they had obtained their will; for after the way in which they had treated Charity, it was not pleasant to feel that they ought to be grateful to her. They managed to keep clear of her until sufficient time had passed, as they thought, for it to be supposed that they had forgotten the matter.
If Charity was disappointed at their conduct, she had at least the comfort of an approving conscience. Lottie's annoyance soon gave way, and she and her two cousins hunted about for flowers, ran races, and played games, so merrily that George and Wilfred were ere long fain to join them, though it cannot be said that their presence added much to the pleasure of the others.
Five o'clock came, and the basket was opened, the contents being arranged upon a small cloth laid on the ground. They had a very cheerful "tea" as they called it, and then began to think of returning home. Another discussion now took place between Lottie and her brothers. This time Charity felt it to be only fair and just that the former should have her turn in choosing the homeward route. She kept her opinion to herself until asked for it, and then gave it very gently, but the boys were not a little vexed with her, as she could plainly see.
They gave way at length, but Charity soon found that her walk home was to be less pleasant than her walk there had been. First, the boys ran so fast that the tired girls could hardly keep up with them. Then they began throwing small pebbles about, and more than one came with a sharp rap against Charity's hat. Whether by accident or no she could not say, but she tried to believe it was, and to keep down the tears which threatened to rise, while Lottie grumbled and scolded in a manner that only made the boys worse.
A DIFFICULTY.
Presently they arrived at a very high, awkward stile, and the boys did not lose this opportunity of making themselves disagreeable. They went over first, and no sooner had Lottie with some difficulty scrambled to the other side, and assisted Edwin to do the same, than they rushed forward, seized hold of them and drew them away.
"Now we'll see," George exclaimed mockingly. "We are going to look on, while the agile, light-footed Miss Charity Mitchel gets over the stile. She was very anxious to come this way, no doubt to show off her powers, SO she shall make the most of her opportunity."
"I did not know there was any stile this way," said Charity, as she stood on the other side. "Please let Lottie help me, George. I have hardly ever climbed stiles, and I am sure I could not get over this alone."
"Then you'll have to stay there all night," shouted Wilfred. "It's to pay you out for choosing to come this way."
Tears came into Charity's eyes, as she again glanced at the four awkward crooked bars, placed so very far apart, and the long step that must be made on the other side down upon a narrow, unsteady plank of wood. If she missed the latter, she must have a fall of several feet into a deep ditch, and might hurt herself severely. Lottie saw the same, and was struggling angrily with her brother.
"Let me go, George! I tell you she is as likely as not to fall. Don't you know she hardly ever climbed a stile until she came here?"
"Then it's high time she should learn," responded George, holding her tight. "It's of no use you struggling, for you won't go to her till she is on this side. It's to teach her not to be so fond of interfering."
In vain Lottie fought, for George was far the stronger of the two. Edwin was in the same way Wilfred's captive, positively crying with distress at his helplessness. Charity could not bear to look on and feel that it was all on her account.
"Don't, don't, Lottie—don't, Edwin!" she cried. "I'll try to get over, and I daresay I shall manage it. Never mind."
She began to climb at once, though trembling with fear. It was easy to reach the top bar, and get half over it, but there she remained clinging helplessly.
"Step down, Charity," cried Lottie, eagerly. "You are quite safe; only take care to put your foot on the plank."
Charity caught her breath painfully and made the attempt. Whether she missed the plank, or whether she lost her hold of the bars, she never afterwards knew. But the next moment, with a terrified cry, she fell into the ditch.
Lottie screamed, and the boys rushed forward. With some difficulty George climbed down, and half pulled, half lifted her up upon the grass. She looked very white, and lay without speaking, while they all crowded round her, asking if she were hurt.
"I don't know," she tried to say, but her voice failed her. A kind of grey look came over her face, and her eyes closed. Charity had fainted away.
CHAPTER V.
"YOU have grieved me more than I can tell, boys! I could never have imagined such conduct on your part. From you, George, especially, it is disgraceful. I did not know you were capable of such cruelty towards a poor little orphan girl. I am ashamed of you."
It was late in the evening of the day on which the accident had occurred. Charity had been brought home in a cart, belonging to a farmhouse which stood near the place where she fell. Lottie, in her indignation, had poured out the whole story to her parents. The doctor had just gone after paying a long visit. And after his departure, Mr. Hawke came into the drawing-room, where the boys were sitting, with the above words.
George looked fully as much ashamed of himself as his father could have been of him. He sat with downcast eyes, without attempting to defend himself.
Wilfred fidgeted uneasily, and Edwin asked tearfully—
"Please, is Charity much hurt, uncle?"
"I am afraid she will have to lie down a long time, and bear a great deal of pain, my little man. But, thank God, it is nothing dangerous. Her ankle is very severely sprained, and there is a small bone broken, so that it must be a tedious affair. It is very sad, especially when we think of the way in which it has happened."
Poor little Edwin began to sob, and a hot flush came up into George's cheeks. He turned away his head, and fidgeted with the things on the table. But his father saw how nearly he was overcome, and this decided him to say no more just then. So he only remarked—
"If you will be a good quiet boy, Edwin, you may come and see her for a moment. Only you must not cry or do anything to excite her."
Edwin could hardly believe it was the rough, stern uncle, of whom he had been so much afraid, who was now clasping his hand, and leading him so kindly out of the room. There was silence after they had gone, till Lottie came in with red eyes.
"Well, George, I hope you think you have 'paid out' poor Charity at last," she said, bitterly. "She certainly won't be much in your way again for some time to come. The doctor says it will be weeks before she will put her foot to the ground. But I suppose you are glad to hear it."
Lottie stopped suddenly, for George had broken down, and was sobbing aloud.
Lottie was quite silent, almost dismayed at the effect of her words.
Wilfred jumped up and ran out of the room, and then she ventured to say—
"I didn't quite mean that. I did not know you minded it."
"I do," sobbed George. "It's dreadful, Lottie. I shall never be happy again until she is well."
"Perhaps she will get over it sooner than the doctor thinks," said Lottie.
"I don't know," was George's desponding answer. "If I could only see her, and tell her that I really did not mean any harm,—" and he sighed heavily, not only at the thought of having caused her so much suffering, but he could not forget the manner in which he had long treated her, and induced Wilfred to treat her. Still less could he forget her gentle forbearance, and "long-suffering," and "kindness."
But it was many days before he obtained his wish, and was allowed to enter her room. When the time came he began to think he would almost rather have stayed away, but he could not well draw back, so he went in and sat down by the sofa on which she was lying, with a shawl spread over her.
Nurse was present, but she left then alone, saying she should be in the next room, and George could call her if she was wanted. Perhaps she guessed what he wished to say.
"Charity, can you ever forgive me?" he asked.
"Oh, George, you mustn't talk like that," said Charity. "I forgave you long ago. I wish you would never speak about it again."
"I must," replied George. "You know, Charity, it was all my fault. 'I' thought of it, and proposed it to Wilfred, and made him do it. I can't think how I could have behaved to you in such a shabby way, when you have been so good."
"Not good," said Charity, quietly. "None of us are good, George."
"Then how was it that you bore things as you did? I can tell you that I often felt ashamed of myself. I did that day in the woods, but I tried to forget it."
Charity put her hand out to the little side-table by the sofa, and took up her birthday gift, the illuminated text.
"Look," she said, "I never showed you this, George. I always keep it hanging up on the wall, but I have had it down this morning. Papa gave it me on my birthday, that last birthday!" And tears came into her eyes.
George read the words in silence—"Charity suffereth long, and is kind."
"But I don't see how that can help you," he said.
"Charity means love," said the little girl, quietly laying it down on the table again.
"Well?" said George, still looking puzzled.
"It means that if we love God we shall pray to be made meek and kind like the Lord Jesus," said Charity, slowly. "You know that, George?"
George knew very little about it. He had been taught from childhood the truths of the Gospel, and knew many parts of the Bible by heart. But this was mere head-knowledge, which without the teaching of the Holy Spirit is of no more avail than utter ignorance. He looked gravely for a moment at his cousin's face, and then said—
"I think Charity is just the name for you."
"I wish it were," said Charity.
"It wouldn't do for me—I mean if I were a girl," said George.
"But it ought," said Charity, gently. "It ought to do for all God's children."
"I'm not," George began, and then stopped. After a pause he went on, in a lower voice, "I'm 'not' one of them."
Perhaps Charity had expected him to say so. A gentle, tender look came into her face as she said timidly—
"Won't you pray that you may be one, George?"
"I don't know how;" and the stout strong boy looked anxiously at his little cousin. "I should like to be what you are, Charity, and to be sure that I should not treat any one again in such a way."
Charity hardly noticed the last few words. "You must know how," she said; "you must know, George."
"I don't," George repeated.
"Aunt Lottie will tell you."
"I can't ask her. I want you to tell me. Nurse will come back directly."
Charity hesitated no longer, though she flushed as she laid her hand in George's. "You must go to the Lord Jesus Christ, and tell Him you are sorry, and ask Him to forgive you, and cleanse you in His blood. He will make you His child, and teach you all you don't know. I can't tell you any more, George. Only He has promised that all who believe in Him shall be saved."
Quickly and almost in a whisper the words fell from little Charity's lips. George listened in silence. Then nurse came back, and warned him that he must leave the room, as he had promised not to stay beyond a certain time.
He only bent over the sofa, and said, "Thank you!" very softly, before he went.
But little Charity felt very glad that strength had been given her to say so much.
For many long weeks she was confined to the sofa, from the effects of her fall. All through the bright, warm, summer days, she was obliged to lie quiet and still, or to move about very slowly for a few yards at a time, when she began to improve. But she bore it all without a murmur—without a word or look to show that she remembered who had caused her all this suffering.
George might, and often did, allude to it, but a remark on the subject never passed her lips, unless in answer to him.
Everything, however, was done to make her captivity to the couch a happy one, not only by kind Aunt Lottie and by Edwin, but by George, and Wilfred, and Lottie, and by Uncle Hawke himself. Charity had never expected to grow so fond of her Uncle as she did in the course of this summer. He was, for a long time, very much displeased with the two boys, and it was Charity who persuaded him to take them back into favour again, and showed him how much George had grieved over his conduct.
Indeed, George was now as much her friend as was Lottie, which is saying a good deal, and Wilfred and Edwin were almost always to be seen together. Little did Charity know how much of this happy state of things was owing to herself! Little did she think how often Mr. and Mrs. Hawke had grieved over their children's irritable tempers, or how grateful they felt to their little niece, whose gentle, forbearing spirit had, by God's blessing, worked so much good among them.
Had not Charity's prayer been fully answered—that she might have grace given her to "suffer long and be kind," in her new home?
THE END.
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Pardon & Sons, Printers, Paternoster Row, London.