Utterly wretched, Ethel knew not where to turn for help. Presently she heard Henry come into his room, and moved by a sudden impulse she went and knocked at his door, which was opened to her directly. Ethel knew in a moment that Henry had heard the story of her evening's adventure, and she was not sorry.
"Well, my little sister," said he, kindly, but rather sadly, "can I do anything to help you?"
"I don't know," replied Ethel, with a trembling lip. "I don't know whether any one can help me."
"Come in, and sit down," said Henry, drawing forward a comfortable arm-chair, and placing Ethel therein. "You look tired out. Now tell me all about it."
"I don't know where to begin," said Ethel, feeling just a little comforted by the kind tone and looks. "It is all so miserable. I feel as if I had lost my way a long time ago, and had been wandering about ever since. You were right, Henry, in what you said that day, and I have been wrong all through. I can see it now; and I might have seen it then, but I would not."
"Tell me what happened this evening: that will be a good place to begin," said Henry. "I have heard it from Emily; but I should like to have your version."
Ethel told the story, not sparing herself or excusing herself in the least.
"It is a bad business," said Henry.
"Indeed it is, and it will be worse with Anna than with any one else," said Ethel. "Anna is warm-hearted, generous, and unselfish; but she is quick-tempered; and then we have always been such friends. I know she will feel it very much, and I am afraid she will find it hard to forgive me. But that, is not the worst. I am sure she has been thinking very seriously lately; and I was talking to her about the duty of trying to love God, at the very moment the poor girl came in. I shall never dare to speak of the subject to her again; and I am afraid she will think all religion a worthless pretence."
Mr. Dalton smiled a little. "She may, perhaps, think so of 'your' religion, Ethel; but I do not believe she will think so of all religion. She has before her every day too many examples of true and consistent godliness to allow her to come to any such conclusion as that."
"I am sure I hope so," said Ethel. "I don't care what she thinks of me. She cannot think worse than I do of myself. I begin to think that I have been mistaken all the time, and that I have never been a Christian at all."
"Now you are making a very common mistake," said Henry. "It does not follow because a mason has put some bad bricks or defective workmanship into a wall either that the foundations of the wall have been badly laid, or that they have never been laid at all. It may be well enough to examine the foundations, but it would be a bad plan to pull down the house in order to do it. But you are tired and discouraged to-night, and in no state to look at anything calmly. If you will take my advice, though it may sound unfeeling perhaps—"
"I will take it whatever it is," said Ethel.
"Well, then, I advise you to lay this whole subject aside for to-night, to say your prayers, read your Bible, and then to go to bed and try to sleep. To-morrow we will have another talk about the matter."
"I have been trying to pray," said Ethel, "but it seems to do no good."
"Never mind that. Pray all the same. If you can get no farther, pray because it is right to do so. Obedience always brings a blessing."
Ethel did as she was told, and somewhat guided and comforted by the mere repetition of the sacred words of prayer, she crept into bed, and at last fell asleep.
CHAPTER IX.
DR. RAY'S PRESCRIPTION.
ETHEL slept rather late, and woke the next morning with a confused feeling that something very unpleasant had happened. At first, she could not remember what it was, but presently it all came over her at once, and she turned over and hid her face with a groan.
"Oh, dear! I wish I had not woke up," was her first thought. "I wish I might stay in bed, and not see anybody." The second thought was a better one. "It must be late; and Matthew likes to have every one punctual at breakfast. I can do as much as that, any how."
This was a good beginning. Ethel dressed, and said her prayers; the latter sorrowfully enough.
"I have no right to expect Him to hear me, I am such a sinner," said she; and then the thought came into her mind that the very fact of her being a sinner gave her a right; for did not Jesus Christ come into the world to save sinners?
The bell rung just as she was ready, and she made haste down. She was actually the first person in the dining-room,—a thing which had never occurred before. Presently, Henry came in, and then Emily and the doctor. The doctor kissed her as usual; and, as he noticed the appealing glance she gave him, he repeated the kiss, and asked, kindly, "How is the side this morning?"
"I 'won't' cry," thought Ethel, as she felt a choking lump in her throat: she forced back the tears, and answered, "Better, thank you."
At family prayers, Dr. Ray read the prayer for "thy sick servant, for whom our prayers are desired;" and though it was nothing unusual, it made Ethel's heart beat, and she wondered if he were thinking of poor Mary.
"How did you find your patient last night?" asked Mr. Dalton, after they were seated at the table. He saw that Ethel longed, but did not dare to ask.
"I will tell you after breakfast," returned the doctor, glancing at Ethel.
"Please, brother, tell me now," said Ethel, imploringly.
"Well, keep yourself quiet," returned the doctor, kindly. "It may not be so bad, after all; but it is very uncomfortable. You see, Anna alone was unable to get poor Mary on the sofa, and she fell against the sharp corner of the bookcase. She has got an ugly cut on her head, and, I am afraid, a bad shake of the brain; but it is not easy to judge of these epileptic cases. She was insensible when I left her last night, and I presume I shall find her so this morning. Take care, Ethel; don't faint! Drink some hot coffee."
Ethel put out her hand blindly, to feel for the coffee cup she could not see. Some one held it to her lips. She made a brave effort to drink, and that was the last she knew, till she heard a voice say, "She is coming to herself."
Then she opened her eyes, and found herself lying on the sofa, with Emily bathing her face.
"There, that's better," said the doctor, kindly. "Lie still awhile, and you will be all right." He bent over her as he spoke, and Ethel whispered: "Indeed, brother, I did try not to faint."
"I saw you did, my dear. I understand all about it," returned Dr. Ray. "Never mind now. Lie still a little, and then you will be ready for your breakfast."
"You don't think the poor girl will die, do you, Matthew?" said Ethel, when Dr. Ray came in from his office to see, as he said, how she was getting on.
She was not getting on very comfortably. She had not been able to eat anything, though she tried hard, to please Emily; and her head felt too weak and giddy for any of her usual employments: so she was fain to content herself with lying back in the great chair and making tatting. She looked anxiously into Dr. Ray's face as she spoke.
"My child, I cannot possibly tell," answered the doctor gravely, but kindly. "Doctors may be mistaken like other folks, you know. It is a very unfortunate affair altogether, and I would give a great deal if it had not happened; but there is no use in wishing that now. The only thing is to make the best of it."
"I can't see any best to make of it," said Ethel, sadly. "I cannot see a ray of hope or comfort anywhere."
"There is where you make a mistake, my dear girl," replied Dr. Ray. "No human being ought ever to be in a place to say that. If you have committed a very great sin, (which I do not deny) that is no reason for despair. It is only a reason for repentance, asking forgiveness, and beginning again. Peter committed a great sin: his was a sin of cowardice, as well as yours; but if he had given up to despair, a great deal would have been lost, not only to himself, but to all the world."
"If it had been only this one sin: if I had merely been surprised into running away and leaving Anna, it would have been bad enough," said Ethel; "but that is not all, nor the worst. I have done wrong in every way. I have been cross and fretful with Emily. I have been selfish and self-indulgent about all sorts of things; and I have been deceitful, too," she added, with a great effort, determined to make a clean breast of it. "I have gone on letting you think I rode over to the West side when I went to take my lessons; and I have not been in the street-car once since you gave me those tickets."
"That accounts for the side-aches," said the doctor. "It is not necessary to suppose any heart disease. But, Ethel, it seems to me that you have done a little more than 'let me think,' haven't you?"
"Yes, indeed, I have," replied Ethel, colouring. "I have told more than one lie about it."
"I am very sorry to hear this, Ethel," said Dr. Ray. "I have always thought you one of the most sincere, truthful girls in the world, I was telling Henry so the other night."
"Yes, I heard you," replied Ethel. "I have always prided myself on being truthful."
"That is not the way to remain so," said Dr. Ray, as Ethel paused. "When we begin to pride ourselves on our good qualities, we find out pretty soon that they are not much to be proud of."
"I know that very well now," returned Ethel. "But it does not seem to me that I shall ever be proud again. I can see nothing in myself but sin and folly."
"Then, my dear, you have got to a very good place," said Dr. Ray, kindly. "In general, a man must be convinced that he is sick, before he can be cured. But you know, Ethel, there is medicine provided for such sickness as yours,—medicine far better than any of mine, for it never fails to suit every case. There is one remedy for all your troubles, and that is the cure of Christ. There is a prescription for you. I leave you to think it over; for there is a great deal contained in it, far more than appears at the first glance. Can I do anything for you before I go out?"
"Are you going over to Mrs. Burger's?" asked Ethel.
The doctor nodded.
"Can you wait till I write a little note to Anna?"
"I will wait, whether I can or not," replied the doctor: "only be short; for my list is a tremendous one; and I must get out this afternoon to look after my operation case. Some day I hope I shall see you show the spirit which that poor man's wife did. But write your note, dear, and make it as brief as you can."
"How good he is, and how wickedly unjust I have always been to him," thought Ethel, as she got out her desk. Perhaps it was well that she did not have much time to think over her note. It ran thus:
"DEAR ANNA:—I am not well enough to come and see you; and, besides,
I am not sure you would wish to see me: so I write by Matthew. I was
very wicked and mean to leave you so last night, and I feel as if I had
murdered that poor girl. Do forgive me, if you can; and please, dear
Anna, don't judge of religious people by me.
"As ever, your friend,
"ETHEL DALTON."
When she was left alone, Ethel began to think over the doctor's prescription. "I know that the blood of Christ cleanseth us from all sin," said she to herself, as she turned over the leaves of her Bible; "and that the greatest sinner need not despair of pardon. I have asked his forgiveness, and I suppose I ought to think that I have it; though I cannot feel as if I were forgiven: but after all, I want more than forgiveness. I want help and direction. I want to know what to do, and what to avoid."
At that moment, her eye fell on a text in the Gospel of Luke.
"And he said to them all, If any man will come after me, let him deny
himself, and take up his cross 'daily,' and follow me."
"I wonder if that is what Matthew was thinking about?" she thought. "I wonder if that is the one I need? To deny myself 'daily'—to take up the cross 'daily'—what would that mean for me?"
Ethel lay back in her chair considering for a long time. She began to see wonderful meanings in that taking up of the cross.
"Why, I have never done it once, that I can see—never at least in this matter. I have indulged, instead of denying myself. I have encouraged and petted my own weakness; and I have always thought it a sufficient reason for not doing anything that it was disagreeable. I begin to see. I must take up the cross daily and hourly. I don't think I need seek for occasions. There will be plenty of them."
"How are you getting on, little sister?" said Henry, looking in, presently. "Are you feeling better?"
"I don't know. I don't feel very well, as far as that, goes," replied Ethel. "It seems very idle to sit here all the morning making tatting; but I cannot help it. My head is giddy the moment I try to go about to do anything which requires attention."
"Then it seems to be clear that sitting still and making tatting is your work for the present," replied Henry, smiling. "Would you rather be alone, or shall I give you the benefit of my brilliant society?"
"I wish you would come and sit with me, and let me tell you all I have been thinking about," said Ethel.
"With all the pleasure in life, my dear. I wonder whether I may venture to bring 'my' tatting—my whittling, as Mrs. Jones disrespectfully calls it—into this room?"
"Your wood-carving? Yes, I am sure you may," replied Ethel. "The shavings will be easily swept off the matting; and Emily is not a fussy housekeeper. She does not mind a little litter."
"Emily seems a very comfortable person to live with," said Mr. Dalton, as he sat himself down opposite Ethel, who had spread a large newspaper on the floor to receive the cuttings of his work.
"She is, indeed; and so is Dr. Ray," replied Ethel, somewhat earnestly. "Matthew has been so kind to me this morning."
"He is always kind, I think, though his manners are a little abrupt, sometimes," said Mr. Dalton. "Now, then, tell me all you have been thinking about, as you say. I can listen all the better for having my hands busy."
Ethel went over with all the thoughts which had been occupying her during the morning, concealing nothing and excusing nothing in her past conduct.
"I think you have followed at least a part of the depth of Matthew's prescription," said Mr. Dalton, after a little silence. "Tell me now, Ethel, what has lain at the root of all your troubles?"
"Selfishness!" replied Ethel, promptly.
"Do you believe selfishness was at the bottom of your cowardice?"
"Yes, I believe so, Henry. I was always thinking of myself. If I had had any spirit of self-sacrifice, I should have learned to control my fears, and to act in spite of them. The other day, when I made such a fool of myself about the dog, I never thought of his hurting 'you.' Just so it was last night. I never thought what might happen to Anna or poor Mary. It was all my wretched, miserable self. And so it has been all my life long. I thought it a good enough reason for refusing to sit up at Mrs. Merton's with Mary Rose the night her little girl died, that I could not bear to be in the house with a corpse. If I had not been selfish, I should have thought that it was no worse for me than Mary, and, that whether it was or not, somebody must do it. Yes, it has been self-indulgence all the time."
"I rather think you are right, though I did not expect that answer," said Mr. Dalton, thoughtfully. "I supposed you would say want of faith."
"Well, and that is selfishness, too," said Ethel. "I should have thought of what the Lord had promised to do for me, and what I had promised to do for him."
"True. I see your head has not been so giddy but that you could think to good purpose. Well, and now for the remedy."
"The remedy must be, as Matthew says, in the cross," said Ethel; "in taking up the cross daily, and denying myself."
"But how? You might deny yourself in many ways: such as in dress, and in eating nice things, and visiting."
"There would be no very heavy cross in that; because, really, I don't care so very much for any of those things. It seems to me that I must take up the real cross which God gives me, and not make one for myself, which will be light and pretty," said Ethel. "It would be no cross for me to fasten my collar with a common pin instead of a gold one. But it would be for me to see a caterpillar crawling on my frock and sit still, without screaming, till I could get rid of it. It would not be nearly so much of a cross for me to go without meat for dinner as it would be for me to go and do the marketing; because I dislike the sight and smell of the raw meat, and I am afraid of the butchers' dogs."
"Exactly so. Your illustrations are precisely to the point, my dear child. Here comes Matthew."
Ethel looked up in her brother-in-law's face with a glance of inquiry. He put a little note into her hand.
"That is from Anna," said he. "The girl is rather better, though not in a pleasant way. She Was unconscious last night, and now she is crazy; but even that state of things is an improvement."
"Then she may get well after all?" said Ethel, eagerly.
"She may, and that is all I can say," returned the doctor. "The state of her general health is against her. I am sorry to bring you such a bad report, dear; but I suppose you want to hear the truth."
"Yes, indeed," replied Ethel. "Oh how I do wish I could do something for her, or to help Mrs. Burgers!"
"You must try to get well yourself, child. That is the first thing. Then we shall see what can be done."
Ethel shut herself up in her own room to read Anna's note. It was short and to the point, as her own had been.
"DEAR ETHEL:—I thought last night I never could forgive you, or speak
to you again; but I think I can now. Of course I must as long as you
have asked me. I can't write any more now, but I will see you at
Italian class.
"Truly yours,
"A. B."
CHAPTER X.
RECONCILIATION.
"ARE you sure you feel well enough to go over to your Italian lesson, Ethel?" asked Emily, the next day but one, as Ethel came down with her hat on and her books in her hands.
"Oh, yes. I think so; if I ride. I want to go particularly to meet Anna Burgers; but I will stay at home, if you think best, Emily."
"I dare say it will not hurt you, if you ride both ways; but you know Matthew says you must be careful about walking at present. And by the way, Ethel—but never mind," said Emily.
"Never mind what? What were you going to say?"
"I was going to ask you to go and see if Mrs. Smith will come and wash on Monday; but it is of no great consequence."
"I will go," said Ethel. "It is only a little out of my way. Perhaps Anna will go with me."
"But you will have to cross the common, you know."
"Nevertheless I will go," said Ethel, smiling rather sadly, for she knew what Emily meant. Many cows were pastured on this common, and cows had always been among her special bugbears.
Ethel had to wait for the horse-car, and was rather late; so that when she arrived at the school-room, nearly all the girls were assembled. She stopped in the ante-room to dispose of her hat and shawl, and, as she did so, she heard Ellen Davis say decidedly:
"Well, I know one thing; if I were Anna Burgers, I would never speak to Ethel Dalton again as long as I lived."
"That won't be Annie's way, I know," said Margaret Fleming. "She will be very angry for a little while, and then she will get all over it; especially if Ethel begs her pardon. Anna never can 'keep her temper,' whether good or bad," concluded Margaret, laughing.
"Ethel won't beg her pardon," said Delia Wilkins, in her usual sneering tones. "Ethel will never think she has done anything wrong. There is one comfort about it: she will never dare to 'preach' any more. If she does, we shall know how to answer her."
Ethel well knew to what Delia alluded. Delia and two or three other girls of her set were in the habit of cheating at lessons. They stole their translations, read their verbs and declensions from bits of paper concealed in their hands, and Delia boasted of having all her elder sister's corrected exercise-books in her possession. Old Mr. Burgoine, the French teacher, who was very nearsighted, very good-natured, and not a little absent-minded, had never discovered these tricks; but the Italian teacher was very much sharper-sighted, and was, moreover, used to the evasions of former pupils,—French and Italian girls. She had several times found out Delia and her friends, and had exposed them in a way calculated to make them feel very small indeed. Delia had vowed vengeance upon her; but a number of the older girls, with Ethel at their head, sustained the signorina, and declared that she did quite right,—that such practices were dishonourable and wicked, and ought to be exposed.
"We shall not hear any more lectures from her," continued Delia. "And I don't believe Anna Burgers will take her part after this—Ethel has been so wonderfully religious lately there has been no living with her. Anybody can see now what it all amounts to."
"I don't deny that Ethel did very wrong, and that she is a great coward: but that is no sign she is a hypocrite."
"Well, now, 'I' think it is."
"A hypocrite is one who pretends to be what he is not, in order to deceive people," said Margaret, with an admirable imitation of the clear, precise tone and manner of Mr. Goodman, the teacher of logic and mathematics. "You will allow that, I suppose, young lady."
"Yes, I suppose so," returned Ellen, as Delia was silent.
"Well, then, Ethel is not a hypocrite; for she never pretended to be anything else than a coward. But when Delia pretends to have her lesson, when she does not know one word of it—I leave you to make the application for yourselves."
"Well done, Margaret. Delia is no match for you, that is certain," exclaimed Ellen Davis, and one or two others; and Ellen added, "You have certainly profited by Mr. Goodman's instructions. No wonder he says you are his favourite pupil. You wouldn't be so long, though, if he knew how you made fun of him behind his back."
"I don't make fun of him," said Margaret. "I only imitate him."
All this time, Ethel was standing at the outer door, uncertain what to do,—whether to go away, or go into the school-room as if nothing had happened. It had never occurred to her that all the girls would hear the story.
"But I must just take it as part of my punishment, I suppose," said she, wiping the tears from her eyes: for she was very sensitive to the opinions of her schoolmates. She went to the door as she spoke, and met Anna face to face.
She had considered a good deal as to how she should encounter Anna, and, perhaps, it was as well that both were taken by surprise.
"Oh, Ethel! I am so glad you have come," said Anna, as naturally and cordially as if nothing had happened. "Dr. Ray said he did not believe you would be able to stir; and I was coming over to see you. Will you show me about this translation a little? I have had hardly any time to study, and I can't make head or tail of it."
Ethel's eyes filled with fresh tears, but she was determined not to cry. She put her arms around Anna's neck and kissed her.
"You are the very best girl that ever lived," said she.
"What! Because I want you to help me with my translation?" asked Anna, and then added, were gravely, "Ethel, I suppose we may as well have it out. I never was more angry in my life than I was at you that night. I thought your leaving me alone with Mary in that way was something I never could forgive. I think 'now' it was very wrong. You know I can't think that wrong is right just because you do it."
"Of course not," said Ethel. "I don't wish you should. It 'was' mean and wicked."
"I thought, for a while, I could never forgive you in the world," continued Anna; "but you know it is not my way to keep up a grudge. Then came your note, and, of course, I could not be angry after that, you know."
"I 'don't' know," said Ethel. "Every one doesn't forgive because they are asked to do so."
"Well, I think it would be a very hard-hearted person who did not. Anyhow, that isn't my way. Besides, I got thinking about something else. I will tell you some time," said Anna, looking down, and then cheerfully, after a moment's silence, "I don't like to have to forgive people. I would rather think that there is nothing to forgive. But you know I can't do so in this case, for I do think it was wrong."
"I am sure I am glad to be forgiven," said Ethel. "It seems to me I shall never be happy again till that poor girl is well. How is she?"
Anna shook her head. "She is very little if any, better," she replied. "She doesn't know any one, and lies stupid almost all the time. But you mustn't take all the blame of that, Ethel. It was very thoughtless in me to let Sarah go out: but Mary's fits don't so often come so near together; and she had one only last week: so I didn't think of there being any danger. But come, sit down here, and tell me what this means."
"Well, I declare!" said Delia, as, a few minutes later, she came out of the school-room and found the girls with their heads together over one book. "Well, I declare!"
"Do you?" asked Anna, bluntly. "What do you declare?"
"What a wonderful fine scene, to be sure! 'Forgiveness Displayed; or, The Reconciled Enemies.' Girls, come and look at the tableau."
"I told you just how it would be," said Ellen Davis. "I knew Anna would never keep angry for three days together."
"You make that remark as if you thought it rather derogatory, Miss Davis," said the signorina, who had come in, as usual, without being seen or heard. "Pray, how long ought a Christian to 'keep angry,' as you say? You think much of the Bible, you Protestants. Who is it that says, 'I say not unto thee until seven times: but, until seventy times seven'!"
"I don't pretend to be a Christian," said Ellen, rather sullenly.
"Indeed! I was not aware that I had any heathens or Mohammedans in my class. We will send for the good missionary, Miss Dalton's brother, to convert you, Miss Davis. I do not know what grounds of quarrel Miss Burgers and her friend may have had, but I think they are quite right to—to—I do not know the English phrase. We say 'riconciliarsi.'"
"To make it up," said Ethel. "We did not have a quarrel, exactly," she continued, making a neat effort to speak quietly, though her burning cheeks and trembling hands showed her agitation. "I did Anna a great injury. I was very wicked and selfish, and did great harm; but Anna has been good enough to forgive me. That is all."
"I don't know what you have done, but I think you are two very good girls," said the signorina, who, with all her spirit and sharpness in school, was a soft-hearted little body. "I dare say you will be better friends than ever. Come, young ladies, let us lose no more time."
"Anna, will you walk with me across the common?" asked Ethel, after school was out. "I have an errand to do for sister Emily."
Before Anna could answer, Delia "put in her word."
"Oh, go by all means, Anna. Ethel is such an excellent companion. The first cow you meet, she will run away screaming, and leave you to face the dreadful animal alone. Then you can have a chance for another affecting scene."
Ethel made no answer, and Delia went on imagining various perils to which they might be exposed in crossing the common.
"I'll tell you what it is, Delia Wilkins," said Anna, at last breaking out quite unexpectedly, "you talk about cowards, and you are ten times as great a coward as Ethel. It is the meanest and basest kind of cowardice to strike one who you know will not or cannot strike back. You know perfectly well that Ethel never can defend herself from your tongue; and so you think you can use it against her just as you please. If Ethel is a coward, you are no better—so there!"
"Don't, Anna," said Ethel. "Let Delia say what she pleases. She cannot say worse of me than I think of myself. Only there is one thing, Delia, that I think you ought to consider, not so much for my sake as for your own. Some day or other you will have to be judged yourself; and I am afraid it will go hard with you, if it is measured to you again with the same measure that you deal to other people."
"I don't pretend to be religious, as you do," returned Delia. "If I did, I would try to be consistent."
"It makes no difference whether you or I pretend to be religious or not," said Ethel. "You will not be judged by that—of—"
"Well, there, I don't want to hear any more," interrupted Delia. "I don't believe anything will ever cure you of preaching. I think you had better wait till you see whether that poor girl lives or not, before you say any more. It does not become a murderer to be quoting Scripture."
Ethel turned deadly pale, and caught at the door for support. Margaret and Anna sprang to her aid, and Ellen brought her a chair.
"You are a coward, Delia, and no mistake," said Margaret. "Never mind, Ethel; we all know what Delia is. She is like Mr. Goodman's little pug dog. If she did not bark and bite, nobody would take any notice of her. Do you feel better? Shall I get you some water or anything?"
"I should like to have some water," said Ethel. "It is silly to mind it so much, but I have not been well lately. Emily thought I had better not come out, and I dare say she was right. Delia, I have only one thing more to say to you. You may think and speak as ill of me as you please,—even to calling me a murderer, as you did just now;—but if you excuse yourself from doing what you know is your duty, on the ground of my inconsistency or that of any other professing Christian, you will make a mistake which you will regret forever. Come, Anna, I should like to get out into the fresh air."
"Good for Ethel," said Margaret Fleming. "Delia, I don't see how you could have the heart to speak to her so, when you saw how badly she felt, and how ready she was to own her faults. Your tongue will bring you into worse trouble than Ethel's, if you don't mind."
"Never you mind my tongue. You look out for yourself," retorted Delia. "My tongue makes people mind their own business, and think twice before they meddle with me," and she left the room.
"I cannot understand how any girl can like to make herself so disagreeable," said Margaret. "There is not a person in the school who does not dread and dislike Delia Wilkins, clever as she is; while poor Ethel, with all her affectations, never made an enemy in her life."
"I never heard Ethel answer her so promptly," said Mary Rose. "Generally, she 'wilts down,' as the boys say, and cries or creeps away without a word. Poor girl, how badly she feels."
"I dare say this affair will make a change in Ethel," said Margaret. "She is really and truly one of the best girls in school, and would have great influence, only she spoils it all with her silly fears and affectations. I am glad that Anna has made it up with her. They have been friends so long that it seemed a pity they should quarrel."
"I dare say it was very good in Anna," said Ellen, with a toss of her head and a twist of her mouth, which she meant to express a great deal of force and dignity; "but 'I' should not have done it. If anybody treats me ill, I don't want any more to do with them. They may be as sorry as they please, but it does not mend matters. I never can care for them or trust them again. I dare say it is very, foolish and wicked, and all that," she added, with an air which showed plainly that she did not think anything of the sort; "but that is my way, and I can't help it."
"How many friends do you think you would have left in the world, if people were to do so by you?" asked Margaret, who was Ellen's cousin, and pretty well acquainted with her life and manners at home. "Suppose grandmamma had treated you so after that affair with Anne, what would have become of you?"
"That is none of your business that I can see," returned Ellen, colouring violently; "but, of course, I am always wrong in your eyes. Of course I am a heathen and a wretch, because I don't belong to the church, and don't pretend to be what I know I am not."
"Now, Nelly, that is not true, as you know," said Margaret, kindly. "You know whether I have ever taken your part, and stood up for you, or not. I did not mean to, hurt your feelings by alluding to Anne. I only want to make you see that, even as regards this world, your principle won't work. We must all forgive, because we all need forgiveness—not only from God but from one another. Fortunately, you are like a good many other people,—a good deal better than the principles you profess," she added, smiling.
"And I don't think you are as good as the principles you profess," said Ellen, mollified and smiling in her turn, "or you would not have come down on Delia so savagely. I never saw her so entirely taken down and shut up."
"Of course I am not so good as my principles: 'that understands itself,' as Mr. Burgoine says," returned Margaret. "I was vexed at Delia for her ungenerous attack on poor Ethel; and, really, she needs 'taking down and shutting up,' as you say, now and then."
"I don't think the taking down and shutting up process is very good for the one who performs it," remarked Mary Rose. "I know I am very apt to get my conscience a little pinched in doing it."
"You! Oh, you are the rose without a thorn, we all know," said Ellen. "You should never attempt to do anything sharp or savage. Margaret is of another kind: she is a brier,—a sweet brier, if you like; but still with plenty of 'prickers,' as the children say. Come, Maggy, are you ready?"
CHAPTER XI.
THE JUNE—BUG.
"ANNA, what was that something else you said you got thinking of that night? You said you would tell me sometime."
Ethel had "faced the dreadful perilous pass" of the cow-bestudded common, done her errand at Mrs. Smith's, and was now walking with Anna toward the corner where she should meet the horse-car. She had certainly been very considerably scared, especially when one big red cow was taken with a sudden fit of playfulness in her neighbourhood, and performed some of the graceful antics for which cows are famous; but she had walked valiantly on and had not even allowed herself to look back, though she had all the time a feeling that the cow's horns were not an inch from her sash-bow. It was not so bad coming back; for most of the cows had gone home, and there were none very near the path.
"You said you would tell me sometime," continued Ethel. "Tell me now."
"Well, you must not take it for more than it is worth," said Anna, looking straight before her. "It was your brother's sermon. That one on the text 'We love Him, because He first loved us.' You remember it, don't you?"
"I remember it very well," replied Ethel. "I know you said you liked it."
"I don't know how it was, but I never heard a sermon which made such an impression on me," continued Anna. "Perhaps I was just in the mood to be impressed. I never in my life had such a sense of God's love for the whole human race; his endless forbearance, and patience, and kindness toward those who will not love him, nor try to please him. I thought of him day after day waiting upon the creatures he has made, giving them hundreds and thousands of blessings, and ready at any moment to receive and forgive, and make happy forever, those who had been the most wicked and ungrateful that could be."
"I know," said Ethel, in a low voice. "'All day long I have stretched forth my hands unto a disobedient and a gainsaying people.'"
"Well, I thought about that," said Anna. "You know I am not good at expressing my feelings; but I thought it all over, and could not forget it; and I could not be unforgiving when thinking of Him."
"But, Anna, if you see this love so plainly; how can you hold out against it?" asked Ethel, presently. "You are too generous not to love any one who loves you so much."
"I don't hold out," replied Anna, shortly. "That is, I don't mean to. Ethel, I am going to try to be a good, faithful servant of his from this time; and I want you to help me and pray for me. Will you?"
"Indeed, indeed, I will," replied Ethel, as soon as she could speak. "I don't know how I can help you, for I am so miserably weak and unworthy myself; but I will if I can. Oh, Anna, I never was so glad of anything in my life."
"I am afraid I shall be very inconsistent, and do a great many wrong things," continued Anna. "I have such a quick temper, and it is always getting me into scrapes; but after all, one had better be an inconsistent disciple than not to be a disciple at all."
"Of course," said Ethel.
A little while before she might very likely have preached a gentle little sermon to Anna about the necessity of governing her temper, but she felt very humble just now, and altogether too much discouraged about herself, to feel like preaching to others.
"Anna, let, me say one thing to you," said Ethel, with unusual energy, after they had walked a little way in silence. "Don't ever allow yourself to think that your temper, or any other fault you are conscious of, is a little fault and of no consequence, or that you cannot help it, and therefore you are not to blame for it. That is just what has ruined me. Ever since I came to live with Emily, I have been finding out that my timidity and my constant avoidance of anything disagreeable, just because it was disagreeable, were faults. In the bottom of my heart, I knew I was wrong; but I would not confess it nor try to conquer myself. Especially since Henry came home, I have seen more clearly than ever I did before how foolish I was, and how unfit for any sort of usefulness; and yet I would not try to overcome my fears, or deny myself in any way. I refused the cross, and so I have the rod instead. I feel like the man in the iron cage,—as if I had got to a place where I could not get out."
"But, Ethel, is that right?" asked Anna.
"No. I know it is not; but I do not seem to know how to escape from it. I have asked forgiveness, and I believe yes, I really do believe—that I have it; but, somehow, I cannot feel it or realize it. I feel so lonely, so shut away—" Ethel's voice died away.
"Well, I can't pretend to advise you; but I know what I should do," said Anna.
"Well, what would you do?"
"I should go on doing all sorts of duties just the same as though I could feel rightly," said Anna.
"But suppose, when you prayed, the words seemed to go no deeper than your lips, and your heart felt as dry as dust, and it seemed as though there were nobody to hear or answer you."
"I should go on praying all the same, just because it was my duty," said Anna; "and I should do other things in the same way: everything that I could find to do for other people, especially. It may not be the best way; but I should try it."
"I believe you are right, Anna; and that this very thing is part of what Matthew meant by taking up the cross daily," said Ethel. "I will try it at any rate. Here is the car, and I must go. I promised Matthew I would not walk any more just now. Good-by, Anna; come and see me as soon as you can."
Ethel was so much occupied with what Anna had told her that she actually forgot to be afraid of the drawbridge. She went straight to her room, and, in her thanksgiving and prayers for her friend, she seemed to find a little lightening of the burden which oppressed her soul.
"Are you going up to the 'Hill' for your evening service, Henry?" asked Ethel, as they rose from dinner, the next Sunday afternoon.
"Yes, a little before seven. I have promised to meet my choir and practise with them a little; though I fear it will not come to a great deal without the instrument."
"I was going to ask you whether you would like to have me go up and play for you," said Ethel, blushing deeply. "I have been looking over the books a little."
"I wondered what had set you to practising church music at such a rate," remarked Emily. "But won't you be too tired, dear, after being in church and Sunday-school this morning?"
"Oh, no. I rested this afternoon on purpose."
"I shall be perfectly delighted; and so, I am sure, will every one else," said Mr. Dalton. "It was just what I have been wishing for, if you think you can do it."
"We might call for Anna, and she would help us," said Ethel. "You know she has a beautiful voice."
"That is well thought of; but you need not go so far out of your way," said Dr. Ray. "I have to make a call near them, and I thought of looking in again on poor Mary: so I will take Anna and drive up in the carriage."
"Then I will go and get ready," said Ethel; "and put on a thin dress, for the weather has grown very warm, and playing the organ is not cool work."
"Ethel, come here a moment," called Dr. Ray from the office, as Ethel came down-stairs.
He was standing before his case of bottles, pouring something into a very small vial, which he corked and handed to Ethel.
"Put that in your pocket, in case you get faint or scared," said he.
"Dutch courage!" said Ethel, smiling, as she took the bottle.
"Why, not exactly; though even Dutch courage is better than none, sometimes. But you know you have been faint once or twice of late; and the very knowledge that you have a remedy in your pocket may help you if you feel any unpleasant symptoms. This is a good move of yours, dear, and I don't want you to break down. How pretty you look in your cool muslins."
Ethel did indeed look wonderfully pretty in her simple muslin suit and dainty hat and gloves, all fresh and flower-like from top to toe.
"Am I too much dressed?" said she. "I thought it would look somewhat more respectful to the place and the people, if I made myself nice."
"You are not at all too much dressed; and you are quite right to make yourself look nicely. They will think all the more of you. Now, keep up good courage; and, Ethel, dear, try not to think about yourself. I dare say you will get on famously."
Mr. Dalton and Ethel found the members of the choir waiting for them, and there was great rejoicing when they heard that Ethel had come to play the organ. The practising went off prosperously, Richard Trim being one of the principal performers. Anna arrived just before service time.
"How are you going to make out?" she whispered to Ethel.
"Very well, I think; if I don't break down. Anna, don't you think I might take off my sack? It is very warm."
"Of course. Nobody can see you. I wish we need not have lights. The June-bugs will come in like a swarm of bees."
"June-bugs!" said Ethel, with a little, a very little, start.
She had a special dread and dislike of these creatures. It is well known that the Melolontha Vulgaris (to give him the benefit of his learned name) is a constant attendant at evening church during the warm weather in early summer, and that he is very zealous in his blundering attentions to any one who is afraid of him. Ethel often said if there were only one June-bug in the world, he would fly half-way round it to jump in her face; and, really, she did seem to be specially persecuted by them.
"Oh, dear," she said to herself, as the lamps were lighted before service, and she saw her enemies beginning to swarm into the open windows, as usual. "I am glad I never thought of the June-bugs. I am sure I never should have dared to come. But I must not begin watching them, or I shall never be able to stand it. I never saw so many anywhere."
And, indeed, the June-bugs were unusually abundant and lively. Ethel tried her best to forget them and to attend to the service, and she succeeded beyond her hopes. Her anxieties about the music helped to withdraw her attention from her enemies, and, fortunately, the strongest light was in the centre of the room.
Mr. Dalton preached one of his best sermons: the room was full and the people earnest and attentive, joining in the singing with a zeal which showed how much they enjoyed it. Everything went on well, and Ethel never once thought of the little bottle of "Dutch courage" in her pocket. The last hymn was given out. It was rather a long one; and, just as Ethel was concluding the first verse, an unusually large June—bug came flying over her head, knocked his own head against the ceiling, and tumbled down, not on the keys, which would have been bad enough, but right into the neck of Ethel's dress, next her skin, where he kicked, struggled, and scratched with all his might.
Ethel never knew how she got through that hymn; but she did get through it somehow, and without missing a note, though it was certainly nipped off rather short at the end.
Anna, looking back, saw that something was the matter, and the moment the benediction was said, she came round to Ethel's side.
"What is the matter, child?" she exclaimed, in alarm, for Ethel was very pale.
"Do take that thing out of my neck!" said Ethel, pointing to the struggling insect.
Anna saw it all in a moment. She put in her hand and pulled out the audacious intruder, which soared away to enjoy the singular pleasure which a June-bug seems to feel in bumping his hard back against the ceiling.
"Oh, dear!" sighed Ethel, finding her voice. "I thought that hymn would be too much for me. How did I get through it?"
"Perfectly well," replied Anna. "Was that thing on your neck when you were playing?"
"All the time," said Ethel. "Oh, dear! I never knew they had so many claws."
"Well, I declare, you have got pretty good spunk!" said Richard Trim, looking admiringly at Ethel. "I don't hardly believe I could have done it myself."
"I couldn't, I know," cried a young girl, one of the choir. "I should have screamed murder."
"It was all my fault taking off my sack," said Ethel. "I am glad I did not spoil the music."
"Well, little sister, you made out famously," remarked Mr. Dalton, when the congregation had dispersed. "I did not discover a single failure in the music: only you stopped rather suddenly at last."
"No wonder, poor child," said Anna. "The only marvel was that she got through it at all."
"Why, what was the matter?" asked Mr. Dalton.
Anna told him what had happened.
"You certainly deserve a very long credit mark, my dear," said Mr. Dalton. "It is a great victory. I am not laughing at you, little sister," he added, as Ethel looked imploringly at him. "I consider it as I say,—a great victory, and gained over a great enemy!"
"A June-bug is not such a great enemy in point of size," said Ethel; "though he felt large enough when he was inside my dress."
"I was not thinking of the poor beetle," said Mr. Dalton.
As they were coming down the hill, there were two young women walking before them, and they heard one of them say to the other:
"Didn't Miss Dalton look lovely? I mean to make my new suit just like hers. It looks so much more genteel than those furred up things."
"And it won't cost as much either; for you won't need nearly so much muslin," replied the other. "I wonder how much she had to buy. If I knew her, I would ask her."
"You have done a good work already, Ethel," said her brother. "You must make acquaintance with those girls."
"I shall see them on Wednesday evening, and then I will give them all needful information," replied Ethel. "Anna, I have not had a chance to ask, you about Mary. How is she?"
"Oh, we hope she is a great deal better; but we are not sure till we hear what Dr. Ray says," replied Anna. "She has been sensible all day; but she is very, very weak; and Mrs. Rose is afraid that her apparent improvement is only what she calls a 'lighting up for death.'"
"But did not Matthew see her when he called for you?" asked Ethel.
"He did not call for me: he met me in the street just at the corner of the square, and said he would bring me up to the chapel first, so that I might be ready to help you at the beginning."
"How very kind he is," said Ethel.
"Brother, I have something to tell you about Anna," said Ethel, after they had committed her to the charge of a neighbour whom they encountered, and were walking homeward by themselves. "She asked me to tell you; for she wants to talk to you, and she is too shy to begin."
Ethel then repeated the substance of the conversation she had had with Anna.
"I am very thankful!" said Mr. Dalton. "Do you know, Ethel, I was greatly discouraged about that very sermon. I came so far short of what I desired and intended to express that it seemed to me an absolute failure. But, after all, it has done good in this case, and who can tell in how many more?"
"Anna said she never heard a sermon which made so much impression on her," said Ethel. "It made her see things in a new light. She had always heard that she ought to love Him, but she never thought of His love to her. I wish you could preach a sermon which would do me as much good."
"What sort of good do you wish?" asked Mr. Dalton.
"I don't know that I can make you understand, because I don't understand very well myself," replied Ethel. "I want to be made to 'feel' things. I read the Bible every day, and try to believe that its promises are for me; but I don't 'feel' them to be so. I feel as though I had nothing to do with them. I pray every day; but I have no feeling that the Lord hears me. I know that he does, of course, because his word says so; but there is no reality about it. It all seems a formal service, done as a matter of duty. There is no enjoyment and no comfort in it."
"Are you quite sure there is no comfort?" asked her brother. "Could you be comfortable in leaving off prayer?"
"No, indeed! That would be worse than all."
"Then there is, after all, some comfort in prayer. However, I understand your case. I have been, I think, in pretty nearly the same place. What do you think has brought you into this desert land,—this valley of Bacca?"
"I know only too well: it was my wilful, presumptuous sin," replied Ethel. "I have tried to repent, and forsake the sin; but yet I do not seem to get out of the valley at all."
"You must be content to abide therein till you are taken out by a stronger hand than your own," said Mr. Dalton. "'Whom the Lord loveth, he chasteneth,' you know, Ethel, and we must let him choose his own mode of discipline; and comfort ourselves with thinking that the very chastening is an evidence of his love."
"But if one has no faith," said Ethel, doubtfully.
"What you want is not the feeling, but the action of faith, as some one says, whom I was reading yesterday," said Mr. Dalton. "'Persevere in the action, and the feeling will come in good time,—all the sooner, if you wait patiently for it.'"
"But some people say that duty-service is worth nothing," said Ethel. "Don't you remember?—No, you don't, for you were not with us up at the Springs that summer; but old Dr. Sparks used regularly to pray in the meeting that we might not have come in hither from a sense of duty."
"I think the doctor was wrong," said Mr. Dalton. "In the first place, if the people 'had' come, there was no particular use in praying about that; and in the second, a sense of duty was a very good reason for coming. The feelings of the best people are very variable, and are influenced by so many things, that they are not greatly to be depended upon as motives to action; but we can always do things because they are right, and because God has commanded them; and the very doing of them in that way brings with it, oftentimes, the blessing of warm feeling which we desire. You see what a blessing went with that very sermon with which I was so dissatisfied, but which I preached because it was the best I could do."
"I see," said Ethel. "I am glad I spoke to you, though I don't much like talking about one's feelings."
"Nor I," replied Mr. Dalton. "I believe a great deal of good genuine feeling which might have resulted in action is 'talked' away. Moreover, talking of religious feelings and experiences is too often a trap set for flattery,—fishing for compliments, as the school-girls say. However, I think it very desirable, for young Christians especially, to have some one experienced person to whom they may go for religious teaching and counsel, even in the most sacred matters. A mother is a young girl's natural counsellor, but all have not this resource. The next person is the pastor, and after him the Sunday-school teacher. But after the parents, the pastor has the first right."
"Some pastors do not like to be troubled in that way," said Ethel.
"Very few would object to it, I suspect, where the desire for counsel is honest. I believe, where one would be annoyed, twenty would be gratified. As it is, pastors preach a great deal in the dark, because they know so very little about the real religious life of their people. Here we are at home. How slowly we have walked!"
"Good news for you, Ethel," said Dr. Ray, as they entered the parlour. "Mary is decidedly better. I think her almost entirely, if not quite, out of danger. But how did you succeed?"
"Pretty well, I believe," answered Ethel. "I did not need your bottle, brother. Henry will tell you all about it. I should like to go up-stairs."
"Did she really get through without breaking down?" asked Emily, after Ethel left the room. "I have been worrying about her all the evening."
"You might have spared yourself the trouble," replied Mr. Dalton. "Ethel has behaved like a real heroine, though in rather a small matter." And he proceeded to give an account of Ethel's adventure.
"Well done for the heroine!" exclaimed Dr. Ray. "I would not have believed it was in her."
"It really was a grand thing for her to do, was it not?"
"It was indeed, and she shall have something to remember it by," said the doctor.
Ethel went to her room, and knelt down by her bedside. She remained kneeling a long time, and when she arose, her face, though stained with tears, was calm and happy, and wore a settled expression, as if she had come to some grave decision. She opened her desk, and taking out the paper on which, a year and more before, she had recorded her resolve to be a missionary, she added a few words, and put it away again. The words were only a date and a text of Scripture.
"'O Lord, I will praise Thee. Though Thou wast angry with me, Thine
anger is turned away, and Thou comfortest me. Behold, God is my
salvation: I will trust, and be not afraid.'"
CHAPTER XII.
SMALL BEGINNINGS.
"EMILY, shall I go to market this morning?" asked Ethel, the following Monday, after she had finished her usual morning's work of putting the parlour to rights.
Emily looked up surprised from the work she was engaged in cutting out.
"To market!" said she. "Oh, I should be ever so much obliged to you, Ethel. Jane is busy, and I have all this work to get ready for Mrs. Markham. But you don't like to do marketing?"
"Oh, I don't mind—at least it does not matter whether I do or not," said Ethel. "'Don't like it' has been too much of an excuse of mine, I think."
"But the dogs, Ethel?"
"Well, they won't eat me more than any one else, I suppose; and if they do, I ought to take it as a compliment to the general sweetness of my appearance. What shall I buy?"
"You may order a loin of veal, and ask Mr. Begg to send the sweetbread; and as to vegetables, get whatever looks the best: only don't be too extravagant."
Ethel made her way without accident through the throng of buyers and sellers to the stall where she wished to deal. Mr. Begg was a big, good-humoured Dutchman, with a flock of yellow-haired, fat-faced children, two or three of whom were usually to be found tumbling about their father's place of business. Ethel recognized one of them as a pupil at the Sunday-school.
"Why, Greta, is that you?" said she. "What are you doing here? Helping your father?"
Little Greta stuck her chin into her neck, and looked up from under her eyelids, but was taken with a sudden fit of shyness, and would not answer.
"Why don't you speak to the lady?" asked Mr. Begg. "You is always talking about her at home."
"Greta is a very good girl," said Ethel; "and she sings nicely."
"She like her school first-rate," remarked Mr. Begg. "All the others they want to go too; but my vife say there be too many of dem: the young lady will not want dem all."
"But indeed we do want them all!" said Ethel, eagerly—"Every one of them. Those who are too large for the infant room can go into the other."
"Vell, you see, we live on the 'Hill,' and it a good way for dem to go," said Mr. Begg, who was evidently much pleased.
"Then I will tell you how we can arrange it," said Ethel. "You know my brother has started a Sunday evening service at the 'Hill,' and he is to have a Sunday-school in the afternoon. Let the children come there instead of to the large school. That will be only a short walk for them."
"Is that gentleman that preached yesterday and the Sunday before your brother? If I had known dat, I vould have went to hear him," said Mr. Begg. "We went past when dey vas singing, and my vife say, 'Dat sounds so good, I wish I vas up dere.'"
"Then you will let the children come next Sunday, and come yourself, won't you, Mr. Begg?" asked Ethel. "You will come, won't you, Greta, and bring all your playmates—the more the better."
"We will," said Greta, and then whispered to her father.
"Oh, the young lady don't want to see your puppies," said the butcher. "The dog has got some pups, and the little girl she wants to show dem to you."