CHAPTER V.
PROSPECTING.
NEVER had Ethel been so unhappy in her life, as she was during the next two or three weeks; never had she been so irritable, and so utterly unreasonable and troublesome in her terrors and fancies. She seemed lent upon proving to herself and others that she could not help being afraid of her own shadow and that of every one else.
"Ethel," said her brother, one pleasant morning, "I have found out where our foundry-boy lives. I was driving with the doctor last evening, and saw him at work in his garden. Suppose you walk up with me to see the old lady, and carry her some of those flower-seeds which Emily says she has no room for in the garden. I dare say they will be very acceptable."
"I am sure she is welcome to them," said Emily. "Mr. B— gave the doctor three times more seeds than we can possibly use. I have supplied all the children's gardens on both sides of us, and there are quantities left. It is a pity somebody should not have them."
"I have another design in going, for which the seeds will furnish a good excuse," continued Mr. Dalton. "I want to 'prospect' for a Sunday-school and mission service in that neighbourhood; and I dare say this old lady can give me some idea of how the land lies."
"What! Among the foundry-men!" exclaimed Ethel.
"Exactly. Why not? They seem to be a fine set of fellows, and the place is swarming with children. If I succeed, I shall depend on your Bible-class girls for teachers. But come, will you go with me?"
"Do, Ethel; the walk will be good for you," said Emily. "I only wish I could go. I am so tired of being shut up in the house."
Emily had not been out since the night of the burglar alarm. The cold she had caught brought back all her throat trouble, and Dr. Ray was seriously concerned about her.
"I don't know what to make of Ethel," said Emily, when her sister had left the room. "I begin to think that I have never understood her at all, and that I did not know what I was about in undertaking the charge of her. Her fears have always been vexatious enough, but they are becoming perfectly intolerable. I don't so much mind myself, but she annoys the doctor so."
"Matthew is wonderfully good-natured and patient with her," observed Mr. Dalton.
"He is good-natured and patient with everybody," replied Emily; "and for that very reason I don't like to have him imposed upon; but I don't know what to do. If I say a word to Ethel, she begins to cry; and that is what I cannot bear very well just now."
"You had better not trouble yourself about her at present," said Mr. Dalton; "you are too unwell to be worried. I think, myself, that Ethel is passing through a kind of crisis."
"Yes; that is just what Matthew says when his patients are worse than usual," said Emily, laughing. "'You are passing through a "crisis,"' he says. 'You will be a great deal better after it.'"
"Exactly so," replied Mr. Dalton, laughing, in his turn. "I am inclined to believe that Ethel is passing through just such a crisis, and that she will be better after it. I think she is trying hard to justify herself in her own eyes, and I do not think she will succeed. I can see that there is a struggle in her mind, and that she is very unhappy under it. We must all try to have patience with her, and help her if possible."
The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of Ethel, prepared for her walk.
"I wish you would stop at Mrs. Fowler's, and ask her to send up some sponge-cake and a mould of ice-cream, Ethel," said Emily. "By the way, Henry, you should make acquaintance with Mrs. Fowler. She is the daughter of old Mr. Bond, of whom we used to buy sweeties when we went to Mrs. Clark's school, and a very good religious woman. I dare say she can tell you about your foundry-men and their families, for she has lived over there on the hill."
Ethel was evidently nervous in the expectation of a lecture; but her brother did not seem disposed to lecture, and chatted on about various matters till they reached the very neat and pleasant shop, where Mrs. Fowler reigned supreme over bonbons, cakes, fruits, and flowers.
"I must ask you to write your order yourself, Miss Ethel," said Mrs. Fowler.
And as she spoke, Ethel noticed that her hand was bandaged.
"How have you hurt your hand?" she asked.
"We had an accident last night," replied Mrs. Fowler. "My girl set her dress on fire, and mine running down-stairs with it all in a blaze. Luckily, I had a large shawl at hand, which threw round her, and by getting her down on the floor, I stifled the flame before she was seriously burned. I thought we were gone for a minute, for she was perfectly beside herself with fright, and I could hardly hold her; and, aside from the danger to herself, we have light muslin curtains to the windows and over an archway. As it was, I scorched my hands and sprained my wrists; but that is nothing to what it might have been."
"No doubt you saved her life," said Mr. Dalton. "How did her dress take fire?"
"She dropped a match on her dress. She said there was only a little blaze at first; and I dare say, if she had had her wits about her, she might have put it out in a minute; but she is always scared out of her wits if the least accident happens."
Ethel blushed, as if she thought the remark a personal one, and glanced at her brother.
"Well, it was a happy circumstance to her that all people are not scared out of their wits," stud Mr. Dalton.
"So I told her," replied Mrs. Fowler. "She was very sorry when she saw how I had hurt my hand.
"'Jane,' says I, 'I don't grudge the pain in my hand at all, if you will only learn something by this business. If I had been as crazy as you, you would have been burned up, and the house too."
"'Well, Mrs. Fowler,' says she, 'I do mean to try and learn, and not to be such a coward.'
"I believe she will do it too, for she is a good girl in the main."
"My sister tells me that you have lived up on the hill, and know people there," said Mr. Dalton. "What do you think would be the prospect of success, if any one were to establish an afternoon Sunday-school and a mission service in that neighbourhood?"
"It would be a grand thing, and no mistake," replied Mrs. Fowler, warmly. "There are quantities of children, and another class who need teaching still more,—I mean the half grown-up boys and girls, who now do nothing but hang about and gossip all Sunday afternoon."
"But are they not a very rough set?" said Ethel. "I should not think it would answer at all for young ladies to try teaching among them."
Mrs. Fowler laughed. "I don't believe there is one of them who would ever give a young lady a saucy word or look. They are almost all American-born; and all the middle-aged and elderly men are married, and have families of their own. Besides, I never knew a lady to be affronted when she was about any work of kindness."
"Nor I; either,—at least, not in this country," said Mr. Dalton. "Can you tell me of any good people to whom I can apply?"
"I don't think you will go amiss with any of them, unless it may be some of the families up by the Brewery. There are some Roman Catholics in that neighbourhood, and one family of professed infidels. The people are no great church goers; but I think that is more than anything because there is no place to go."
"There is the church on the avenue; that is not very far-off," remarked Ethel.
"Yes; but the seats are all rented and the rents are very high, especially since they fixed over the church, and put in all that paint and stained glass," said Mrs. Fowler. "Seats which used to rent for fifteen dollars have been raised to seventy and eighty dollars, and no poor man can afford to pay such prices."
"Ah, that opens the way to a very wide subject, which you and I will talk over some day," said Mr. Dalton. "But can you give me the names of some of the good people up there?"
Ethel fidgeted a great deal while her brother, with pocket-book in hand, stood talking over the counter with Mrs. Fowler. Presently, Mr. Dalton turned around to her.
"I think this Mrs. Trim must be the mother of our acquaintance, Ethel. Mrs. Fowler says she is a widow with one son, who works in the foundry."
"Our acquaintance!" repeated Ethel, to herself. "Henry talks as though we knew him intimately. I do wish he would not stand talking here so long. What if somebody should come in?"
At last somebody did come in, and Mr. Dalton, bidding Mrs. Fowler good-afternoon, left the shop and walked on toward the suburb, where most of the foundry hands lived.
"Mrs. Fowler seems to talk as though the prospect was encouraging," remarked Mr. Dalton. "She is a very intelligent woman. I should like to secure her help in our Sunday-school, if we succeed in starting it."
"I think she is very forward," said Ethel. "She stood and talked with you as though she had—as though she was—" Ethel's sentence seemed to grow rather entangled.
"Well, as though she had or was what?" asked her brother. "I thought she stood and talked as though she were a sensible, brave Christian woman. That is the impression which I received of her character."
Ethel did not answer; and they walked on a little way in silence, till they came to a house in front of which lay a fine large dog stretched out across the sidewalk. Ethel shrank back with her usual little scream.
"What now?" asked Mr. Dalton.
"Oh, brother, that great horrid dog: I can't go past him. I am sure he is not safe. Suppose he should be mad, and bite me?"
"And suppose you should be mad, and bite him?" said Mr. Dalton. "I know who I think looks the more sensible of the two at this moment. Come, Ethel, you really must not be so silly. The dog is perfectly gentle, as you may see by looking at him; and if he were not, you are going exactly the right way to work to make him attack you. There is nothing which provokes dogs, and animal's in general, so much as to see people afraid of them. There! See how politely he makes way for us."
The big dog, at this moment, sat up on his haunches, and beating his tail lazily against the ground, he seemed to invite their notice. Unluckily, at that moment, he caught sight of a cow in the street, and evidently conceiving that he was bound to preserve the street free from all trespassers, he rushed open mouthed at the intruder, who, of course, put down her head and ran straight-forward, after the manner of cows when attacked.
Ethel screamed at the top of her voice, and started to run also, but, catching her foot in her dress, she tripped and down she fell, sprawling in any thing but a desirable or graceful attitude, just at the feet of a group of foundry-men who were coming home from their work.
Before Mr. Dalton could reach her, one of the men had raised Ethel,—his black hands leaving a very visible impression on her delicate gray plush jacket.
"Well, you did get a tumble, sure enough," said the foundry-man, kindly. "What was the matter? What made you run so? The dog wouldn't hurt you."
Ethel burst into tears of shame and vexation, and seemed likely to go into hysterics on the spot.
"My sister is, unfortunately, very timid," said Mr. Dalton, coming up. "Have you hurt yourself, Ethel?"
But Ethel was, by this time, far beyond speaking.
"The young lady had better come right into our house," said a young man of the group, opening, as he spoke, the gate of the very house where the dog had been lying. "Mother will just about have supper ready; and a cup of tea will do her good. But, my goodness, miss, you needn't be afraid of my old Lion. He plays with all the young ones in the street."
"Thank you; we will come in, since you are so kind," said Mr. Dalton. "I believe you are the very man I was looking for."
"And you are the gentleman I saw down in the doctor's garden," returned Richard Trim. "I see you going by with the doctor last night. Come right in, miss."
"Come, Ethel," said her brother, so decidedly that Ethel made no difficulty about the matter.
As the other man passed along, Ethel heard the one who had picked her up say to his companion, "Well, if 'my' girl was to make such a fool of herself as that, I'd box her ears."
The big boy led the way around the corner of the house into a clean sunny kitchen. The table was set for supper, and a wonderfully neat, cheerful-looking little old woman was just taking some very tempting-looking biscuits out of the stove-oven.
"I've brought you some company, ma," said the big boy. "This is the young lady who sent you the flowers the other day. She got a fall just now, and I brought her in to rest and have some tea."
"Why, yes, to be sure," exclaimed Mrs. Trim, in a cheery, high-pitched voice, which seemed exactly in keeping with her appearance. "And so you had a fall, dear? Did you hurt you? There, there, don't cry," she continued, soothing Ethel as though she had been a baby. "Tell granny where you hurt you?"
"I didn't hurt myself much," sobbed Ethel; "but—but—I was so frightened."
"Lion ran after that cow of Green's, and scared her," explained the big boy. "You see, that cow is always trying to get into our yard," he added, turning to Mr. Dalton. "She is as cunning as an imp, and can open any gate; and she has got in two or three times and raised the mischief: so Lion drives her off whenever he sees her."
"He is a clever dog," observed Mr. Dalton. "But why do you not have the cow taken up?"
"Well, I hate to do that," replied Richard Trim. "You see, she belongs to a widow woman, who has not much else to depend on. The children pretend to watch her, but they get playing, and then she slips away. But I hope, now you have come, you will stop and take tea with us, Mr. —"
"My name is Dalton," said Mr. Dalton. "This is my sister, Miss Ethel Dalton."
The big boy nodded to Ethel in acknowledgment of the introduction.
"Yes, do stay and take tea with us," chimed in the old woman. "I am sure your little sister will feel better when she has had a cup of tea. Young girls are apt be 'narvous,' so I wouldn't mind, dear," she added, kindly, turning to Ethel. "We should be so pleased to have you stay. I kept the flowers you sent me ever so long. I never saw anything so sweet. Now do stay. You won't put me out the least bit."
Mr. Dalton saw that the invitation was sincere, and that Ethel would be the better for the rest. Indeed, with her red eyes, she was hardly presentable in the street.
"You are very kind, I am sure; and we shall be glad of a cup of tea," said he. "Indeed, we were coming to see you, at any rate. My sister, Mrs. Ray, has sent your son some flower-seeds. She had a present of a large quantity, more than she has any room for, and, knowing that you are fond of flowers, she hopes you will accept these."
"I'm sure she is very kind," said the big boy, colouring through all his black, as he looked at the parcel of seeds,—varieties of balsams, Drummond's phlox, Salpiglossis, and other desirable sorts, all of Vick's best. "I don't feel as though I ought to take such a present."
"Nonsense," said Mr. Dalton, smiling. "You would do as much for me in a minute; and I dare say I shall want your help about carrying out a plan I have in my head. I have brought you Vick's catalogue with the seeds. There is a deal of valuable information in it."
"Well, I am sure," said the big boy, and then he stopped and turned over the seeds again; "just see, ma, six kinds of balsams."
"You must take the lady some of our tomato and pepper plants," said his mother. "You know you always have such good luck with them. But now go and wash yourself, for tea is all ready. You couldn't have done anything for Dicky which would have pleased him so much," she added, as her son left the room. "He generally does buy a few flower-seeds every spring, besides what we save from our own garden; but it has been rather a hard winter for us, what with sickness and Dicky's being out of work a part of the time. Not that I ought to complain, either."
The entrance of Richard put a stop to the conversation for a moment, and they all sat down to the tea-table, which was neatly set out with gay china, and as Ethel observed, two real silver spoons for the company. She had partly got over her fright and discomposure, and she could not be insensible to the kindness with which she had been received.
"What beautiful china!" said she, looking at her cup, which was different from those used by the old woman and her son. "It is real Japan china, is it not?"
"I expect it is," replied Mrs. Trim, evidently much pleased. "My father was a sailor, and brought home these cups from China or Japan, I don't know which. He was in India, too, and brought home some of the idols the people worship, for ma was a great hand for curiosities. I'll show them to you after supper."
This led the conversation to India, and Mrs. Trim and her son were deeply interested when they heard that Mr. Dalton had been in that wonderful country. Dick had a great many questions to ask, and very intelligent questions they were; and Ethel had never seen her brother more animated in conversation.
"And so you were a missionary?" said Mrs. Trim. "Dear me! Didn't you feel it a privilege to go and preach the gospel to those poor critters? Just think of the poor mothers throwing their babes into the river to the crocodiles!"
"It seems worse, almost, to kill the little babies than grown folks, somehow. Babies are so innocent and helpless. Do you ever mean to go back there?"
"Sometime or other, I hope," replied Mr. Dalton; "or, if not there, to some other missionary field. As you say, I feel it a great privilege to carry the gospel to those poor people."
"I am sure I should. If I was your sister, I should want to go along with you. Young ladies do go, I know. There was Mrs. Whitney, that I used to know in P—. She taught a school, and afterward she went out to the Sandwich Islands. Shouldn't you like to go with your brother, dear?"
At this moment old Lion poked his head in at the door, and Ethel started as usual.
"The young lady would have to get over being afraid of dogs first," said the big boy, apparently resenting Ethel's terrors as an imputation on his friend Lion. "But I am not so sure, after all, about these foreign missions," he added, seeing Ethel blush and look disconcerted. "It seems as though there was enough work for missionaries and good people to do nearer home."
"Such as what?" asked Mr. Dalton.
"Well, for instance, here is this neighbourhood," said Richard. "There are plenty of folks here who never see the inside of a church from one year's end to another, or speak to a minister, unless some of them are married or there is a death in the family. And, yet, I suppose their souls are worth as much as the heathen in India?"
"I suppose they are," replied Mr. Dalton. "That is a sad state of things; but whose fault is it?"
"Well, it is partly their fault, and partly it is nobody's, I suppose."
"It must be somebody's, I should say."
"Well, sir, it is just like this. The nearest church is that on the avenue,—half a mile away. That church is full already—church and Sunday-school both; and if it wasn't, the pew rents are so high that poor folks can't afford to pay them. If a man has got a wife and three or four children to keep out of his earnings, he don't feel as though he could pay thirty or forty dollars a year for a seat. He can't do it unless he pinches himself, and he won't do it unless he is very pious, indeed. The children go to Sunday-school for a while, to be sure,—some of them—but they get to feel too old for that pretty soon, and so they slip away."
"But there are the free seats," said Ethel.
"Yes; but you see every one knows the free seats are for poor folks, and a man don't like to own himself poor, if he can help it. It is like taking charity. That mayn't be just the right way to look at it, but that is the way they feel."
"I don't wonder at it," said Ethel. "I think I should feel just so."
"You see it is not that they want to save their money, altogether," continued Richard Trim. "I don't think our men are at all stingy, in general. I believe if a little chapel were to be built up here, a great many people would not only go to it, but they would be willing to give something toward it, though it might be only a little."
"I understand, and I am very glad to hear you say so," said Mr. Dalton. "It was on partly a matter of that kind that I wanted to see you. You see I am having a vacation from missionary work just now, and I am as it were unattached; and I have been wondering whether it would be possible to start a service and a Sunday-school in this neighbourhood."
Both Mrs. Trim and Richard took up the idea with enthusiasm, and it was talked over in all its bearings.
"We should have to hire a room somewhere near, to begin with," said Mr. Dalton. "Can you think of any suitable place?"
"There is the large room over Mr. Sutton's grocery," said Richard. "It is a rough place, not much like a church to be sure; but it is clean and comfortable."
"I dare say it will answer very well," said Mr. Dalton. "I have not been used to very church-like places of late years, you know. And about teachers?"
"What a pity Mrs. Fowler has moved away," said Mrs. Trim. "She is such a nice lady, and so kind to everybody."
"Yes; she would be a great help. I shall depend upon you and Richard to help us, Mrs. Trim."
"Me!" said Richard, colouring. "I don't know enough to teach in a Sunday-school."
"Any man knows enough to teach in a Sunday-school, my friend, who will be faithful in studying the Scriptures, and ask God for the teaching of his Spirit. You will learn in the art of teaching."
"I shall learn that I don't know anything, I expect," said Richard, evidently not displeased.
"That was the most important thing I learned in my missionary education," said Mr. Dalton, smiling. "But suppose we get together a room full of little boys and girls; you can take a class of the one and your mother of the other, can you not?"
"Ma can, I am sure," said Richard. "She is always studying her Bible. As for me, I will think about it, and let you know. When shall I see you again?"
"Why, let me see. This is Monday: to-morrow I shall be engaged in getting up my lecture on India for the Bible-classes. By the way, don't you want to come, or don't you care about magic-lantern pictures?"
"I should like to come," said the big boy, colouring; "but then, you see—"
"It is a free lecture, you know," said Mr. Dalton. "Come, and bring your mother and any one else you like. We are obliged to have passes to prevent too great a crowd; but I will give you one. Well, Thursday evening, I will come up here again, and we will see what can be done."
"And, in the meantime, ma can see some of the neighbours and talk to them, and I can mention it to the men."
"Exactly so. Come, Ethel, Emily will think we are lost. Good-night."
CHAPTER VI.
ETHEL'S UNHAPPINESS.
"I DO think, brother, you are remarkable for one thing," said Ethel, as they were walking homeward, "and that is, the power you have of adapting yourself to all sorts of people."
"I don't think I quite understand you," said Mr. Dalton. "What do you mean by 'adapting' myself?"
"Why, when you were talking to Mrs. Fowler in the shop, it seemed as if you had known her all your life, and knew just what to say to her; and it was the same with Mrs. Trim and her son. Nobody would have known that you were not used to keeping just such company always. Some people never can get on with poor folks in that way. They are either condescending and gracious, like that man who addressed the Sunday-school last Sunday, or they are stiff and scared, and don't know what to say,—like myself," concluded Ethel.
"I suspect the difficulty is the same in both cases," remarked Mr. Dalton.
"And that difficulty is—"
"Self-consciousness,—not to be rude and very self-conceited," replied her brother, smiling. "But, Ethel, if I have that wonderful gift, I assure you I am not in the least aware of it. Why should I 'adapt' myself either to Mrs. Fowler or the Trims? We had a very favourable introduction in Mrs. Trim's kindness to you, and we had the same subjects of interest."
"Yes, I know," said Ethel; "and I noticed that you talked just as you do at home, or at Mrs. Verplank's, or any of the places where we visit."
"Well, why not? How would you have me talk?"
"To be sure, the people who talk of adapting themselves, always seem to me to make a great jumble of it," said Ethel, candidly. "There was that man I was speaking of who addressed the children last Sunday. He talked regular baby talk,—only not so funny and amusing as Mrs. Jones's baby talk; and I thought he never would have done. The infants were perfectly tired out, and as naughty as they could be; and, really, I did not so much blame them. But Mrs. Verplank thought it was beautiful: he adapted himself to the children's minds so prettily."
"Mrs. Verplank has no children of her own," said Mr. Dalton, dryly. "But as to this matter of adaptation, Ethel, there is something to be said on both sides. I should not think of talking to Mrs. Trim about the new translation of sacred books which I was discussing with Professor Van Alstine last night; but neither should I to Mrs. Verplank."
"After all, I suppose real good breeding and a real interest in the people one talks to, and the things one talks about, are the main things," said Ethel, thoughtfully. "I mean, of course, after the great thing of all,—loving one's neighbour as one's self."
"I quite agree with you, my love," replied Mr. Dalton; "I think you have gone to the root of the matter."
Ethel looked pleased. "But don't you think, brother, that good breeding is necessary, in order to do good in the best way?"
"Undoubtedly; and a great many good people's efforts suffer for the want of that very thing. They offend and disgust where they mean to help, and neutralize all the good they attempt by their manner of setting about it. And condescension—adaptation, if you like—is the very worst of all breeding."
"Brother, do you think I might take a class in your Sunday-school, if you do establish one," asked Ethel, after they had walked on in silence a little way.
"I don't know," replied Mr. Dalton, rather absently, as it seemed.
"Because, you know, I have had a good deal of experience in the infant-class for the last year; and I really am not needed there, and I might take the infant-class if you had one."
"I should like it of all things, little sister," said Mr. Dalton; "but I see grave difficulties in the way."
"What difficulties?" asked Ethel, surprised.
"Richard Trim's dog Lion for one, and widow Green's cow for another; and the many things which are always coming in your way. Suppose, for instance, your infant-class was in session, and a thunder-storm should come up, what would you do?"
Ethel coloured, and walked on in silence a little way. Then she said, in a deeply mortified tone:
"According to that, I need never think of doing anything,—any of the things I have set my heart on doing. It is very hard."
"It 'is' very hard," repeated her brother, sighing; "very hard for me, I assure you, Ethel. Nobody likes to have his castle in the air tumbled about his ears. I should like dearly to have you take the infant-class, supposing we have one; and I have notions in my head about sewing-schools and singing-classes; but I don't see how you are to help me about them, so long as you cannot pass a cow in the street, or hear a peal of thunder without going into hysterics. Fear is very irreligious, especially among children."
"I am sure I don't want to go, if you don't want me," said Ethel, in an offended tone. "I thought you would be glad of help at first, at any rate."
"But I do want you very much, my dear, for that and for other things. It is just the fact that I do want you which makes me so unhappy about this fault of yours."
"It is 'not' a fault," said Ethel, doggedly. "I can't help it."
"Well, then, this hinderance. But tell me, do you think such a scene as that to-day would be likely to increase your influence with your pupils or their parents?"
Ethel made no answer, and Mr. Dalton, after a little silence, began talking of something else.
Ethel did not again mention the subject of the mission-school; but during the week she was particularly active in inviting her own scholars in the infant-class, and took care to let Henry know that she was so.
"I will show him that I 'am' good for something, and can do some good in the world, if I am afraid of cows," said she to herself. "Mr. Maverick says there is more interest than usual in the Bible-class, and I have noticed that Anna Burgers has been very serious lately. I mean to take an opportunity to talk to her, and to some of the other girls. And I mean to study the Bible and pray more than I have done. I will take an hour in the middle of the day, and I will go regularly through some good books,—'Personal Religion,' or Mrs. More's 'Practical Piety.' As for being a missionary, why, if I really am not fit for it, that makes it plainly my duty to give it up cheerfully, and think no more about it. I had set my heart on it, but I must submit—that is all."
And so Ethel tried to content herself; but she was not satisfied or at peace. Her conscience told her that this was not honestly submitting to failure after having done her best to succeed. She had no right to give up, and say she was not fitted for the great work to which she had consecrated herself, till she had honestly and with all her might lived to make herself so.
She carried out her plans of proceeding with a great deal of zeal, but she was not happy in it. Her prayers were all unreal and cold, and seemed to go no deeper than her lips. It seemed as though she were under a close roof shut in away from God. She had a feeling as if her Lord were grieved with her and was turning his sorrowful face away,—as if she could not as it were catch his eyes. The promises of his word appeared as if they were nothing to her. She was wretchedly unhappy but she said to herself, that it was so at times with everybody,—that devotional feelings and religious experience were very dependent on bodily health, and she was not very well. The clouds would pass by-and-by, and she should feel better again. Meantime, she invited her pupils as she had promised herself, and sought for opportunities of religious conversation with her schoolmates, and tried hard to think that all was well with her.
"Oh, Ethel, will you come to-morrow, and spend the evening and stay all night with me," said Anna Burgers, one day, after the Italian class was dismissed. "Mamma and Aunt Sarah are going out, and we shall be quite by ourselves. We are in a new house, and so you need not be afraid of the roaches," she added, smiling.
Ethel smiled, but blushed a little. "I did not know you had moved," said she. "Was it not rather sudden?"
"Yes, quite so to mamma and all of us, except papa. It seems he meant to give us a surprise; and he has bought that pretty new house opposite Mrs. Bayard's old place. But will you come? It will be so nice."
Ethel considered. Here seemed to be just the opportunity she wished for serious conversation with Anna.
"I will come, to be sure, if Emily does not object; and I dare say she will not. How glad you must be to move out of that disagreeable home!"
"Yes, it is very nice," said Anna, simply. "Papa has been occupied in business matters so long, it is pleasant to feel a little easy again. I am so thankful on mamma's account, because now she can have Aunt Sarah with her once more. Then you think I may depend on your coming?"
"Oh, yes. I cannot imagine anything which should prevent me."
"Anna never loses a chance of telling everybody that they have grown rich," said Delia Wilkins, with her usual sneer, when Anna was gone. "If I did feel so grand about it, I would keep it to myself, I think."
"You ought not to say so, Delia," returned Ethel. "It isn't right. I don't think you ought to judge people in that way. You wouldn't like it yourself."
"And it isn't at all fair to Anna, either," said Ellen Davis. "She never thinks of boasting, I am sure. When they were poor, she never hesitated to say she could not afford this and that."
"Dear me! What have I said to bring down such a flood of reproof upon me, I wonder?" said Delia, affectedly. "You have taken to preaching lately, Ethel. I suppose you are practising for the mission you are going to undertake?"
Ethel coloured, but did not answer; and the party separated.
"Don't you mean to take the horse-car, Ethel," asked Ellen Davis, as they came near the station. "You have such a long walk."
"No; I believe not. I like the walk, and the exercise is good for me," replied Ethel.
"Well, good-by, then. I shall ride."
As Ethel walked along, carrying her heavy load of books, she was aware of an unpleasant weight on her conscience. She knew that the exercise was "not" good for her, and that Dr. Ray had expressly desired her never to walk both ways. She had told Ellen something very like a falsehood. She tried to turn her attention to something else, and began meditating what she should say to Anna when they should be alone together. She had crossed the bridge and was slowly creeping up the hill, when somebody drove up to the sidewalk and called to her. She started with an exclamation, as usual, and looking up, she saw Dr. Ray.
"Walking again, Ethel," said he. "How comes that?"
"The car was gone," said Ethel, taken by surprise, and having recourse to the first excuse she could think of to avert a lecture, or, what she dreaded still more, a laugh from her brother-in-law.
"You should have waited, then. But get in, and I will take you home: I am going that way."
"I am so near home now, that it does not matter," said Ethel, blushing; "and, besides, I have an errand to do on the way; but I should be glad if you would take my books."
"Tumble them in then, and mind you do not walk again. If the car is gone, wait for another. You will save time by it in the end."
When Ethel reached her own room, she sat down as usual, and took up her "Personal Religion," but somehow she found it very hard to fix her attention. That weight on her conscience, which had troubled her so much, was increased tenfold. She knew that she had lied both to Ellen Davis and her brother-in-law. She had sinned grievously, and yet she was unwilling to own that she had sinned; for she felt as if the confession of this one fault would involve a great deal more. She finished her allotted portion of reading, however, and went down-stairs to practise her music-lesson, feeling tired, irritable, and in anything but a pleasant state of mind or body. She made so many mistakes that Emily noticed them.
"What is the matter, Ethel?" she asked. "It is something wonderful for you to boggle so."
"I believe the mischief is in me or in the piano, I don't know which," said Ethel, fretfully. "I can't do anything with it."
"I wouldn't try," said Emily, kindly. "You are tired with your Italian lessons. I think, on the days that you go over to the other side, you would do better to practise directly after breakfast."
"I can't practise when Matthew is in the house," said Ethel. "He is always making fun of me."
"How many times does it take to make 'always?'" asked her sister.
"Well, he did so once; and he will do so again. I can't bear it."
"Ethel," said Emily, gravely, "do you know that you are growing very irritable and fretful?"
Ethel made no answer.
"I dare say it is partly because you do not feel very well," continued her sister; "but I think you should be careful how you give way to fretfulness. There is nothing which grows faster by indulgence, as I know by experience," she added, smiling. "I don't like to see it in you: your temper has always been so even and pleasant. I am afraid you are working too hard, and that these Italian lessons are too much for your strength. Don't you think you had better give them up for the present?"
"I don't like to do that," said Ethel. "I may never have so good a chance again."
"That is true; but, then, if it is going to make you sick—"
"But I am not sick, Emily: I am only tired just now. As to my being fretful, I am sure I did not know it, only everybody seems to think that all I do is to worry now-a-days. Henry,—"
But here Ethel's voice was lost in tears, and hearing her brother-in-law's voice, she made haste to escape to her own room, where she had a hearty crying-fit, and, by dint of dwelling on all the injuries she had received, as she thought, from her brother and sister, she contrived, in some degree, to forget the load on her conscience, and to get up a comforting feeling of martyrdom.
"But it is my duty to be cheerful," said Ethel, when she was thoroughly tired of crying. "Of course, it is very hard that I should be treated so unkindly, and especially by Henry, from whom I had expected so much—" here the tears came into play again—"but it is my duty to be brave and cheerful, and show that I am a true Christian. I am thankful for this opportunity of talking to Anna, and I mean to improve it. She is a dear, sweet girl, and she will make such a useful Christian. If I can't do the work I had set my heart upon, I must do what I can, that is all. It is very hard, to be sure, but then I hope I shall be able to bear it."
By this time, Ethel had argued herself into a very comfortable state of self-delusion, and was ready to bathe her eyes, dress her hair becomingly, and come down to dinner with a good appetite. She was so cheerful, and bore Dr. Ray's jokes so good-humouredly, that Emily was delighted, and congratulated herself on the effects of her little lecture.
"Well, Ethel, the first step toward the establishment of my mission service has been successfully taken," said Mr. Dalton. "I have hired the room Robert Trim told us of, and have given notice that I shall preach there next Sunday afternoon at three o'clock; and a Sunday-school will be organized immediately afterward."
"Humph!" said Dr. Ray. "I thought you were having a vacation. That is your notion of a rest from missionary labor, is it?"
"Why, not exactly," replied Mr. Dalton, smiling. "But I have not preached for four whole months, except once, since I came here; and I begin to find myself hungry for work again."
"Oh, well, I know by experience that there is no use in talking; so I shall not throw away my breath. You will need to have your wits about you. Those iron-workers are shrewd fellows, and will pick out the weak places in your arguments."
Ethel looked indignant, but Henry only smiled.
"They are the kind of hearers I like," said he. "Any amount of criticism, even of cavilling, is better than the sleepy indifference which treats everything with the same neglect, or the frivolity which laughs at everything alike."
"What will you do for teachers?" asked Emily.
"I shall take as many as possible from among the people themselves; and for the rest, I must look to the young people in our church. I suppose there is no use in asking Emily?"
"Not a bit," returned the doctor, decidedly. "Emily has no throat or lungs to spend on Sunday-school teaching; and, besides, I cannot spare her on Sunday afternoons. It is the only time I ever have to myself, and I want her to share it with me."
"How selfish Dr. Ray is!" thought Ethel. "He thinks of nothing but his own comfort."
"I must find a melodeon or harmonium somewhere, and somebody to play on it," said Mr. Dalton. "I don't exactly know how to go to work at that. Ethel, can you give me an idea?"
Ethel considered a little. "I don't know unless you take Juliet's."
"You might just as well have it as not," said Emily. "It stands there in the hall, and nobody even touches it once in three months. I suppose it would be perfectly safe up there."
"Perfectly safe, and all the better for being used now and then. What say you, Ethel? Will you come and play for us, and train our choir?"
Ethel was just preparing to be offended at not being asked to play, but when the request came, she shrank back as usual, and exclaimed:
"Oh, dear, no! I never could do it, I am sure. I should be frightened to death."
"Ah, well, we won't make a martyr of you," said Mr. Dalton. "I dare say somebody will turn up. There is your friend, Anna Burgers; doesn't she play?"
"I don't believe she would do it," replied Ethel. "She has so much to do in the other school."
"I don't think you ought to expect those who have classes in Sunday-school already to help you in your new school," said Emily. "It is too much for anybody to undertake."
"I know it is not fair; and yet, I generally, find that if I want a little extra work done, I am much safer in asking some one who is pretty busy already, than in appealing to a person who has nothing else to do. However, I don't mean to call upon those who are working in the other school, if I can help it. If worse comes to worst, I can play the melodeon myself."
CHAPTER VII.
ANNA.
PROMPTLY as Ethel had refused to take charge of the music in her brother's new chapel, she was not at all pleased that her refusal had been so easily accepted. She would have liked to be urged a little more.
That very evening, she opened the neglected instrument and played for an hour, doing her very best, that Henry might see what he was losing.
"How very well Ethel plays," she heard him say to Dr. Ray in the parlour. "It is a pity she cannot turn her talent to good account."
"She does almost everything well that she undertakes," returned Dr. Ray. "It is a pity, as you say, that with all her gifts she should be made worse than useless by her absurd affectations. Not that her fears are all affectations, either, but at least one-half of them are so. It is a great pity, for, as matters are at present, she is likely to be nothing but a torment to herself and every one else. It is the more strange that she does not perceive self-control to be a duty, because she is so conscientious about everything else. I don't think she would tell a lie for the world."
A sharp pang darted through Ethel's heart as she heard these words.
"I have always been fond of the child," continued Dr. Ray. "I was glad to have her come here, thinking she would be a comfort to Emily. It grieves me that I have to leave Emily alone so much, especially since we lost our children; and I hoped Ethel would be company and comfort to her, poor girl! These bereavements are hard enough for us all; but I often think they are far worse for the women, because they have to stay quietly at home in the empty place. But, then, women have to take the hard end of everything, poor souls."
Ethel listened in astonishment, and some annoyance. Having made up her mind that Dr. Ray was an unfeeling bear, she did not quite like to unmake it again, and confess that her judgment had been mistaken and uncharitable.
"I am very much troubled about Ethel, myself," said Mr. Dalton; "but I cannot help hoping that she may overcome these fancies after a while."
"The main thing is to get her attention directed from herself," said Dr. Ray. "As it is, she is in danger of becoming that sad object, a confirmed hypochondriac. Only a little while ago, she was fancying she had a cancer coming; and now she thinks she has disease of the heart. I cannot help thinking she has the root of the matter in her, and all she wants is to have her conscience roused, and get a worthy object in life to take her out of herself."
"So he thinks I am selfish as well as affected," thought Ethel. "I wonder what I shall hear next?"
She was not destined to hear any more just now, for somebody called for the doctor. And Mr. Dalton joined Emily in the parlour, whither Ethel was presently called to play some duets with her sister.
No objection was made to Ethel's going to spend the night with Anna Burger.
"You had better run in and see Mrs. Rose, while you are so near," said Emily. "Juliet will like to hear from the family."
Mrs. Rose had lived next to Mrs. Bayard's for many years, and Ethel was very fond of her. She was a plain person, not very well educated, but a good Christian woman, and always ready to help with hands and purse every one who needed assistance; and everybody in her neighbourhood called upon her, as a matter of course, whenever anything was the matter.
Anna welcomed her friend warmly, as usual, and proceeded to make her comfortable; but Ethel was not quite at her ease. Her head was full of her projects as to serious conversation with Anna, and she was puzzling her head as to the best means of introducing the subject.
"Please to say grace, Ethel," said Anna, when their tea was ready.
She had been used to hear her brothers or her young aunt perform this of in her father's absence, and it never occurred to her that Ethel would be embarrassed.
But Ethel, thinking of herself as usual, blushed and stammered, made but a lame business of it; and then troubled herself all through the meal with wondering what Anna would think of her.
"The Bible-class is filling up again," said Anna, after they had settled themselves with their work. "Five new girls came in last Sunday."
"Who were they?" asked Ethel.
"Nobody that we know. Three of them were shop-girls from Mrs. Randall's. She brought them in herself."
"How disagreeable!" said Ethel.
"Why, I don't know. Why should it be disagreeable?"
"One don't like to be mixed up with everybody."
"There is no great mixing up in just being in the same Bible-class with people; and if there were, I don't see what hurt it would do," said Anna. "They are just the sort of girls one would wish to bring under Bible-class influence, because I suppose they have a good many temptations to do wrong which we know nothing about. Mr. Maverick seemed very much pleased, and asked the girls to try and bring their friends with them. And after all, Ethel, if we are to do people good, I don't see but we must be 'mixed up' with them; mustn't we? We must be acquainted with them, and let them see that we are interested in them for their own sakes, and that we do not feel above them."
"But we 'must' be superior to people, if we are to do them good," said Ethel, doubtfully.
"Possibly; though I don't know that I should agree to that always. We may be superior in some things, but not in others; and anyhow, Ethel, I think the more really superior a person is, the less she will be conscious of her superiority."
Ethel seemed to find something rather unpleasant in this remark, for she worked on some minutes in silence.
"How pleasant it must be to have your brother at home again," said Anna, presently.
Ethel assented with a little sigh.
"I suppose you would hardly remember him?"
"I never saw him before," said Ethel. "He went away before I was born, and has never been at home since. We have always corresponded ever since I could write; and I had his picture: but, after all, we are really strangers," added Ethel, with another little sigh. "One never knows a person from his letters."
"Not fully; but then we never know our most intimate friends entirely," said Anna. "I should think your brother would make an excellent missionary. I heard him that Sunday he preached for Mr. Verplank, and I never heard a sermon I liked so much. There seemed such a reality about everything he said. I have thought about it ever since. One hears enough about the duty of loving God, but I never thought so much of his loving us."
Here seemed to be just the opening that Ethel wanted, but while she was thinking what to say first, Anna went on.
"Does your brother mean to go back to India?"
"Not to India," replied Ethel. "He is going to stay at home three years, and then he is going to Persia, where he began at first."
"What? Where Miss Beecher is living?" exclaimed Anna. "Oh, Ethel, I should think you would go with him! I would in a moment, if I were situated as you are. It would be so nice to be with one's own brother and with Miss Beecher, and you would feel so much more interest in those girls, because you have done a good deal for them already. Why don't you go?"
"I have thought of it sometimes," said Ethel, sighing again.
"If I were in your place, I would begin studying the languages directly," continued Anna, with enthusiasm. "Why, it would be perfectly delightful! You could learn them pretty well in three years, and be prepared to go to work directly. Then, I would learn all sorts of housework and sewing and contriving, because, of course, every such thing would be useful; and I would practise teaching every chance I had."
"You are very much in earnest about it," said Ethel, smiling, though she felt a little vexed, she hardly knew why. "Why don't you prepare, and go as a missionary yourself?"
"I could not leave home, even if I were a fit person in other respects," replied Anna, sighing, in her turn. "I am the only child, you know; and mother's health is so infirm that it would not be right for me to leave her. But you seem to have no duties to keep you at home."
"No; I don't suppose that I am necessary to anybody," said Ethel, rather sadly; "but, Anna, you know the text: 'He that loveth father or mother more than me, is not worthy of me.'"
"I know," said Anna; "but that is not the point exactly, Ethel."
"Perhaps you think you are not fit in other respects," continued Ethel. "Perhaps you think you do not love Him at all."
"That would not stand in your way at any rate; for I suppose you must think you do, or you would not have joined the church."
Ethel thought Anna meant to evade the subject, and was the more determined to press it upon her. "But tell me, Anna, don't you think you ought to love God and try to serve him?"
"Everybody ought to do so, I suppose," replied Anna. "But now tell me honestly, Ethel, do you really love him? Love him, I mean, as you do Mrs. Bayard, or your brother?"
"Why, yes, I hope so," returned Ethel. "Of course the heart is very deceitful, as the Bible says; and I may be deluded as well as others, but I do hope I love him."
"Well, I can't understand that," said Anna, frankly.
"Understand what?"
"How you can speak in that way. If I love anybody, I know it. There is no chance of delusion in the case. Suppose any one should ask me whether I loved my mother, and I should say, 'Why, yes, I hope so. I may be deceived, but I do hope I love her.' I don't think she would be very much flattered."
"Well, Anna, how would you go to work to prove that you loved your mother?"
"I should not wish to prove it. I think it would prove itself."
"But how?"
"Because I would rather be with her than with any one else in the world," returned Anna, earnestly. "Because I love to do what will give her pleasure, or help her in her work, and nothing makes me so wretched as to see that I have grieved her,—and I know that I do grieve her sometimes: I am so quick-tempered. Because nothing makes me feel so much like doing right as the thought, 'Mother will be pleased.' Because, oh! I can't tell you all, but I would do anything, give up anything, for mother," added Anna, in a trembling voice; "and when I think of losing her, as I have to do sometimes—" Anna was silent, and looked steadfastly out of the window for some minutes.
Ethel was silent also. She felt somehow as though she had been caught in her own trap.
"I don't know whether I make you understand me, Ethel," said Anna presently, in her usual cheerful voice.
"Oh, yes, I understand," replied Ethel.
"Well, if I loved God as—as any one ought to love him, I don't think I should have to examine myself so closely as to find it out. I should 'know' it."
"Well, Anna, why don't you love him?" asked Ethel.
At this moment the conversation was disagreeably interrupted. A young woman opened the door, and came into the parlour without speaking. She was very pale, her lips trembled, and her dress was disarranged. She did not seem to notice any one, though she looked straight before her. Ethel started with her usual little scream.
"Hush!" said Anna. "You will make her worse."
"What is the matter?" stammered Ethel. "Has she been drinking?"
"No: but she has fits sometimes; and I am afraid she has one coming on. I did not think of that, or I would not have let Sarah go out. However, there is no danger. Help me to get her on the sofa; and perhaps it may pass over."
At this moment the poor girl began to make a distressing sound, between a moan and a cry, while her face grew visibly disturbed. Ethel waited for no more, but catching her hat and shawl, which lay on the piano, she flew out of the house, and never stopped till she had reached the next corner, where a street-car was just preparing to start. Ethel jumped in, and was well on her way home before she had time to consider what she had done, or what account she could give of herself to her sister. The ride was rather a long one, and before she reached home, Ethel began to feel heartily ashamed and very much embarrassed. She knew that Anna was alone in the house with the sick girl, for she had heard Anna give the other servants permission to go out. What would Anna do, and what would she think of Ethel's conduct? What would Emily say to her? Oh, if she had only had the wit to run over and call Mrs. Rose!
"I will send Matthew over directly," said she to herself; "and they will think I came home for that purpose. But then it will be just the same as telling a lie; and, besides, he will not be at home, for he had a meeting to attend. Oh, dear! I wish I had not run away. I was just coming to the point with Anna; and now I shall never dare to say a word about it again."
Usually, when Ethel wanted to escape from a disagreeable subject of thought, she diverted herself by crying; but she did not quite like to begin weeping in a street-car: so she was forced to think till she found herself at home.
The door was fastened as usual in the evening, and Emily opened it for her.
"Why, Ethel, what brings you home?" she exclaimed. "Has anything happened?"
"Do let me come in, Emily," said Ethel, in a faint voice, and with her hand on her side, for, as Dr. Ray had said, it was one of her favourite delusions to imagine that she had disease of the heart. She dropped into a chair as she spoke, and made a feeble attempt to undo the buttons on her dress.
"What's the matter now?" said a hearty voice—the last Ethel would have desired to hear under the circumstances—and Matthew came out of the parlour in his dressing-gown. "What is it, Ethel?"
"Oh, my heart!" gasped Ethel, now really ready for a hysterical paroxysm, and pressing her chest with her hand. "Oh, my heart!"
"Nonsense, child! That isn't your heart; that's your stomach," said the doctor. "Emily, bring me the bottle of valerian and ammonia I prepared for you the other day."
Now every one who has taken it knows that valerian and ammonia is not at all a nice preparation. The first taste was enough for Ethel, and she pushed it away.
"Don't give me that horrid stuff: you will poison me," said she, with sufficient energy to show that she was in no present danger of dying. "Oh, dear! I was so frightened."
"But what, brought you home this time in the evening?" asked Emily. "I thought you were to stay all night."
"Well, I did; but Mrs. Burgers' girl had a fit; and it frightened me so I could not stay."
"Ah, poor thing! So she is sick again?" said Dr. Ray. "But did not Mrs. Burgers tell you there was no danger? I should think she would have kept you from running off in this wild way; or did she send for me?"
"Mrs. Burgers is not at home, nor Sarah," said Ethel, rather reluctantly. "Anna and I were alone in the house with her; and the girl came into the room moaning, and making up faces: oh, it was dreadful! She looked as if she were possessed."
"Oh, Ethel, you didn't run away and leave Anna alone!" exclaimed Emily, in a reproachful tone. "How could you do so?"
"I could not do her any good by staying; and I thought I could send Matthew over there," replied Ethel.
"But why didn't you call Mrs. Rose?"
"I don't know. I didn't think—"
"You did not think of anything or anybody but yourself, as usual, I suspect," said Dr. Ray, more sternly than Ethel had ever heard him speak to anybody. "I had better go over after all, Emily. Anna is there alone, and sometimes these attacks are very alarming to inexperienced people."
"But you are not fit to go out, Matthew," said Emily, anxiously. "You stayed at home from the society meeting because you were sick."
"Not sick so much as very tired," returned the doctor. "There comes the car now." And seizing his hat and hailing the conductor, Dr. Ray rushed out, swinging himself into his coat as he went.
"You had better go to bed, Ethel," said Emily, somewhat sharply, for her patience with Ethel began to wax threadbare. "It would certainly be a good thing, as the doctor says, if you could learn to think of somebody besides yourself."
"Why, Emily!" exclaimed Ethel, beginning to cry.
"Now don't begin to cry. That will not mend matters. I must say, I think you are very much to blame; and I am heartily ashamed of you. I don't know what Mrs. Burgers will think, or what apology I shall make to her for your conduct. I know one thing, and that is, if you keep on in your present course, indulging yourself in all sorts of absurd fancies and giving way to all sorts of petty and nonsensical terrors, no human being will be able to live with you. I must tell you that you bring great discredit upon your Christian profession, and do more harm than you can ever hope to do good."
Ethel stood silenced and astounded; for Emily was usually the gentlest of women, and reproved, when she felt obliged to do so, with a soft reluctance which took away all sting from her words.
Perhaps some of her sharpness on this occasion was due to a special personal disappointment.
Dr. Ray had had a very hard day. He had been out all the morning. He had been called away from his dinner, and sent for to perform an operation some six miles out of town; and he had come home at last, too tired to think of attending the scientific society to which he belonged. Emily had made fresh coffee for her husband, and then piled him up luxuriously on the sofa to rest, while she read a new book to him; and it was very hard that he should be turned out again: so it was no wonder she was not a little vexed.
CHAPTER VIII.
SELF-EXAMINATION.
ETHEL gathered up her things and retreated to her own room, without saying another word in self-defence. She shut and bolted her door with some unnecessary emphasis, and sat down to enjoy her usual fits of crying; but somehow the tears did not come. She was angry, ashamed, and disappointed: angry at Emily for her sharp words; angry and ashamed at herself for running away, and making herself ridiculous, as she felt she had done; and disappointed at the failure of her plans for Anna's conversion. Nor was this all. Her conscience was seriously disturbed.
Dr. Ray's stern words rang in her ears, and could not be got rid of. "You were thinking of yourself, as usual."
Was it true that she was always thinking of herself? And was selfishness, after all, the ground of all her troubles?
"I suppose it was really so in this case," she thought. "If I had been thinking of Anna or of the poor girl, instead of myself, I should have stopped and helped her. Oh how I wish I had! I went over there just because I wanted to do Anna good—" And here Ethel stopped again, for an unpleasant suspicion crossed her mind that even her selfishness had been at the bottom of her desires. Had she not been quite as anxious for the glory of Anna's conversion—quite as desirous to show Henry that she could do some good in the world—as she had been to benefit Anna?
It is sometimes possible for one who really desires to serve God, to go on for a long time in a course of self-deception; but, if the desire is sincere, that person is certain to awake, sooner or later, and perceive the truth. Ethel had done this. She had continued to shut her eyes to her true condition in a wonderful manner. When she was uncomfortably aroused, as in the case of her first conversation with Henry on the subject of going to Persia, she usually took refuge in crying; and, as she was one of those persons who find a certain relief and even enjoyment in tears, she usually wept away all her discomfort, and there was an end of the matter for that time.
But now she was not to get off so easily. The truth had gained an entrance into her mind, and, like a light brought into a long shut up room, was showing her all the dark, dusty, and foul corners, all the rust and mould which was destroying what she valued most, all the spiders and other horrid creatures which had there taken up their abode. Alone as she was, she hid her face for shame as she thought of the sins she had committed during the last few weeks,—the failures of temper; the uncharitable judgments; the falsehoods; above all, the selfishness!
It was true, as Matthew said, she always thought of herself first and last. She professed to desire above all things to serve God, but it was herself that she served first of all. Then she remembered how, all the time she had made an open profession of religion, she had solemnly resolved that she would consecrate her life to missionary work. She opened her desk, and took out the paper on which she had written down her resolutions. It was solemnly and strongly expressed, and had been sincere at the time: Ethel was sure of that. She had anticipated opposition from her friends, especially from her brother; but that obstacle had been taken away, or, rather, it had never existed. The only obstacle lay in herself, in her own weakness and folly; but instead of striving and praying against that weakness, she had nursed and petted it as something pretty and praiseworthy. She had never once asked for help to overcome it. She had been prepared to give up the cherished plan of her life rather than own herself in a fault.
And even in her missionary schemes, had not self been uppermost? Had she not thought more of the praise she should win and the pleasures she should enjoy than of anything else? It had not been so at first. Then she thought of the value and blessedness of God's truth, the worth of souls, the happiness of making it her life's business to extend the Redeemer's kingdom. But of late, her desires had waxed faint and feeble; and as she thought of the inconvenience and danger she was sure to encounter, she had secretly rejoiced to think that after all she was not fit for a missionary life, and had a good excuse for giving up the plan which had once been so dear to her.
If Ethel had been really as silly and superficial as she often appeared, the present would have been a very perilous crisis for her. She would have been in danger of giving up her Christian hopes, of concluding that there was no use in trying. But she had at the bottom of her character a real foundation of conscience and principle, and a genuine admiration of what was good and true. She had made an honest consecration of herself to God and his service; and though she had wandered away, she was not to be suffered to lose herself utterly. Now at last her eyes were opened, and she saw how she had wandered away—how far-away were those green pastures and still waters which she had once found so delightful.
She saw that it was no "state of health," no arbitrary hiding of her Lord's face, which had of late made her prayers so dry and unreal, her Bible reading so uninteresting and even distasteful, her lessons in the Sunday-school so unprofitable both to herself and to others. It was sins,—sins not only unrepented of, but actually indulged in and petted.
It was only since she came to live at Dr. Ray's that Ethel had become really aware of the fact that sin lay at the bottom of the great defect of her character,—her timidity, and shrinking from everything in the least disagreeable and distasteful. As a child she had been so good in other respects, so obedient and easily managed, that Mrs. Bayard had considered this one defect as of little consequence. Then Ethel had been greatly indulged as being the only girl, and an orphan, beside. Mr. Bayard was very much away from home, and when at home, he made a pet and playmate of Ethel. The boys sometimes laughed at her, it is true; but they never teased her in earnest; and Mrs. Bayard was one of those persons who, naturally as it were, take upon themselves everything inconvenient and disagreeable,—a dangerous person to live with for one given to self-indulgence.
But at Dr. Ray's, matters were different. Neither he nor Emily ever spared themselves when anything was to be done for the benefit of others. It was natural that they should see Ethel's defects more plainly than if she had always lived with them; and though not at all disposed to be hard on her, they both saw how important it was that she should overcome her fault. Emily had talked to Ethel seriously upon the matter, and had tried to convince her of her duty; but she had not seemed to succeed very well. Ethel could not be brought to see, or at least own, that it was a fault, and had always one answer,—a shower of tears, and the declaration that it was not her fault, that she was nervous and delicate, and it was very hard that she should be blamed for what she could not help.
Now a fault, even a pretty serious fault, may remain in the character of a Christian, and, as long as he is not made aware of it, may do his general character little harm; but just as soon as he becomes conscious that it is a fault, he must do his best to get rid of it, if he would not have his whole soul poisoned thereby. It is, to use a homely illustration, like a lump of sugar or salt at the bottom of a glass of water. As long as it is not dissolved and stirred up, the water above is little affected by it; but the moment the spoon is put into the tumbler, the salt can be tasted in every drop of the water: so it may be compared to the seed of a poisonous weed, which may remain unhurtful because dry and ungrowing for years. But let the seed once begin to germinate, and it must be got rid of with all speed.
Ethel's self-indulgence, so long as she did not recognize it as a sin, had, indeed, interfered with her usefulness, and caused herself and others a good deal of annoyance; but it had not hindered her from being truthful, affectionate, cheerful, and industrious. But the moment she was made aware of its true nature, it lost the comparatively harmless nature of an infirmity and became a wilful sin,—a sin of presumption;—and one such sin, however small it may seem in the beginning, is enough to destroy any Christian character. The consciousness of something wrong, which, yet, she would not own or investigate, made her fretful, and easy to take offence. The dislike of being found fault with made her untruthful. The determination, hardly perhaps acknowledged, to justify herself, and show that she "could not help" her fault, had made her selfish, exacting, and unkind; and all, together, had raised up a barrier between herself and her God which had clouded her religious experience, deprived her devotions of all value and comfort, and, probably, utterly destroyed the influence over the friend whom, next to her own family, she loved best in the world.