CHAPTER XV.
CONSCIENCE.
Mr Sanderson would not allow Katie to sit up late. Indeed, she could not have kept awake, and would have been of little use if she could. She shared Nina's bed in the room where the younger children slept, but lay awake thinking, long after that irresponsible little girl was asleep by her side. Everything seemed so strange. It was the first night she had ever spent away from her own home, and she could not help wondering how Tessa and the boys were getting along, and what they had for supper. She thought of her mother and of the anxiety which, when she heard where she was, she would feel about her; and she wondered if she should have the fever, and if she did if she should die, as one of the patients at the hospital had already done. Then she wondered if Bertie would die, and a strange sort of awe came over her at such a thought in connection with one who had been her playmate ever since she could remember. It made death seem very near, and she wondered if she were fit to die. But that thought did not trouble her much. Nothing, either in life or death, can really hurt those who love Jesus and trust in his protection. She asked him to make her ready to die when he chose, and then, being of a very hopeful, cheerful nature, began to think of other things.
How could Bertie have circulated those stories about her? And, what was more important, how could she set herself right in the eyes of the other girls, and especially in those of Miss Eunice and Miss Etta? She could not go and say to the latter: "I know Bertie called me a thief, but I am not one," and then tell the story just as it was. They might not believe her, and if they did it would be betraying Bertie, and that would not be kind, particularly now that the latter was so ill. Or if she could have told the young ladies and, with the help of Mr. James, made it all straight with them, she could not go around to all the girls and explain what to them were half-defined suspicions. Even if she told the story of the fifty-dollar bill and her version of it were believed, they might very naturally think that there was something else, and that Bertie would scarcely have based her charge of theft on so slight and easily to be explained a circumstance as that. What should she do? It was dreadful to live under such a cloud; to have people consider you wicked when you are desiring and trying with all your might to be good, and not be able to right yourself at all. Again a feeling toward Bertie arose in the girl's heart that would have been hatred but for her companion's present condition, and which she felt to be wrong even as it was. For the thought of Jesus and how he forgave his enemies made her feel ashamed of herself, till she got out of bed and, kneeling down in the moonlight, prayed to be made more like him and to be willing to suffer wrongfully, if need be, with patience, rather than to feel wrong or to do anything unkind. And then, as she got into bed again, the scripture words with which she had commenced her factory life came back to her with new force:—
"In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths." And then those others in the thirty-seventh Psalm: "Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him, and he shall bring it to pass. He shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light."
That was the safest way. She might leave it to God to take care of her reputation. He could manage it though she could not, and some time everybody would understand just how it was, and know she was not a thief. Meantime she could afford to wait his time.
The next morning Mr. Sanderson promised to send word to the mill about Katie's absence and its cause, and when he left for the bindery his wife came downstairs to see to things, and she took her place in the sick-room, while Nina went to sit with Alf. Mrs. Sanderson was surprised to see how much Katie had managed to do before breakfast and in the interim between, exciting in Nina quite an ambition to wash dishes and "clean up." The little children had been nicely washed and dressed and were, when their mother went down, sitting on the kitchen doorstep with a kitten between them, over which, for a wonder, they were neither fretting nor quarreling. The breakfast things were all put away, the floor swept, and there was a general look of comfort which had not existed in that house for more than a week. The poor tired woman sank into a rocking-chair, saying to herself, "I don't see how it is some people's children are so handy. Mine don't ever do anything they can help. It's some people's luck." It never came into Mrs. Sanderson's head that the "luck" of good, efficient children is largely dependent upon the sensible training given them by their mothers.
The doctor, when he came, found Bertie much easier, if not absolutely better. He could not tell quite yet if there were any likelihood of her recovery, but the quieter she could be kept, and the more sleep she could get, the more chance she would have. He told Katie she was a famous nurse, and he should trust her to keep the room still, dark, and cool, and to soothe her friend as much as she possibly could. He furthermore told her that he had seen her mother, who approved of her remaining where she was, though of course she was very anxious lest she should take the fever and very sorry that she had gone to the house in the first place.
"I promised to watch you closely," said he, "and the moment I saw any symptoms, take you to her to be nursed. But I don't believe you will have it if you take care of yourself. You are in the path of duty, and I have often observed that those who are there seldom come to any harm."
It seemed a very long day to restless, active Katie, and yet in one sense it was a relief from the steady, monotonous work in the mill. Bertie was so quiet at first that she was able to wait upon her and Alf. both, and let Nina go down to help her mother get dinner. But after a while she began to toss and mutter, and then came those wild cries for Katie Robertson; that she had something to tell her; that she hadn't told a lie, for Katie was a thief.
When or how the change came the watcher hardly knew, but all at once she became aware that Bertie lay looking directly at her, and that there was full recognition in her eyes. Neither girl spoke for a moment; then Bertie said with a kind of shudder:—
"Am I dead?"
"No, indeed," said the other, not without some effort to speak cheerfully. "You are going to get well now; only keep still and don't tire yourself."
"I am going to die," said Bertie, slowly; "and I can't die, I am so wicked. Katie, I said dreadful things about you. I made all the girls hate you, and Miss Etta, too; but it wasn't quite a lie, for I did see you take the money."
"Yes," said Katie, quietly, "I did find a fifty-dollar bill in an old vest, and I suppose you saw me; but why didn't you tell me you saw it, instead of telling the girls? Then I could have explained all about it?"
"I don't know," said Bertie, uneasily. "Yes, I do; that's another lie, and I don't mean to tell lies now, I didn't want to have it explained. I wanted the girls to dislike you as much as I did."
"Why?" said Katie, astonished.
"Oh, well, you preached to me, and pretended to be a saint, and Miss
Etta and everybody thought you were so good, and"—
"Shall I tell you about that bill now?"
"Yes, do!"
So Katie told her companion just how it happened, and it was all so simple that she wondered how she could have made such a story of it.
"I wonder you didn't keep the bill, and not take it to Mr. James," she said. "I should."
"I did have a little fight about it," said Katie, blushing. "It was a great temptation. I'm not so very good, but"—
"But what?" said Bertie, eagerly, looking at her.
"I think the Lord Jesus helped me. I asked him, and he says he will help us to be good."
"Do you think he would help me?"
"I am sure he would. O Bertie, do ask him! I am so glad!"
"Are you?" said the sick girl, dreamily. But the effort to talk or think longer in her weakened state was too great. She seemed to float away again, and by degrees the same wild look came into her eyes, the tossings began again, and the low mutterings and sharp cries. It was very painful both to see and hear, but Katie was glad to notice that her own name no longer mingled in the confused talk, and the consciousness of wrong-doing toward herself seemed to have passed away.
In the evening the doctor said that the patient had had a relapse, and questioned her young nurse very particularly as to whether she had shown any consciousness; and being told that she had seemed for a little while to be quite herself, he asked if she had spoken. Katie said that she had talked quite rationally about something that had distressed her for some time, but she did not say what that something was.
"Bad," said he; "you should never let a fever patient talk, no matter how much she may try. But I mustn't scold you, I suppose; you are too young for such a responsibility, and your friend there is extremely ill."
Then he went downstairs and consulted Bertie's parents, and the result was that a letter was written to the city aunt begging her to come and help take care of the two sick children. The doctor wrote it himself, stating as delicately as he could the extreme urgency of the case, the inefficiency of the mother, the dangerous illness of the children, and the impossibility of securing any assistance in the care of them except that of an inexperienced little girl, who was herself in constant danger of being added to the list of patients.
In answer to this appeal, after a couple of days, Mrs. Jamieson, who, if a silly, overindulgent mother, was a much more efficient woman than her sister, made her appearance in Squantown, and under her supervision matters were soon in a better condition, and Katie was no longer needed. She had made herself extremely useful, however, and all the family were unfeignedly obliged to her. The children could not bear to have her go, and Mr. Sanderson insisted upon giving her as much money as she would have earned during the days she had been absent from the mill. Dr. Bolen said she showed no signs of having taken the infection and it would be quite safe for her to go home if she would change all her clothes for those which Eric took to the bindery and Mr. Sanderson carried home, leaving everything she had worn in the sick-room behind her, and then would take a long walk, where the wind could blow her hair about and freshen her up thoroughly.
Tessa and Katie had a long, long talk that night. The former had many things to tell of what had happened both in the mill and at home during the absence of the latter; how the rag-room had been closed and fumigated, the foreign rags all burned, and the girls and Miss Peters enjoyed a three days' holiday without having it deducted from their wages; how the old cat had presented the household with a lovely family of downy kittens, for which Alfred had made a little house in a box out in the yard; and how both boys had been very patient toward her cookery, laughing at her mistakes and helping her with their superior knowledge; and how they had stayed at home and played games with her every evening, thus preventing her from taking to novels again to cheer her loneliness, as she should otherwise have felt tempted to do.
Then Katie told Tessa all about the fifty-dollar bill, of which she had never heard before and Bertie's unkindness in setting everybody against her; and Tessa said she had heard the rumors, and often tried to make the girls tell her what they meant, but the only thing she could find out was that Katie was dishonest.
"I wonder you were friends with me, then," said Katie. "I should think you would have avoided me, just as all the other girls did. Weren't you ashamed to associate with a thief?"
"Oh, Katie, you know I couldn't believe such a thing of you!—you who have been my best friend—the only real friend I have ever had."
"But why didn't you tell me what you had heard, and ask me to explain it? You see how easily I could have done so."
"Somehow I didn't like to. It seemed like doubting you even to repeat the lies. I knew they were lies all the time, and I loved you better than anybody else in the world. What consequence was it to me what other people said about you?"
How to clear the matter up, neither of the girls knew. For it would be still more cruel and dishonorable, as they thought, to tell what Bertie had done, now that she had confessed it herself and was lying so low. But Katie had learned to "commit her way unto the Lord," and she was not troubled any more about the matter.
"I should think you'd hate Bertie," said Tessa, with Italian intensity. "I don't see how you could bring yourself to stay there and take care of her when you knew how much she had injured you. I should have felt like putting poison into her drink or smothering her with the pillows."
"No, you wouldn't," said the other, laughing, but immediately becoming grave again. "You couldn't hate any one who was dying, and besides, it wouldn't be like Jesus."
"I don't understand."
"Don't you see? Jesus gave up his life for sinners, for those who were his enemies. It makes me love him whenever I think of it, and I want to be like him. This was a good chance, and I think he helped me to overcome all kind of hard feeling. I only longed to do everything I could to make her more comfortable."
"I wish I could love Jesus as you do. My father used to tell me religion was just the priests deceiving silly women, and reminded me how the robbers and beggars in Italy would kneel before the crucifixes, shed tears as they said their prayers, and then turn away and be just as wicked as before. But to you it all seems real, and it, or something, makes you just the best girl I ever saw. But I can't feel so."
"Yes, you can; our Lord Jesus says 'whosoever will, may take of the water of life freely,' and 'him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out.' You must be one of the 'whosoever.' O Tessa, I only wish you'd come!"
But Tessa did not answer, and Katie, thinking her asleep, soon followed her example.
CHAPTER XVI.
DECIDING.
It was about four weeks later in the season. Miss Eunice's "tea-party," which had not been held for a long time, was gathered at the great house; not now in the pleasant sitting-room, but on the still pleasanter shaded lawn, where the girls occupied pretty rustic seats, while the tea was spread on little green tables, around which they were grouped as inclination prompted them.
All the members of both classes were there, with the exception of Bertie Sanderson; and there were quite a number of new faces. Some were present who had lately stood very close to death, and others whom the solemn thought induced by the public catastrophe had led to seek for a better life than one of mere amusement. All were glad to come together again; but there was a subdued tone in the gladness, and some voices were not as gay and careless as they were a month ago.
The fever had passed away. There had been no more cases, and only that one death. The rag-room girls and the invalids had gone back to their work; the hospital was closed; Mrs. Robertson had returned to her family, with for once a thankful heart. For, besides that she had been very well paid for her services and loss of time, the pestilence had spared her own dear ones; and they were all there to welcome her as she came back to her home.
Moreover, she had become very much attached to Gretchen and the other girls whom she had attended during their illness, and hated to let them go back to the tender mercies of Mrs. Doyle and the other boarding-house keepers, where they would be sure to be not only uncomfortable and badly fed, but also very much neglected in case of any new illness which might easily result from their weak, enfeebled condition. Her motherly heart thought a great deal about the matter, and her thoughts finally ended in her fitting up a large garret-room, which had never been occupied, with four little white beds and other necessaries and conveniences, and taking the four convalescents home with her as permanent boarders. The girls, while paying no more than they had heretofore done, profited greatly by the change. They had plain and wholesome, because well-cooked, food, plenty of cleanliness and fresh air, besides the elevating and refining influence of a home where Christian living was inculcated, not so much by precept as by practice. God "setteth the solitary in families," not boarding-houses or institutions; but that is the only true family which takes care "in all its ways to acknowledge him." If such families all over our land would open the arms of their exclusiveness each to take in one or more of the waifs and strays of life, and throw around them the arms of Christian love, they would be taking a long step toward answering their own daily prayer of
"Thy kingdom come … on earth as it is in heaven."
Katie and Tessa were pleased, girl-like, with the addition to their family party, and, though the boys grumbled a little at first, being, as boys are apt to be, a little shy of girls' society, they soon became used to the change and glad to enjoy the evening occupations that were rendered possible by so large a number.
It had always been a source of great anxiety to the widow, lest her boys, deprived of a father's watchful authority, would, as they grew up, wander off at night, fall under bad influences, learn evil habits, and grow up worthless, dissipated men. But thus far she had been successful in keeping Eric and Alfred at home with her and their little sister, and now, just when the restlessness common to their age might have drawn them away, a new interest was presented in the shape of a "home reading society," which held its sessions on Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday nights; Wednesday evening being devoted to Miss Eunice's "tea-party," Friday to the church service, and Saturday to games.
Mrs. Robertson had plans of a more solid nature for the winter, but till the warm summer weather was over, this seemed enough. The books read were historical stories, biographies, and the like, taken from the mill library by special permission. The boys were generally the readers, while the girls were encouraged by their motherly landlady to repair and keep their clothes in order, a branch of womanliness apt to be much neglected by factory operatives, who often marry and enter upon family duties without even knowing how to hold a needle.
Of course, the widow's time was now so fully occupied that she could not go out to work in families, as she had been wont to do, but the money paid by her boarders more than compensated for that. Her heart, as well as her hands, was quite full, and having no time to brood over her fallen condition, she did not worry and grumble so much as formerly, and was happier than she had ever been since the doctor died and left her to battle with the world alone. And thus she learned to realize the truth of that scripture:—
"He that watereth shall be watered also himself."
Bertie Sanderson did not die with the fever, though all around her, even the doctor, had at one time quite given up all hope of her recovery. She slowly struggled back to life, and as soon as she was able to bear the journey her aunt took her to the city with her for more complete rest and change. Katie did not see her again; for, having once got away from the infected house, it was not thought best either for her brothers at home, or her companions in the mill, that she should risk exposure again. She often longed to know the state of her former companion's mind on recovering her senses. If she remembered that exciting conversation; if she were really penitent for what she had done; and if she had taken her companion's advice and sought the forgiveness and strength of her Saviour. But no one could tell her. Indeed, there was no one she could ask, for she felt intuitively that Mrs. Sanderson was not a person to understand this sort of thing, and she could not summon courage to ask Bertie's father. Of one thing she was sure, however—her companion had not as yet openly confessed her share in the reports which had so affected Katie's reputation, and she must still wait in patience till he to whom she had "committed her way" should make it clear.
The reading for this Wednesday afternoon had been exceedingly solemn. It was about the danger of being "almost persuaded" to do one's duty, and then leaving it undone; the uncertainty of another opportunity presenting itself, and the importance of deciding for Christ now. At its close Miss Eunice had said:—
"My dear girls, we have in the weeks that have gone by carefully considered the subject of religion and God's claims upon every one of us for the consecration to him of our hearts and our lives. We have seen that the steps we are called upon to take are repentance, that is, forsaking sin in intention as well as being sorry for it; a steadfast, living faith in Christ Jesus as our Saviour, and a resolute determination to spend the rest of our lives in his service by keeping his commandments and doing his will.
"We have learned, also, that of ourselves we are none of us sufficient for any of these things, but that God is ready—nay, anxious—to give us his Holy Spirit in answer to our asking, and that this Holy Spirit will work in us the repentance and faith, as well as give us the strength to carry it out amid all the temptations of our daily lives. To-day's lesson has been upon the importance of deciding, and the danger of delay, in such a serious matter. I think the lessons of the past few weeks have helped to impress this latter fact upon us; and I am glad that our pastor has just written me a note to ask that all of you who have made up your minds to confess your Saviour openly at our communion Sunday, the first week in September, which will be just two weeks from to-day, will send him your names at once. He desires to see and talk with each one of you separately, that he may satisfy himself of your being in a fit condition for so important a step. I have a paper here on which you may write your names; but before you do I want you to examine your own hearts faithfully and as in the sight of God, to see whether you honestly and sincerely 'repent you of your sins past, have a lively and steadfast faith in Christ our Saviour, and intend to lead a new life, following the commandments of God and walking from henceforth in his holy ways, that so you may not be guilty of making a deceitful and false profession.' And now let us pray."
The girls all knelt down, and their teacher prayed that these dear girls might have a right judgment in all things, and decide, "not lightly nor after the manner of dissemblers with God," to confess Christ for their Saviour, and give themselves to him in the way of his appointment. Then there was silence for many minutes, that all kneeling there might carefully examine their own hearts and make this most important decision of their lives in the very realized presence of God himself.
After this the tea-table conversation was not a very gay one, and the girls went home uncommonly early, many of them before leaving writing their names upon the sheet of paper which their teacher presented. To some it seemed too awful a thing to do; to others, as to Katie Robertson, the awe was softened by the glad sense that Christ was pleased with this act of acknowledging him; and still others were greatly strengthened by this first act of self-committal, from which they would now be ashamed to draw back.
"Fifteen names; God bless them all!" said Miss Eunice, as she looked over the paper with her sister, whose own name headed the list. "I am so glad! And yet there are two or three more that I would like to see there; perhaps they will decide yet. But, Etta, what shall we do with this one?"—pointing to Katie Robertson's.
"I don't know, unless we consult Mr. Morven." For the young lady had begun to realize the help and strength there is in talking over spiritual matters and difficulties with one well qualified to give advice and help; and many a deeply interesting one had followed that first Sunday afternoon's conversation between Etta and her pastor.
"We might do that," said the elder sister, musingly. "And yet, I hardly like to, either; for, you see, we don't know anything definitely against the child, and I should be sorry to create a prejudice against her should she prove to be innocent. At the same time, I do not like to take the responsibility of assenting to the public religious profession of a girl who has such an accusation as theft hanging over her."
"I have almost a mind to tell her the report, and ask her what it means. I have somehow shrunk from doing so because it seems an absolute insult, and whenever I see the child I can not believe there is any truth in the story. I wish I knew more particulars."
"Who was your informant? Oh, I remember!—Bertie Sanderson—and she is out of the way now, and can't be questioned."
"I never believed in, nor liked, Bertie; but I don't think she is bad enough to invent such a slander, making it out of whole cloth. She said Gretchen knew; but I never thought of asking her. She is as truthful as the day."
"I would ask her," said her sister. "And there she is by the gate—come back for something, maybe."
CHAPTER XVII.
CLEARED.
Gretchen came slowly up the lawn, and stood for a moment shyly by the side of Miss Eunice.
"Is there anything I can do for you, my child?" said the young lady, pleasantly, desiring to put her at her ease.
"Please, will you write my name there?" she said, pointing to the list. "I can't write English letters, and I was ashamed to have the other girls know."
"That is nothing to be ashamed of," said Etta. "I don't believe any of the other girls can write German letters. But, Gretchen, do you honestly want to give yourself to your Saviour, and to live so as to serve and please him?"
"Yes, Miss Etta. I shall never forget the night you prayed for me when I was so sick. You said the Lord Jesus would hear the prayer, and take me if I came to him. I think he did so, and I have been coming to him again and again, ever since. He has been good, so good to me, saving me from dying and making me get well from that terrible sickness. The more I read about him in my Bible, the more I love him and want to honor him. But, Miss Etta, it was you who told me about him, and I shall never forget that night."
Etta's eyes filled with glad tears, while her sister added the sixteenth name to the list, and she clasped the hard, red hand with a feeling of sisterhood, for which she could hardly account.
Gretchen's sickness had greatly improved her appearance, toning down her overbright color, and giving her a look of greater delicacy. Mrs. Robertson and Katie had managed to exchange the dark woolen petticoat and jacket for a simple summer dress such as the other girls wore; while contact with the others in the friendly home life had brightened up her intellect, and her new, deeper feelings and desire after a spiritual life had given her a certain earnestness of expression which made the homely German features very pleasant to look upon.
She was just going away after thanking both her teachers in a quaint, formal manner, when Etta said:—
"Gretchen, I don't want you to tell tales about your companions, and you need not answer unless you wish to do so, but I have been told that you know facts concerning a rumor about Katie Robertson, that I very much desire to find out. Can you, honorably, tell me anything about it?"
"Some of the girls don't like her; I don't know why. She's always a very nice girl to me, and so good to her mother!"
"But the rumor is that she is dishonest, and that you saw her steal something."
"I saw Katie steal?" said Gretchen, very slowly. "Never, never in my life. Oh, I know," a light breaking over her face at a sudden recollection. "Bertha and I both saw her find a bill in an old vest-pocket one day, and put it in her own. Bertha spoke about it to me, but it wasn't my business. Finding isn't stealing."
"It isn't quite honest to keep what we find," said Miss Eunice. "We should try to restore it to the owner."
"But how could she find the owner?" said Gretchen, eagerly. "He might be away over in Germany, or—or anywhere."
"That is true," said Etta, thoughtfully. "It's strange! I can't believe that Katie's dishonest."
"Oh, she isn't; I'm sure she isn't! I only wish I could prove it; but this is all I know about the matter."
"Well, dear, thank you for saying what you have said. Don't say a word about it among your companions. I know I can trust you that far, and I will find out the mystery somehow. Good-night, Gretchen. God bless you in your new service," and Miss Eunice kissed her, little German factory-girl though she was.
"Find out the mystery? Of course we can; just as easy as possible, now," said Etta. "All we've got to do is just to ask James if such an occurrence ever happened in the mill."
And Mr. James Mountjoy promptly coming in at that moment, both sisters appealed to him, and heard in return a very simple statement of the whole affair.
"Why didn't you tell us?"
"I did mean to. I thought it so noble in the child. Five girls out of every six would have put the money into their pockets, and said nothing about it. It was very brave in her, too, to tell me how she had been tempted to keep it."
"I know why he did not tell," said the elder sister, looking fondly at her brother. "Five employers out of six would have accepted the money as their right, and the finder have been none the better for it. Our James is not apt to trumpet his own praises."
The young man colored, and said:—
"I think Katie Robertson is an uncommonly fine girl. I was struck by something she said the day she entered the mill. I asked her if she thought she could be a faithful little girl, and she said she was trying to please God everywhere, and she was sure he would help her here. I think she has acted up to that idea ever since. I have watched her from time to time, and I can not find that she has ever been guilty of disobedience to rules, or any kind of underhand behavior. Her work has always been faithfully done, and her example has been of great use in keeping order among the others. Sanderson is enthusiastic in his praises of her bravery and womanly unselfishness. He says she came to his house at the risk of her own life, and helped his poor, tired-out wife take care of the two sick children with as much earnestness, and almost as much skill, as a professional nurse. She stayed there till the aunt from the city came, thus losing five days' work. I offered her the wages for those days when I found it out, but she told me Mr. Sanderson had given her the amount, and she did not want to be paid twice over."
"And this is the girl we have been suspecting of dishonesty!" said Etta.
"We really owe her something to make amends. What a little wretch that
Bertie Sanderson must be! I really think her parents ought to be told
all the circumstances."
All this while a pile of unopened letters, brought by the evening mail, was lying upon the centre-table. The young gentleman turned them over, took possession of several which were directed to himself, and then, handing Etta one which he said was for her, left the room.
"Who can it be from?" said the young lady, eyeing the strangely folded and badly directed epistle, without opening it, as is the manner of so many people.
"I'd see if I were you," said her sister; and seeing that this was good advice, Etta took it, glanced at the signature, and exclaimed:—
"Bertie Sanderson! what a coincidence!"
The letter was as follows:—
NEW YORK, August 15, 18—.
My Dear Miss Etta,—I don't know how to write letters very well, but I must tell you something that is upon my mind. It is about Katie Robertson. You remember I told you she was a thief, and I told all the girls she was dishonest. I didn't know that she was; I only saw her find a fifty-dollar bill among the rags one day, and put it in her pocket. I didn't know what she did with it, and I didn't try to find out, because I was jealous and hated her. She used to tell me it was dishonest to break rules, and talk, and idle, when one was paid for working, and I felt kind of glad to think I had found her out in being dishonest too. I told the girls about it—not all, but just enough to make them think her a thief, because at first they all seemed to think so much more of her than they did of me, and I told you just the same thing when you asked me. I tried to tell father when he used to praise up Katie Robertson's independence and industry, and wish I would follow her example. You see, it was all because of her that he put me in the mill. But somehow I couldn't tell him. I was afraid.
You see, Miss Etta, I have been a very wicked girl, and when I got so sick I was afraid to die. I tried to think I hadn't told a lie, because I did see her find the money, and I didn't know what she had done with it; but I knew I had "borne false witness," and I hadn't "loved my neighbor as myself." I knew, too, that nobody could go to heaven with a heart full of malice and hatred, and I wanted to tell Katie all about it, and ask her to forgive me, and when I got wild I kept calling for her. Then she came and stayed and took such good care of me, I've been ashamed since I knew about it; but I didn't know her or any one then, only one day my wits seemed to come back to me and I told her all about it, and she explained so simply how she had found the money and taken it to Mr. James, and Mr. James had told her to keep it, that I saw in a moment that it was only because I wanted to think her bad that I didn't find out just how it was long before.
I felt so bad then, Miss Etta, because I thought I was surely dying, and going before God with all that unforgiven sin upon me, and Katie talked so sweetly about Jesus and his forgiveness and help that I thought I'd like to try. But then I didn't know anything for a long time till I woke up and found my aunt there, and they said I couldn't see Katie again, because she might get the fever or carry it to her brothers.
I was dreadfully unhappy, even after I came here, not only about this, but because of all the other bad things I've done all my life. I've been selfish and vain, and unkind and untruthful and dishonest, and I almost wished I had died when I was sick, only then I could not have gone to heaven, and I never could have cleared Katie.
Since I have been here I have been to church a good deal with my cousins, who are Congregationalists, and are both going to join the church. There is a daily service, and there have been a large number of conversions. I have talked a good deal with my aunt, and I really do want to commence over again and be a good girl. Aunt Anna says that Jesus died so that the very worst sinners might be forgiven, and I think he will forgive me. She wants me to stay and be received with her daughters here, but I'd rather join the dear church in Squantown, with the other girls, if you think I might.
But I want Katie and all the girls to know just how bad I have been and just how sorry I am. Please tell them all that I have said, and write and tell me if you think I might join the church, when I've been so wicked.
Give my best love to Miss Eunice and ask her to forgive me, too.
Your affectionate Sunday scholar,
BERTHA SANDERSON.
"I think we may join in the joy of the angels in the presence of God over the one sinner that repenteth," said Miss Eunice, as her sister finished this long and evidently earnest letter. "I think you may safely write to the dear child to come home and commence her new life among us. Your class is greatly blessed, my sister, and I think when we remember what it has done for Gretchen and Bertie, we may well thank God for the ship-fever as for an angel in disguise."
The next Sunday Etta Mountjoy detained her class a few moments after the school session, and read to them the whole of Bertie's letter.
It was received with various expressions of surprise, which were greatly augmented when the whole story of the fifty-dollar bill was told.
"I have brought this all before you, girls," she said, "not to make you think hardly of Bertie. She has suffered too much and is too evidently sincerely sorry for me to do that. I want you to rejoice with me in her repentance, and when she comes back, to receive her with full forgiveness and sympathy, and aid her in her efforts to lead a new life. I thought you ought to know how well one little girl among us has behaved under the most unjust suspicions and great unkindness. Not one of us has understood Katie Robertson. She has known for four weeks, from Bertie's statement to her, what was the real reason of our avoidance and suspicion, and she has never opened her mouth to explain the true state of the case and clear herself, as she might easily have done, because by so doing she would have been obliged to tell of the unkindness and malice of her companion.
"I think we all ought to ask her pardon for being so ready to condemn her unheard and to believe what was whispered against her; and, more than that, we ought to be very thankful to the Lord for giving her such a grand victory over herself."
Katie blushed and could find nothing to say, as one after another the girls and their teacher shook hands with her and kissed her; but it was a very happy heart the little girl carried home with her that bright Sunday.
"Tessa," she said, "it's all true, every word:
"'Commit thy way unto the Lord,
And He shall bring it to pass.'"
CHAPTER XVIII.
SEALED.
The first Sunday in September was the most beautiful day of the season—calm, still, and sunshiny. The August heats were abated, but no touch of chill had yet come into the air. It was still summer, but summer's fierceness had passed by. When the bell of the little gray stone church rang out in joyous tones, multitudes of people, in bright Sunday attire, and with expectant faces, came out of the cottages and boarding-houses and, singly or in groups, wound their way up the hill.
Factory operatives are not, as a rule, a very church-going population, and the church was not wont to be overcrowded; but to-day the pews and seats are all full, and so are the extra benches and chairs taken from the Sunday-school room and placed in the aisles. Every one in Squantown who possesses a sufficiently decent wardrobe in which to appear in a place of worship has turned out to-day. For to-day many of the boys and girls are to stand forth with many of their older friends, and confess themselves upon the Lord's side, while their pastor prays that upon them may fall a fuller measure of that Good Spirit, who alone can enable them to stand firm amid the many temptations by which they are surrounded, and while their brethren, who are older in the faith, promise to give them all the sympathy and help which it is in their power to bestow.
The church has been decorated for the occasion with a wealth of late summer flowers. Geraniums, scarlet, coral, pink, and white, dahlias of every variegated hue, asters, zinnias, heliotrope, ferns, golden-rod, and a multitude more are entwined around the pulpit or wreathed above windows and doors. Pure white day-lilies load the air with perfume, and rare exotics from the gardens of the "great house" stand in exquisitely arranged baskets upon the communion-table.
The music, intended to do special honor to the occasion, is somewhat elaborate, considering that the choir is composed of the older boys and girls from the Sunday-school, and is therefore not so good as usual from an artistic point of view; but it is better than artistic in that it is intended to do honor to the occasion, and is in many instances the sincere thank-offering of hearts glad to give to their Saviour the "dew of their youth."
It was the endeavor, not only of the clergyman, but also of the whole Mountjoy family, to banish all class distinctions from the church, and to make rich and poor, as they sat together before God, "the maker of them all," feel that they were all one family; that all had a common ownership of, and interest in, the beautiful building and the well-conducted services.
Thus the factory-girls went to the woods on Saturday afternoon for golden-rod and ferns; the humblest families robbed their cottage gardens of the few bright flowers they contained; and the boys gave willing assistance to Etta and her class in arranging and putting up the decorations. The whole congregation joined in singing the hymns and such of the chants as were familiar, and rarely had the singing been heartier.
The service was over and the sermon, and then, as the last hymn was sung, the call was given for the candidates to come forward in answer to the reading of their names. How many of them there were! Even those who had prayed most earnestly and labored most actively were surprised at the result. There were six of the elder girls composing Miss Eunice's Bible-class (the others were already communicants); four of her brother's boys; Etta and her whole class of seven,—making eighteen from the Sunday-school. But there were also quite a number of young men who worked in the factory, who had been largely won by James Mountjoy's honor and integrity, added to manly Christianity; and some young women, and even elder ones, with one or two heads of families, who had been led by the indefatigable efforts of the pastor thus to openly acknowledge Christ.
The girls were not as a rule dressed in any particular manner. Etta, indeed, and one or two others, were in white, because it happened to be more convenient and suitable, but neither Mr. Morven nor Miss Eunice wished to have the consciousness of dress interfere with the solemn thoughts of self-dedication and renunciation of the world appropriate to the occasion. Even with Bertie Sanderson, who had come home a few days before, "old things had so passed away," that she wore a simple blue gingham, much plainer, and at the same time much more becoming, than the costume in which she had originally appeared at the mill. The solemn questions were asked and answered; the personal vows taken; earnest, solemn prayers uttered and words of wise counsel said, to be long remembered and heeded and acted upon in life's coming battles; and then, with a burst of joyful song, the solemn service was over, and those engaged in it went out from the sacred precincts to fulfil the vows and exercise the grace among the common scenes and homely details of daily life. To many, nay, to most, life would not be one continuous communion service; the holy awe would of necessity fade away; the hymns and prayers be exchanged for the harsh wrangle and barter of a work-day world; temptation was awaiting many of those new church members in unexpected places, and the evil nature within, not yet wholly subdued by divine grace, would make the pathway of holiness a very narrow one, along which untrained feet would often stumble. But the memory of this hour would always be, to those who cherished it, a shield against temptation, a counter-charm against the wiles of the evil one; and since the Saviour whom they had that day openly avouched to be their Lord and God had promised "never to leave or to forsake them," only victory could follow those who confided entirely in him.
"Tessa," said Katie, when the two girls were alone together that afternoon, "I didn't know you were going to join the church till this morning. Why didn't you tell me before?"
"Well, you see I didn't make up my mind till yesterday afternoon. Then I went to Miss Etta, and she took me to Mr. Morven, and he took my name and encouraged me to come."
"What made you think of it?"
"You first. I didn't see how you could be so gentle and patient when everybody was condemning you and thinking evil of you. Then I watched you at your work, and saw how faithful you were, whether any one saw you or not, just as if you felt that God was looking at you, and you wanted to please him."
"So I did. I took for my text, in the mill, the verse: 'In all thy ways acknowledge him.'"
"Then," continued Tessa, "when you wanted me to give up reading those novels I was real mad at first. I thought you had no right to find fault with what I did, and that it was very mean in you, who had a comfortable home and a mother and two brothers, to want to take away the only pleasure from me who had nothing. But when you talked with me so sweetly, and when you asked me to come and live with you, and your mother took in the stranger that no one knew anything about and treated me just like one of her own children, I knew that you did it just out of kindness, and I tried to see what made you so kind."
"I don't think I'm kind," said Katie, "but I do want to be."
"The only reason I went to Sunday-school and church with you," continued her friend, "was to find out what it was that made you so different from the other girls, and there I heard all about Jesus, so different from what the priests used to say at home. There were no crucifixes, no pictures in the church, as there were in Italy, and yet he seemed to be more real than he ever did there, and I found myself beginning to love him almost before I knew it."
"I'm so glad!"
"So am I; but I don't think I ever quite saw what he was, how he laid down his life, for his enemies I mean, till you went to take care of Bertie, at the risk of your own life, and stayed there when you knew how badly she had treated you, and never said a word afterward for fear it would hurt her. It showed me just how he cares for all of us and wants to help us, even those who don't like him and don't want to take his help, and I made up my mind to give myself to him and take him for my Saviour that very night when you asked me to."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Somehow I couldn't. I couldn't talk about such things; they seemed too sacred. And one reason I didn't give in my name with the others that day at Miss Etta's was because I was afraid Miss Eunice or somebody, the minister, perhaps, would ask me questions."
"Didn't you want to talk to the minister?"
"No; it seemed like going to confession, and that I promised my father
I'd never do. Besides, I didn't think I was good enough."
"Why, we're none of us good enough, Miss Eunice says."
"I know; I listened to all the readings and the talk and the lectures, and by-and-by I got to see things that I hadn't understood before, and how it is not because we are good and strong, but because we're sinful and weak, that we need a Saviour and all the influences of the church. And so, just at the very last moment, I prayed for bravery enough to tell Miss Etta, and she went with me to Mr. Morven, and he told me I was just the one to come, if I really loved the Lord Jesus ever so little and wanted to do his will. He was just as kind and gentle, and it wasn't a bit like confession, for he didn't ask me any string of questions and didn't say the absolution—just talked to us both, prayed, and sent us home. I'm so glad I decided. I never felt so happy in my life before."
"Nor I," said Katie. "It doesn't seem as if anything ever could be hard or hateful again."
So felt a good many young hearts that quiet Sunday night as they returned from the evening service, where the pastor preached a special sermon to those of his flock who had just openly enlisted in the army of the Cross, welcoming them once more into the "communion of saints," pointing out the responsibilities they had assumed and the difficulties in their way, but at the same time congratulating them on the assured strength and aid which were promised to make them "more than conquerors through him who hath loved us."
And as life glided by, bringing its inevitable portion of care and suffering to each, no one of that band was ever sorry, as he looked back to the services of that bright September Sunday, that young hands and young hearts had then been laid trustingly into the hands of their Saviour, and that they set out upon life's journey clad in the invincible armor of faith.
CHAPTER XIX.
AFTERWARD.
The soft, sweet summer-time had quite passed away. Bright autumn had
followed, with its glory of gorgeous leaves and piles of golden fruit.
November's fierce blast had begun to toss the leafless branches, and
Thanksgiving day was at hand.
Nearly three months had passed since our young friends had stood forth to receive the seal of their discipleship. Three months of testing time they had proved to be—months in which the true attitude of the souls of those who had then presented their bodies as a living sacrifice might become plain both to themselves and their friends.
No greater mistake can be made than for young people to suppose that the recommendation of their Sunday-school teachers, their pastor, or even their parents, is an assurance that they are really fit subjects for a confession of Christ. All these, it is true, are watching them, both in their actions and in the tempers which they thus exhibit, as those that must give an account for their souls; but only God can see the heart—only themselves can know whether they are sincere in their purpose to love and serve him.
Young girls are very easily influenced. Often they come forward in the church because a good many of their companions are coming and they do not want to be left behind; sometimes because it makes them of temporary importance; and sometimes simply because of the transient excitement, without any thought of the solemn vows they are going to assume and the new life which in the future they are to be expected to lead. And this in spite of all the instructions given and the watchful care exercised by pastor and friends. No wonder, then, that the first few months after a public profession are anxious ones to all those who have had any part in smoothing the way thereto for their young friends.
And yet, let no girl or boy be discouraged from taking a stand which is both duty and privilege by these remarks. All that God demands of those who confess Christ—or, as it is popularly incorrectly called, "make a profession of religion"—is sincerity of heart and purpose; sincere sorrow, no matter how slight, for past sin; sincere faith in the sacrifice of Christ, to atone for and forgive sin; sincere purpose of obeying God's commandments for the future, with sincere consciousness of weakness added to sincere trust in the all-sufficient strength of the Holy Ghost. Every boy or girl old enough to think is capable of this sincerity; and thus every one is bound to obey the express command of his Saviour and confess him before men.
But, of course, if the confession be not sincere, in a very short time, when the novelty and excitement have worn away, the interest in sacred things will wear away also, and very soon something will be said or done that will be a dreadful disgrace to the confession thus carelessly or wickedly made.
Still another mistake is often made by young people, and this is one calculated to do great mischief, as it is often made by those who are sincerely desirous of serving God. For weeks preceding the open step they have devoted a great deal of time to meetings, prayer, and Bible-reading, and their interest in these things has almost put secular ones out of their heads. But when that long-anticipated day is over, they feel somehow that the end is reached, instead of looking on this end as only the first step in a newer and better life. Other duties and interests resume their relative importance. There are not so many meetings to go to, Bible-reading becomes more hurried, prayers are less fervent, and all at once the young communicant falls into some open sin and is filled with grief and remorse.
Oh, if every boy and girl, every man and woman, who has been brought into outward and inward communion with Christ, would only realize that he or she is to go onward, never ceasing to pray and strive against evil; ever pressing on for more and more of the Holy Spirit; striving each day to be more and more like Christ,—then would be realized what is meant by the words of the wise king: "The path of the just is as the shining light that shineth more and more unto the perfect day."
"Don't you think it would be nice to have a Harvest Home Festival for the Sunday-school on Thanksgiving?" said Etta Mountjoy to her brother and sister one autumn afternoon.
"I never saw one," said Eunice, whose duties as housekeeper had kept her rather closely confined at home for some years.
"Oh, I have. When I was at Altona last fall, the church was decorated with grain and grasses and fruits, and even vegetables. It was just lovely!"
"I should think it might be," said James; "and I don't see why we should not have one if Mr. Morven has no objection. But it will be a good deal of work to carry it through successfully, and I hate that sort of thing when it's a failure."
"I don't mind work," said Etta. "I want something to do—something for the church, I mean; and the girls do, too—something to take the place of our readings and talks. Sometimes I wish it were not all over, but there were something still to look forward to."
"Do you mean that you are sorry that you are really admitted to the communion of the Church, and have openly placed yourself on the Lord's side?"
"No! Of course not," said the girl, blushing. "But things are getting flat. I want something new; you know I always did."
"Yes," said her brother; "we all know, Etta. But, seriously, I trust my little sister will never be tired of the blessed service and fellowship into which she has been so recently admitted. You know what is written about those who put their hands to the plow and look back."
"Oh, I don't mean to look back; I don't want to. I'd rather belong to the church and work for Christ than anything else in the world. What I want is work. Don't you see?"
"Well, dear, if you think you can manage the work I'll find the money, though I don't suppose it will cost a great deal."
So it came to pass that those bright autumn Saturday afternoons were spent by Etta and her girls in the woods, where, with the aid of such boys as could get away from their work, a store of scarlet, golden, and variegated autumn leaves was laid in, with late ferns and hardy brackens, curious bits of moss, seed-vessels, and dried grass being added to the store. These were all taken to Mrs. Robertson's, whose large garret was offered for their reception and preservation, and after tea the girls ironed and varnished the leaves which could not be detached from the boughs, and pressed the smaller ones between the leaves of newspapers, which were collected for the purpose from neighbors, the younger Sunday scholars who were not in the mill being thus employed.
Then, on Wednesday evening, at Miss Eunice's "tea-party," which of necessity was held indoors, now that darkness came early and the nights were chill, the girls of the two classes covered pasteboard stars, crosses, crowns, and monograms with leaves and mosses neatly stitched on—bound rich yellow wheat stalks into sheaves, and made plumes and tassels of dried grasses and seeds.
Merry chatter helped the work forward. Miss Eunice did not wish her girls to look upon religion and the church's service as a thing of gloom. She knew that God has "given us all things richly to enjoy," and that the way to hallow pleasure and prevent its being hurtful is "in all our ways to acknowledge him."
Moreover, these social, familiar talks, when every one was off her guard, afforded capital opportunities of studying character with a view to affording to the young pilgrims such aid and advice as might be useful to them in their heavenward journey.
Of all the young work-women, Tessa showed the most taste and ingenuity in the grouping of leaves and arranging of ferns, and her beautiful combinations constantly called forth the admiration of both companions and teachers. The little Italian received their commendations very meekly, but did not thereby escape exciting the jealousy of Bertie Sanderson, who, on putting together some very fiery leaves without any attempt at toning down, received from Miss Eunice a few gentle suggestions concerning shadow, high lights, etc. "It's too mean," she whispered to her nearest neighbor, as she took her seat, "that beggar from the poor-house gets more notice than all the rest of us put together."
Her companion stared, for she was one of those girls who had almost made up her mind to become a Christian, but had remained undecided till too late, because she had an idea that a person could not dare to join the church till she was as holy as an angel.
"There's Katie Robertson, too," continued Bertie; "she'll be sure to be praised, if her work's hideous. That's what it is to be a favorite."
"Why, Bertie," said the other, "you're real spiteful. I think Katie's just the nicest girl. Anyway, I couldn't talk as you do if I had joined the church."
"But you ought to have joined the church because it was your duty," said
Bertie, who could very clearly see the mote in her sister's eye, in
spite of the beam in her own. "You will be a Christian soon, won't you?
It's so nice."
"Not I. If religion don't make people better than you are, I don't want anything to do with it; I'd rather stay as I am," was the sincere, if not very polite, answer. And then Bertie's conscience awoke, and she began to see what harm she was doing. She was very uneasy all the rest of the evening, and still more so when, at its close, Miss Eunice asked her to stop a few moments, as she had something to say to her.
Miss Eunice had overheard the conversation we have recorded, and had noted the cross, spiteful expression of the girl's face, and had grieved much as she saw her Saviour thus "wounded in the house of his friends." She spoke seriously to Bertie so soon as they were alone, and found the latter already repentant and quite willing to acknowledge her fault.
"But what am I to do, Miss Eunice? I am jealous, and I do feel hateful sometimes. I don't want to feel so, but I can't help it. If I didn't speak, I should feel it all the same."
"But, my dear, you have promised, in the most solemn way, to renounce 'the devil and all his works.' Pride, malice, envy, jealousy are emphatically works of the devil."
"I know, Miss Eunice; and I thought it would be all taken away. The minister in the city told us that Jesus is 'the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sins of the world.' I thought if I came to him he would take mine away."
"So he has, so he will. Try to understand me. When he hung upon the cross he bore the penalty due to the sins of the whole world, and of course to yours. In that sense he has already taken them away. But in another sense, that of your daily life, your character, he will take the evil of that away just as fast as you will let him."
"Let him? How do you mean? I am sure I want to be good."
"Yes, in a lump, altogether, you want to be good, very good; but without any trouble or self-denial. You didn't want to keep from saying those spiteful things about Tessa and Katie a little while ago, or he would have helped you do it. You didn't want the jealous, envious feelings taken out of your heart just then, or he would have taken them."
"How, Miss Eunice?"
"Whatsoever you ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive," said she.
"But do you mean I ought to have kneeled down to pray then, just that moment, before all the girls?"
"It is not necessary always to kneel down when we pray; though it is best to do so when we can. There are often times when our work would suffer, or when we are so surrounded by others that it would be impossible. But a few earnest words spoken in the silence of our own hearts will always bring our strong, loving Saviour to our help; and we may, every time, no matter what our temptations are, be 'more than conquerors through him who hath loved us.'"
"Every time? Oh, Miss Eunice!"
"Yes, every time. You know we constantly ask the Lord 'to keep us each day without sin.' How can we utter such a prayer in faith if we don't believe that it can be granted?"
"Yes; but temptations are so sudden, and take you just where you're the weakest."
"I know. And therefore we should be fully armed beforehand. Bertie, did you read your Bible and pray this morning?"
"No!" said the girl, flushing. "I always mean to; but it's so dark in the mornings now, and mill-time comes so soon. It's just as much as I can do to get there in time, any way."
"Yet you find time for your breakfast?"
"I couldn't live without eating."
"Nor can you live spiritually without feeding daily upon Christ, through the study of his Word and prayer. I would sooner go without my breakfast than without my early communion with him. Bertie, there are 'no gains without pains.' If you are really desirous, as I believe you are, to overcome your own evil habits and tendencies, and grow to be like Christ, you must begin every day with prayer for his help; you must watch yourself and your surroundings, and in the moment of temptation you must turn instantly to him who says that he is 'a very present help in trouble,' and who has promised to 'supply all our need according to his riches in glory.'"
Poor Bertie! A hard fight was before her. Fourteen years of unresisted pride, jealousy, and ill-will had formed habits that were hard to break—fourteen years of caring for no one's pleasure but her own. In brief, fourteen years of worshiping herself had helped to form a character which would need a good deal of chiseling before it should grow into an image of Christ. But he had undertaken the work. Miss Eunice had shown her how to avail herself of his offered help, and as she took her teacher's advice, we may be sure that in the end she gained the victory.