THE GUARDIAN AND HIS WARD.
TO go back a few weeks in our narrative. Mr. McKinstry succeeded, by what means he never explained, in obtaining from Monson P. Tracy the amount of Sarah Barrows' bill, with interest from the time it was due. This, with the sum already subscribed, made a little more than the three hundred dollars needed for a year's expenses at an academy near by.
The poor orphan, crushed with the weight of her grief, dreading to look into the future which seemed so dark and cold, could only falter out her prayers and try to calm her bleeding heart by repeating to herself the promises of God to the fatherless ones.
When Helen Edmond, with a face like a sunbeam, burst into her darkened room with a paper in one hand and a roll of bills in the other, and announced to the desolate girl the success of her plan, and the necessity of immediate exertion in order to reach the school at the commencement of the term, Sarah pressed her hands to her head, bewildered with her good fortune.
At last, when her kind friend had related in detail the manner in which the happy result had been brought about; she said:
"I do not deserve such generous kindness. I have been praying God to open a way for me to support myself honestly, but I was faithless and unresigned."
"But you will never be so again, Sarah. I am so glad for you. It is necessary to go at once; and you must write me how you succeed in your studies."
This was only a few days before Helen's return to Maytown. And in consequence of her change of residence, she did not receive any intelligence from her protégé until she was settled at Woodbine Cottage.
In the letter Sarah announced that she had been admitted at once to the senior class, and that by teaching a few hours daily in the primary department, she could earn enough to pay for lessons in vocal and instrumental music of which she was passionately fond.
By the terms of Mr. Edmond's will, a part of the property would revert to Frank on his twenty-first birthday. But the full division would not be made until his sister had attained her majority.
Under many circumstances this would have been a judicious arrangement. Frank's time was now occupied in completing his professional studies, he having chosen the law, and Helen being still too young to need more than the limited allowance given her by her guardian.
Just before they left the city, Frank had sought an interview with Mr. Tracy, in consequence of a note received from him in reference to certain new investments. The young man only knew in general that aside from the grounds around Woodbine Cottage, a considerable sum was invested in real estate, being let out to mortgagees who paid interest on the same. The great bulk of the property, however, lay in City stocks.
It was in regard to a part of these stocks, and the interest accumulating from them, that Mr. Tracy wished to talk with his ward, who since his father's decease had endeavored to fit himself for the care of his property.
Exactly at this juncture, a company of speculators were in the city, getting subscribers to the purchase of a lead mine in one of the Western States. They had handsome drawings of the locality, with minute details of the wonderful facilities afforded for getting the metal into market. Day after day these gentlemen had been closeted for hours with Monson P. Tracy and had so effectually convinced him of the immense value of the mine, that he had resolved to invest in it every dollar he could raise. He also resolved to advise Frank to buy shares with the capital now lying at interest.
But young and inexperienced as he was, the law student hesitated. He had often heard his father warn others against being drawn into the vortex of speculation. He felt that he had no right to risk the patrimony which had descended to him.
Mr. Tracy, however, opposed such fair arguments to his objections, representing the advantages which would be sure to accrue, in such glowing colors, that, though not entirely convinced, Frank consented that a small sum should be risked, as he insisted on calling the investment.
Had the young man been aware with whom he had to deal, could he have known that the shares in the lead mine were made an excuse for probing him as to his own knowledge of the various investments made by his father; more than all, had he imagined that instead of a friend bound to his interests by personal regard, as well as by gratitude to his father, his guardian was a mean, selfish man, thinking only how much he could be benefited, he would never have laid himself open by his perfect frankness, as the mark of a designing villain.
Frank Edmond, like his father before him, was totally deceived in the character of Monson P. Tracy. Judging the man from himself, and from what appeared on the surface, Mr. Roswell Edmond formed an opinion of what his old protégé ought to be, rather than of what he was. Indeed, having had reason to be fully satisfied with the business capacity of his former clerk, he rested on the assurance that in the pecuniary responsibilities of his wards, he would spare no pains in the care of their fortune.
Unfortunately the example of Mr. Edmond was followed by a wealthy widow—named Quincy, who made Mr. Tracy guardian to her son, a young man of nineteen, with "phet roviso" that the child was not to have control of his fortune until his twenty-fifth year.
There were some men, Mr. McKinstry among them, who shook their heads, and prognosticated evil in the future for the wards. While others, not so shrewd and discriminating, were willing to adopt Monson P. Tracy's opinion of himself and believe him to be a man of unflinching integrity.
Three months after Frank's conversation with his guardian, he received notice through a friend that he was reported as one of the largest owners in the lead mines. The speculation by shrewd financiers was considered wild in the extreme, the difficulty of access to the locality being almost insurmountable.
In consequence of this intelligence, the collegian visited the city, for the purpose of ascertaining its truth. He called at his guardian's counting-room on three successive occasions, but found him absent, or too much engaged to see him.
He then wrote, requesting the gentleman to appoint an hour for an interview.
This meeting proved wholly unsatisfactory. Mr. Tracy assumed the high ground of acting according to the instructions of the will. He said he had only consulted his ward on a former occasion out of courtesy, and not because he felt incompetent to decide what was best for their interests. And he requested, in a lofty tone, that there might be no further interference in his business.
The interview gave the student great uneasiness, especially as through the kindness of the same friend who had before written him, he obtained access to the list of names of the lead mine stock-holders, and was startled to find that twenty thousand dollars worth of shares was accredited to him.
This fact sent him in a hurry to a lawyer with whom he had already entered his name as a student, to inquire whether the powers of a guardian over the property of minors was not limited, and found, to his keen regret, that it was so, to a more or less degree, according to the terms of the will, and that in his case, Monson P. Tracy's control was entire. Indeed, so perfect had been Mr. Edmond's confidence in his old clerk, that when advised to add Mr. Knowles' name to the other, he had answered his attorney:
"If Mr. Tracy will accept the trust, no other will be necessary. He will handle my children's fortunes, and secure their welfare in every respect as if they were his own."
There was no other help for the young man than patience. He returned to Maytown far more of his sister's opinion in regard to their guardian than he had left it. Helen, quick to discriminate character, had long insisted that he was capable of any dishonesty which would not render him amenable to law; and more, that by a subtle way of reasoning, he would convince himself that any act which would advance his own interests, was right.
A NARROW ESCAPE.
AS Autumn advanced, Helen Josephine recommenced her studies with great zeal. Before he left Maytown, her brother marked out a course of reading for her, in connection with which she promised to write abstracts daily of the works perused, for his subsequent examination. She also had two recitations a week in intellectual philosophy, in Mr. Knowles' study, and on the intervening days. Mr. Frederic taught her geometry.
On the last occasion, the young girl made it a condition that Sybil should be present, not that she imagined Mr. Frederic would embrace the opportunity to make love to her. But she distrusted her own powers to keep her mind on the lesson, except for the presence of the lynx-eyed, practical sister.
Little did she imagine while she was taking pains to prove that the line A was equal to the lines B and C, or that the three angles of a triangle are equal to two right angles, that Sybil's thoughts were roving far from her knitting needles, which made so monotonous a clicking, and taking in the possibilities of a connection between the two beings she loved so well. And, moreover, that she was devising means to break up the increasing coolness between them.
Strange as it may appear, the more Frederic admired the mind and person of his young pupil, the more reserved his manner grew. Beautiful, accomplished, and heir to a large fortune, he could scarcely admit the possibility of winning her to be the wife of a poor country clergyman. And yet sometimes in the retirement of his own chamber, a recollection of what he saw in her eyes when he asked her to forgive him, like a flash of electricity, sent hope surging through all his being. He was ready now to confess to himself that his love for the young English girl was tame and without vitality, compared with the emotions which at present filled his breast.
Yet his resolution was strong, never to allow Helen to become aware of his attachment. Sometimes, however, when her recitations had been uncommonly good, and she turned her beaming eyes upon him, wondering he did not praise her, it required all his strength of purpose to restrain his lips from expressing what was in his heart.
Meanwhile, Sybil sat knitting row after row upon the socks she was forming for her poor protégés in the parish; and wove castle after castle in regard to the future of those before her.
"It's all sheer stuff and nonsense," was her silent soliloquy, "to prove that one letter of the alphabet is as good or better than another. They're all good enough in their way; and it's a mark of childishness I didn't expect of Fred to be spending so much time about such trifles. But it will do as well as anything else to bring them together; and that's the main point at present."
But Sybil loved her brother's pupil too well not to strive to interest her in duties more important than the comparative value of A, B and C. She related the histories of her poor people, and often invited the young girl to accompany her in her visits. She encouraged her to aid those who were really needy, but reminded her that it was a better form of charity to teach the poor to help themselves.
Near Woodbine Cottage, Helen and her brother had their own protégés, whom, even when absent, they had always supported in part. One of these, the bedridden woman, had some months before received her welcome summons, and had gone home to her rest. But there were others who looked to the children of their loved benefactor at Woodbine Cottage for aid, and who expected the young lady to make them frequent calls.
Thus busy in her studies, her domestic duties and her charities, the autumn was passing quietly and usefully away, when some events occurred which greatly changed the current of her thoughts.
On the outskirts of the village of Maytown and about three miles from the church near the centre, a large stocking factory had been erected, which led in the course of a few years to the building of a dozen or more small, cheap houses in the vicinity, for the families of the working people.
Frank and his sister rode through the new village, or Mottville as it had been named, out of compliment to the owner of the factory, and had wondered where all the children running wild about the tenements went to school, as there was no appearance of a schoolhouse near by. But all thought of them was forgotten in subjects of greater interest, until one day Helen heard Frederic talking to his sister about the place.
"Why not have a Sabbath school in one of the houses?" she asked, her countenance beaming with animation.
"Exactly what I have wished," echoed the young clergyman, warmly; "but I do not know any room of suitable size."
"Hire any room to begin with," suggested Sybil. "You wont have many scholars at first."
"I should like to try, and see how many I could obtain," said Helen, glancing timidly in Frederic's face.
"They are rough people," answered the young man. "It would not do for you to go alone."
"I don't think there would be any danger. I used to go to worse places in the city, and I never met with abuse. If you will let me try it, I will begin to-morrow."
He fixed on her a gaze so full of admiration, that she felt her cheeks burn, as she added, "I will inquire about a room first. How much ought I to give for the use of it?"
"Very little. It is altogether probable that you will have one offered you. But I am anxious lest you should be annoyed. I would offer my services to go with you, but—"
"Oh! I would much prefer going alone; that is, I should not dare to talk to the people before the minister."
"Since when have you become so diffident, Helen?"
Not considering an answer to this question necessary, Helen rose at once to return home.
It was the middle of the afternoon of a very warm day in November. Having bid her friends adieu in a gay tone, our young friend passed through the gate with her sack hanging on her arm. From the dimples around her mouth, one might conclude her thoughts were pleasant ones.
She had but a quarter of a mile to walk, and was already two thirds of the distance, when she heard the sound of loud shouting behind her.
Curious, but not alarmed, she stopped, gazed into the distance, and not being able to discern anything, mounted a stone in order to see farther over the hill.
She now perceived several men making signs and furious gestures, the meaning of which she was entirely at a loss to understand.
Every moment the confusion increased, the men came running toward her, shouting and gesticulating, whether to her or to some other person she could not in her bewildered state decide.
Sometimes running on a few steps and then stopping to look about her, at length to her horror she sees one man in advance of the rest, and instantly concludes he is a madman broken loose from the hospital.
The screams and cries are now so near at hand that the poor girl can distinctly hear the words:
"Fire! Shoot him! He'll catch her! She's right in his path! No, there's too much danger!"
On, on she flies. It is for her life, while the man frantically shrieks:
"Dodge him! Jump the fence! Quick, or you'll be too late!"
She knows now that the danger is imminent, her breath comes shorter and shorter. She lifts her heart in one earnest prayer:
"Lord help me!"
Then, overcome with fright and fatigue she staggers, and is about to fall, when a strong arm lifts her from the ground. She is thrown over the wall; her companion leaps after her. A gun is discharged, a groan follows, and her consciousness forsakes her.
How long she lay in this state she never knew. At last she is aroused by lips pressed to hers, a voice murmuring her name in a tone of agony.
"Helen, my darling, awake! Have they killed you?"
Languidly she opened her eyes and found herself in the arms of her teacher.
"What has happened? Who is killed?" she gasped, trying to disengage herself from his close embrace.
"Father, accept my thanks," was Frederic's fervent ejaculation.
"I heard a gun," urged Helen. "Who is killed?"
"A dog, a mad dog. Can you guess what I have suffered?"
She staggered against him, the color again receding from her face and lips.
And almost without knowing what he did, her preserver strained her once more to his heart.
"You saved my life," she murmured, her lips quivering, while great drops trickled down her cheeks. She did not try to thank him. She sank back against the wall and wept quietly to herself.
"God be praised," was his only answer.
SYBIL'S VISITS.
"I SUPPOSE there is no more danger. I can go home now," faltered Helen, with an appealing glance in her companion's face.
"There is no danger, but I would like to see a little color in your cheeks before we start."
"There they are!" cried Sybil's clear, ringing tones. "Come, father, let us hurry on."
Frederic held out his hand to assist Helen over the wall, and she was standing to receive the others when they came up.
Sybil started forward, and catching Helen in her arms burst into a loud cry over her. But presently recovering herself, she exclaimed:
"There, Helen Edmond! I wouldn't live the last hour over again, not for my right hand." Then, wiping her eyes, she added, "You've made me act like a fool, I believe. I don't often snivel in this way."
But happening to catch a glimpse of the young girl's blanched lips, she burst out again, crying:
"It's horrible to think what might have happened. Frederic what makes you stand there, when Helen looks as if she'd sink to the ground?"
Mr. Knowles in the meantime came hurrying to the spot, and opening his arms, the poor excited girl threw herself into his embrace.
"You've caused us a terrible fright, my dear," he said, tenderly caressing her head which lay against his bosom. "We must not forget who watched over you and protected you from danger."
"He saved my life," murmured Helen, glancing toward her preserver.
"Under God, my child. God gave him the ability to outrun the mad creature."
"And the willingness to put his own life in jeopardy to save yours," added the practical Sybil.
"Did you do that?" eagerly asked Helen, seizing the young man's hand.
"What would my life have been worth, if the dog had overtaken you?" he whispered, leaning toward her.
She started from him, the color mounting to her brow, and putting her arm within Sybil's said:
"Will you please to come home with me?"
"That is my intention. You must go to bed and have some boneset tea. I don't like your looks, one moment white as a sheet, the next red as fire. Like as not, the shock will give you a fever."
"Shall I send the doctor to Woodbine Cottage?" inquired Frederic, anxiously.
"Oh, no!" replied Helen, with a weary smile. "I only need rest. If I can forget those dreadful sounds, I shall be well."
She held out her hand to the young clergyman, though she had not courage to look him in the face, and receiving an additional charge from the good pastor to be careful of herself, turned in the direction of her home.
Thanks to Sybil's boneset tea which the poor victim, to please her friend, drank clear and strong, or perhaps to the pleasant emotions stirred in her heart, the next day found our heroine quite as well as if no dreadful danger had threatened her life.
She arose as early as usual, and for a while gave herself up to receive the petting of old nurse, who was greatly excited by the accident. Then she sat down to breakfast, smiling and blushing to herself, lingering over her chocolate, muffins and eggs, until nurse wondered whether the fright had not been too much for her.
"He will certainly be here this morning," Helen said to herself, "but what can I say to thank him?"
She was still at the table, when she heard a ring at the door-boll. Her heart fluttered so dreadfully, she could scarcely stand; and she flew to the opposite door in order to escape to her chamber.
"My wife wouldn't give me any rest till I'd been to see how Miss was, after the fright," said a loud, good-natured voice, and the owner of it walked in at the back door, just in time to meet Helen.
"I shot the mad dog," he said, in explanation, "and I would have shot him with a better will, if I'd known 'twas Mr. Edmond's daughter he was running after."
Helen shook the man's hand in a cordial manner, and then drew a chair forward for him to sit down.
"I allus set store by Parson Knowles and his family," the visitor went on, "but I never know what a smart one that son o' his'n was, till I see him start off to overtake you. 'Twas a miracle, and nothing else, how he got the start of us, and threw you over the wall. You see I couldn't fire afore, I was afraid of shooting you. If he's as smart at writing sermons as he is at running, I'll promise to be one of his most reg'lar hearers."
"I shall have reason to thank you and him as long as I live," faltered Helen, her voice trembling. "Of all horrible diseases, I think hydrophobia is most to be dreaded."
It was usual for the young lady, after arranging her domestic affairs, to walk down to the parsonage and recite the lessons learned the day before. But this morning, even if she had been prepared with lessons, something held her back from going to meet the one being who occupied all her thoughts.
Immediately after the departure of her visitor, she opened her piano, and tried to fix her mind on her practice, but this she found was impossible. A voice continually sounded in her ears, "What would my life have been worth if the dog had overtaken you?" And then those sweet epithets when she awoke—"Helen, my darling, have they killed you?"
Just as the hall clock was striking ten, the door opened and Sybil walked in.
It was evident something had occurred to vex her, for her mouth was set hard and defiant, though her inquiries about the health of her favorite were as tender as ever. She bustled about, tumbling the music over, and peeping into Helen's portfolio, until the young lady asked what she was looking for.
"Well!" she exclaimed, throwing off her shawl. "I may as well own up. I used to think Sybil Knowles above the weaknesses of her sex, but I confess I made an egregious mistake. She's just like the rest of 'em, and that's enough news for one morning."
She caught up her shawl and pinned it across her breast, keeping her mouth tightly shut all the time.
"You're not going yet," cried Helen, seizing her arm. "I wanted to hear about—about—your father, and all the family."
"They're all well, thank you," was the unpromising reply, and Sybil made toward the door. But catching a glimpse of her pet's tear-dimmed eyes, she hesitated, and then explained:
"It's no use to hide it. We've had a stormy time at home this morning. I don't approve of it, and I never will. Only last night I thought—well, it's no matter what an old maid like me thought,—but now there's fury and all to pay. I wouldn't have believed there was so little sense in the world."
"What do you mean, Sybil? I can't understand a word you say."
"Well, I'll ask one plain question, though perhaps you'll think it's none of my business. Why didn't you tell me about Roswell Edmond Tracy! There? I've done it; and I am not sorry either," as Helen's face grew crimson. "I took you to be a frank girl, and I would have set your truthfulness against the world."
She twitched her hand from her companion and walked off stiffly down the avenue.
Before Helen, astonished beyond measure by her words and actions, could recover herself, the woman was almost out of sight.
"What can it mean? I'll go right down to the parsonage and find out," was the young lady's first resolution. But after what had occurred the day before, she shrank from putting herself in the way of meeting Frederic. It belonged to him to seek an interview.
The rest of the morning she wandered about the house, wondering what could have occurred. By dinner time she had grown quite indignant, and resolved if her preserver (as she now designated him) came, she would not be at home to see him.
Nannie was dispatched to the farmer to procure a steady horse which she could drive to Mottville. And as soon as the conveyance was ready, she started away, telling Nurse she should not return till dark.
Her route led her directly past the parsonage. But she took pains to turn off through a lane which joined the main street again a few hundred rods past the house.
Her heart misgave her somewhat as she drove slowly by the spot where yesterday's danger and escape occurred.
"How differently I should have been employed now," she said to herself, "had not Frederic jeoparded his life for mine."
After this, she rode on speculating on Sybil's singular conduct. And from this, there arose another question which gave her so much pain that for the first time she became conscious of the strength of her attachment to her teacher. The question was this:
"Would Frederic's parents approve me for a daughter-in-law? Am I fit for a clergyman's wife?"
Conscience unhesitatingly answered, "No. Frederic is a warm-hearted, earnest Christian; and I am—what am I? If not for Christ, I am against him. I must take a stand somewhere."
THE YOUNG MISSIONARY.
IT was fortunate for the young girl that the horse was in reality what the owner had predicted, fit for a child's guidance. For while she was communing with her own heart, she took no heed to his steps.
"Let me see," she went on, "I must have faith, hope and charity. Have I faith? What is faith? Papa used to tell me I had faith in him, when I trusted him. The Bible says, 'faith is the substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things not seen.' I'm afraid I have not that faith in God which I have in some people. Mr. Knowles, for instance, I'm sure he loves me; and I would trust him even against the evidence of my senses.
"Oh, what a dreadful confession! Has not my heavenly Father proved that he watched over me with more than a father's love? How happy my lot is, compared with so many around me? Can not I have faith in him, and trust Jesus to save me? I will try from this very minute. It does not seem hard, but perhaps I do not understand it right.
"Hope comes next. It is natural for me to be hopeful. I never quite lost hope, even when I was at Mr. Tracy's. But this hope is different. If I trust in God, it will be right to hope that he will receive me at last, but then I must be sure that I do trust him. How can I tell? I will ask him to help me judge myself.
"Last of all comes charity. Without charity, the Bible says, I cannot be saved, though I give my body to be burned or bestow all my goods to feed the poor.
"I remember once papa had a letter from a clergyman with a beautiful description of these graces. 'Faith is trust in God. Hope is expectation that he will fulfil his promises to us, but charity is love, and love is likeness to God.'"
Large drops gathered in Helen's eyes. "I'm sure I have not love to everybody," was her mental ejaculation. "There is my guardian. I've always said I hated him. And when I think how ungratefully he has treated papa's last requests to him, I can scarcely hear his name without horror. Nothing that I can imagine would induce me to live with him again. No, I cannot be a Christian, I have not charity."
The thought grew more distressing every moment. Helen had been a child of praying parents, and the arguments she used in her self-examination proved that she had been carefully instructed in her duty to God.
There were other influences, too, which had produced their effect. It was impossible for any one, not wholly hardened, to live in intimate companionship as she had done, with such a family as her pastor's, without feeling that religion was the first thing to be desired.
By the time Helen had reached this painful conclusion, the horse had arrived at the top of the hill which overlooked the new village of Mottville. She pulled the rein and he stopped.
"What is the use," she asked herself, "of my collecting scholars into a class, if I cannot teach them to love the Saviour? And how can I teach them, if I do not love him myself?"
Her lip quivered, and her breast heaved convulsively. She was ready to sink with grief when the gracious Spirit who was watching over her, suggested the question:
"What hinders me from beginning to love Him now, right here, under these trees? God is everywhere; and he knows all the thoughts of my heart. He sees that I am sorry that I have lived so many years unmindful of all his goodness; yes, more sorry than I can tell; and that I really need his forgiveness. It seems to me I already begin to love him. How can I help it when I think of all he suffered for me?"
She clasped her hands together, and gazing up into the clear November sky, murmured:
"Dear Jesus, I do love you. I can ask the children to come to thee, for
I can tell them how sweet it is to be near thine arms."
A few minutes longer she sat there, her whole being filled with gratitude for this fresh token of God's favor. Memory reviewing the events of her past life, which now in the new light afforded her, seemed but one long history of her heavenly Father's love. In the bitterness of the parting from her papa, in the trials she endured at her guardian's, she realized that God, by his Spirit, was drawing her to himself, and preparing her for the work she believed he had now accomplished in her soul.
She was at last interrupted in her meditations by seeing that a carriage was rapidly ascending the hill, and would speedily pass her.
Jerking the reins, therefore, she spoke to the horse to go on, and then saying:
"Now for my scholars," tried to put her animal into a trot.
The carriage was what is called a beach wagon, a stylish looking turn-out with a black span, handsomely harnessed, driven at present by a dashingly dressed youth, apparently just entering his twenties.
He fixed a searching gaze upon the young girl from the time he approached near enough to see her, walking his horses for the purpose, and then turning to his companion, said, loud enough for Helen to hear:
"It's the heiress from Woodbine Cottage. I thought Dixon was bragging when he described her, but he hasn't told half."
"I wonder who he can be," was Helen's thought. "I think he is exceedingly impertinent."
But all unpleasant recollections were soon lost in the pleasure of her calls, some of which I shall describe.
A short distance from the factory stood a row of buildings, which, with their neatly painted fronts, and the green shades drawn partly down, presented quite an attractive appearance. Leaving her horse standing at the head of the narrow street, our young heroine went to the nearest door.
To her disappointment, there were only two children at home, the mother and oldest son being at work in the factory.
Helen sat down for a minute to talk with the children, and before she left, so much interested them in her now Sunday School, that they promised to beg their mother to allow them to go.
From this place she visited many families. Wherever she found either father or mother at home, they acknowledged the need of some school where their children could be taught. Some even requested permission to attend the school themselves saying:
"We shall grow to be heathen if we are left without any instruction."
"But where," she asked, "shall I find a room large enough?" And this she found would be her main difficulty.
A fleeting thought passed through her mind, that she would like to get funds from her guardian and build a small chapel where the school could be well accommodated, and where Frederic could occasionally preach. But while she was wondering what would be the cost, she came to another street, wider than the first with houses scattered here and there at quite a distance from the factory.
A little girl was running along the beaten path at the side of the road. And Helen, interested in her bright face, asked her if she would like to ride.
So far the young missionary had met with nothing but kindness and encouragement. But her faith was destined to meet a trial. After the child got out of the buggy, she knocked at a door and had a very pleasant interview with an old lady who told her that she had no children to send, but she should advise her son and daughter-in-law to let their little folks go. When Helen, greatly pleased at her interest, imparted her fear of not being able to procure a room, she answered heartily:
"You're welcome to this until you can get a better."
Then throwing open the door into a large bed-room, she said: "One of the classes can come in here, you see."
The young lady was delighted, and accepted the offer as cordially as it had been made.
"Who is your next neighbor?" she asked, preparing to leave.
"She's a hard one, Miss," answered the old lady, smiling, "but the more's the need of her being taught."
Encouraged, however, by her former success, Helen drove to the house nothing doubting.
Her low knock brought a woman to the door whose appearance of hardness and defiance caused the visitor's heart to beat most painfully. No human face could be more repulsive. The lines of discontent, sourness and gloom had deepened until they had become absolute deformities, and there she stood in the partly open door surveying the stranger in the most insolent manner.
"I am getting up a Sabbath School," began Helen, trying to smile, "and I called to invite your children."
"You may go away again, then, for no one belonging to me shall go inside the door of a church or Sunday School."
"We are going to meet for the present at the next house," Helen went on. "I'm sorry you wont let your children go," and she sighed audibly. "I love children, and I want to do them good."
She was turning away, but Mrs. Lane had by no means done with her.
"I know all about Sunday Schools," she burst out in an angry tone. "My oldest gal went once to the church three miles sway, and 'cause she wasn't dressed out in furbelows and flounces like the others, the children wouldn't speak to her. Sunday Schools are places to larn pride and loftiness, and hatred of poor folks; that's just what they are, and I want nothing to do with 'em."
Helen turned back and gazed in the woman's face.
Her cheeks glowed with anger; and as she stood with outspread arms, she reminded one of a virago.
"But," thought the visitor, "she has a soul to be saved, and she has young children under her direct influence. She is a hard case, but there must be some way to touch her heart. I wont give her up, I'll come again. It's no use to argue with her." So she quietly said:
"Good morning, Mrs. Lane. I'm very sorry you wont let me have the little ones."
"What good would it do you? Tell me that. Why don't you call me a liar and say I ought to larn manners, as the woman did who came to leave tracts? Have I frightened you?" And she laughed a hard, bitter, defiant laugh that chilled the hearer's blood.
"Shall I tell you what I was thinking?" Helen asked, softly.
"Yes, tell, if you have a mind. It's a free country, I s'pose."
"I was thinking how many trials you must have had to feel so unkindly to every one. And I was wondering whether anything I could do for you or yours could soften your feelings toward your fellow creatures."
To her astonishment the woman left her abruptly, and went into an inner room, shutting the door after her.
EXPLANATIONS.
IN leaving the house, Helen met the child who had rode with her. The little girl was not particularly attractive in appearance, but now her black eyes sparkled with pleasure, as she again saw the lady.
"Do you live here?" Helen inquired with a smile.
"Yes, ma'am; and I am coming to your school. If ma wont let me, I'll run off."
"Come right in, you dirty brat," screamed the mother, throwing up the window. "How dared you stay so when I sent you of an errand?"
The young missionary sighed repeatedly, as she drove away. "I'm afraid I can't do anything for them," was her sad reflection.
But on the whole, the results of her afternoon's labors were highly satisfactory; and she set out for home in an enviable state of mind.
"Shall I stop and tell Mr. Knowles about my mission?" she asked herself, as she approached the entrance to the lane.
There was no need of an answer, for there before her, walking dejectedly, with his head down, she saw her pastor.
Spurring up her horse, she speedily overtook him, and persuaded him to take a seat by her side.
"I have something splendid to tell you," she began, her face beaming with pleasure.
After she had repeated the incidents of the afternoon, the horse enjoying the opportunity to fall back into a walk, she put her hand lovingly into his arm, saying softly:
"There is something else I want to tell you about myself."
"Ah!" he exclaimed, starting a little, and disclosing an anxious face. "Well, my dear, anything that interests you—"
"I have begun to love the Saviour; and now I can tell the children what a precious Friend he is."
"That is indeed good news, the very best," he said, patting her hand to hide his own emotion.
"And only think," she went on, "I don't hate Mr. Tracy at all."
He started painfully at the name.
"I only pity him for being so selfish and grovelling. I wish I could do him good; or rather, I wish he could know in his own heart how much happier real religion would make him."
"My child, you delight me. Surely your Father rejoices over you, for we know that there is joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth."
"Will you tell Mrs. Knowles and the—the rest," faltered Helen. "Tell them I never knew what happiness, real happiness was before."
"I will, indeed, my dear child."
Helen was sitting at the tea table lingering over the meal, while nurse, with the freedom of a tried friend, sat in a rocking-chair near the window, talking over the events of the afternoon, when Sybil was seen coming up the avenue.
On entering the room, she kissed Helen, and said warmly, "I'm rejoiced at the good news. I've been on my feet all day, walked half over the parish, but I could not rest without coming to tell you how delighted we all are. I only wish your father were alive to be made glad. Stay, I've brought a piece of paper with me. It's from Frederic. I asked him to come along, but he thought it wasn't best, feared for his welcome, I suppose. Why, where is that document? I must have lost it on the road."
"Oh, Sybil! I hope not. Look in your pocket again."
"I have turned it inside out. See! It's gone, that's clear. Well, I do seem to have changed characters with somebody else. My head has been upside down ever since morning."
"I'm so sorry you've lost my note."
"'Tisn't worth grieving for, Helen, Frederic scribbled it off just as I was coming away: and he can write bushels more of such letters, if you are willing to spend your time reading them."
"To-morrow I shall expect you all here, as usual. I forgot to say so to Mr. Knowles."
"I wont forget it; but you mustn't be disappointed if Frederic isn't here. He is going away. I left him packing a box of books."
"Going away without bidding me good-by!" gasped the poor girl, seizing the back of a chair for support.
"It's a sudden thing, very. It's against my advice, too. I don't think it's a good plan to run away from trials. Stay where you are, Fred, and live them down, is what I told him."
"Sybil!" almost shrieked Helen, her eyes protruding, and her whole face white with terror, "tell me the truth, was Frederic bitten by that mad dog? Tell me quick!"
The woman laughed. "Not by a dog, child. He's bitten, though, no doubt about that. Don't look so frightened, dear, and don't ask me another question, for as sure as you do, I shall say something I ought not. There, kiss me good-night, for I must go."
"No, you must not. Wait till I've written a note, which you must carry safely."
She ran to her desk, and presently returned with a folded paper, containing these words:
"MY DEAR PRESERVER: If you cannot spare time to say good-by to one
whose life you so generously saved, I cannot let you go without saying
that as long as I live, I shall thank God for such a friend in my hour
of danger.
"HELEN JOSEPHINE EDMOND."
The next morning our young heroine had not left her chamber, when nurse brought her a note. She smiled as she recognized Sybil's peculiar chirography. The note was brief, and was as follows:
"DEAR HELEN: Father has been summoned to a family just beyond
Mottville. He wants you to ride there with him, directly after
breakfast. I think likely we shall go to Woodbine Cottage as usual, for
Frederic has postponed starting for a day or two.
"Your true friend,
"SYBIL KNOWLES."
"P. S. I send the note which I found safe where I put it, tied in the
corner of my handkerchief; but I was so flustrated yesterday I acted
like a fool."
Helen's cheeks grew rosy, as she impatiently tore open the neatly directed envelope and read:
"Yesterday, dear friend, I rejoiced over your life preserved from a
dreadful calamity. To-day and forever more, I shall rejoice and thank
God for a soul won to the Saviour. I am going away, perhaps we shall
never meet again, but the sweetest memories I carry with me are those
of hours spent with you."
"FREDERIC."
For a moment our heroine stood with hands clasped on her breast, her face blanched, her eyes fixed wildly on the opposite wall. But suddenly her features relaxed with a fixed resolve.
"Yes, I will," she energetically exclaimed. "I will. I have a right."
Presently her voice sounded over the banisters:
"Nurse! Nurse! Tell the messenger I'll be ready, and please bring my breakfast up on a waiter. I'm going to ride with Mr. Knowles."
Scarcely an hour later she was sitting close beside her pastor in his narrow buggy, jogging away toward Mottville.
"I'm very glad you sent for me," she began, resolved to speak while she had courage. "I want to ask you to explain something I don't understand."
The white-haired man smiled faintly, as he answered: "I have also some questions to put to you."
"There is nothing you can ask that it will not give me pleasure to answer," she said, earnestly, adding with an arch glance in his face, "I think you are already acquainted with all my secrets."
"The first question refers to your father's namesake, Roswell Tracy. I have had a letter from your guardian, with regard to a portion of your property, and have already forwarded it to your brother. But that is not the part which troubles me. In his son's behalf, Mr. Tracy makes you an offer of his hand and affections; and he says from the encouragement Roswell has always received, he hopes soon to welcome you as a daughter."
"Stop, my dear," as Helen suddenly seized his arm, "let me finish. When I was last in the city, I heard some statements about this young man that make me greatly fear for your future happiness, if you marry him. As the grateful friend of your dear father, I feel it my duty to tell you this."
"Mr. Knowles, I never did encourage Roswell. I told his father I despised his character. It is a plot to get my fortune. I am sure of it. I overheard father and son concerting it long ago. Mr. Tracy is an awful man. I hope I'm not wicked in saying so, but he is not one to give up a plan when he has set his heart upon it. But I never will consent, never. He may take every dollar I have, but I never will marry Roswell."
She ended her sentence with a burst of passionate tears.
"Don't, my dear. If that is the case, there is no occasion for tears. You have relieved me immensely."
Still the sobs did not cease, and at length came the explanation:
"Oh, Mr. Knowles! I'm afraid I'm not a Christian. I can't love Mr. Tracy; he is such an awful man."