What She Could

CHAPTER VII

It was tea-time at home by the time they got there. All during the meal, Maria held forth upon the adventures of the afternoon, especially the last.

"Mamma, those people are somebody," she concluded.

"I hope I am somebody," said Mrs. Englefield.

"Oh but you know what I mean, mamma."

"I am not clear that I do."

"And I, Maria, – am I not somebody?" her aunt asked.

"Well, we're all somebody, of course, in one sense. Of course we're not nobody."

"I am not so sure what you think about it," said Mrs. Candy. "I think that in your language, who isn't somebody is nobody."

"Oh, well, we're somebody," said Maria. "But if you could see the splendid bunch of jewels that hung at Mrs. Laval's breast, you would know I say the truth."

"Now we are getting at Maria's meaning," observed Clarissa.

"I have no bunch of jewels hanging at my breast," said Mrs. Englefield; "if that is what she means by 'somebody.'"

"How large a bunch was it, Maria?" her aunt asked.

"And is it certain that Maria's eyes could tell the true from the false, in such a matter as a bunch of jewellery?" suggested Clarissa. "They have not had a great deal of experience."

Maria fired up. "I just wish you could see them for yourself!" she said. "False jewels, indeed! They sparkle like flashes of lightning. All glittering and flashing, red and white. I never saw anything so beautiful in all my life. And if you saw the rest of the dress, you would know that they couldn't be false jewels."

"What sort of a face had she?"

"I don't know, – handsome."

"The bunch of jewels dazzled Maria's eyes," said Clarissa, sipping her tea.

"No, not handsome, Maria," Matilda said.

"Well, not handsome exactly, but pleasant. She had curls, and lightish hair; but her dress was so handsome, it made her look handsome. She took a terrible fancy to Matilda."

"Matilda is the youngest," said her mother.

"It was thanks to Matilda we got into the house at all; and Matilda had the flowers. Nobody spoke of giving me any flowers."

"Well, you know you do not care for them," interposed Matilda.

"Mamma, those people are somebody – I can tell you!"

"You speak as if there were nobody else in Shadywalk, Maria, that is anybody."

"Well, Aunt Candy, I don't know any people like these."

"Maria, you talk nonsense," said her mother.

"Mamma, it is just what Aunt Erminia would say herself, if she knew the people."

"What makes anybody 'somebody,' I should like to know? and what do you mean by it? Am I nobody, because I cannot wear red and white jewels at my throat?"

"It wasn't at her throat at all, mamma; it was just here – on her waist."

"A bouquet de corsage," said Clarissa. "The waist, as you call it, is at the belt."

"Well, I am not a mantua-maker," said Maria.

"No more than we are somebody," said Mrs. Candy.

"Well, you know what I mean," said Maria; "and you all think exactly the same. There is nobody else in Shadywalk that dresses so, or that has such flowers, or that has such a house."

"Who are they, these people that she talks of?" Mrs. Candy asked.

"They have lately bought the place. I know nothing about them. They were here for a little while in the summer; but only to turn everything upside down in the house and grounds, and make changes. I cannot imagine what has brought them here, to the country, in the depth of winter. They had nothing to do with anybody in Shadywalk, that I know of. Perhaps they will, now they have got in order. I believe they have lived out of America a good deal."

"Is that what you mean by 'somebody,' Maria?" her aunt asked. "Perhaps I am 'somebody,' according to that."

Maria's thoughts would not bear to be spoken, it seemed, for she did not speak them; and it must be a strong reason that kept Maria's opinions to herself. However, the family found something else to talk about, and Mrs. Laval was not mentioned again till Maria and Matilda went up to bed. Then Matilda had something to say.

"Maria," she began with judicial gravity, "what was that Mrs. Laval gave us to drink?"

"I don't know," said Maria; "but it was the best thing I ever tasted in all my life. It was some sort of wine, I guess; it was strong enough. But it was sweet; oh, it was nice!"

"And you drank it!"

"I guess I did! I only wished there was more of it."

"But, Maria! – "

"Well, what, 'Maria'?"

"You promised, Maria, that you would do all you could for temperance work."

"What then? I could not do anything for temperance there, child. As Mrs. Laval said."

"You needn't have drunk the wine."

"Why shouldn't I? Mrs. Laval gave it to me; I couldn't be rude."

"But that is not keeping your promise."

"I made no promise about it. I could do nothing in the world for temperance there, Tilly. What would Mrs. Laval care for anything I should say?"

"But, Maria!" said her little sister, looking puzzled and troubled at once – "you cannot drink wine in one place, and try to hinder people from drinking it in another place."

"Why can't I? It all depends on the place, Tilly, and the people."

"And the wine, I suppose," said Matilda, severely.

"Yes!" said Maria, boldly, "I dare say, if all wine was like that, Mr. Richmond would have no objection to it."

"I don't see, Maria," said her sister, "what you made those promises for the other night. I think you ought not to have got up at all; it was the same as speaking; and if you do not mean to keep promises, you should not make them."

"And what have you got to do with it?" said Maria in her turn. "You did not stand up with the rest of us; you have no business to lecture other people that are better than yourself. I am going to keep all the promises I ever made; but I did not engage to go poking into Mrs. Dow's wash kitchen, nor to be rude to Mrs. Laval; and I don't mean to do the one or the other, I give you notice."

Matilda drew another of the long breaths that had come so many times that afternoon, and presently remarked that she was glad the next meeting of the Band would come in a few days.

Maria sharply inquired, "Why?"

"Because," said Matilda, "I hope Mr. Richmond will talk to us. I don't understand about things."

"Of course you don't!" said Maria; "and if I were you I would not be so wise, till I did 'understand.'"

Matilda got into bed, and Maria sat down to finish putting the braid on her dress.

"Tilly, what are you going to get with your twenty-five dollars?"

"I don't know yet."

"I don't know whether I shall get a watch, or a dress, like Anne; or something else. What would you?"

"I don't know."

"What are you going to get with your money, Matilda?"

"I can't tell, Maria. I know what I am going to do with part; but I don't know what I am going to do with the other part."

Maria could get no more from her.

Nothing new happened in the family before the evening came for what Maria called the "Band meeting." Matilda went about between home and the school extremely quiet and demure, and reserved rather more than ordinary; but reserve was Matilda's way. Only Maria knew, and it irritated her, that her little sister was careful to lock herself up alone with her Bible, or rather with somebody else's Bible, for Matilda had none of her own, for a good long time every morning and evening. Maria thought sometimes she knew of her doing the same thing at the noon recess. She said nothing, but she watched. And her watching made her certain of it. Matilda unlocked her door and came out always with a face of quiet seriousness and a spirit in armour. Maria could not provoke her (and she tried); nor could any other temptations or difficulties, that she could see, shake a certain steady gentleness with which Matilda went through them. Matilda was never a passionate child, but she had been pleasure-loving and wayward. That was changing now; and Matilda was giving earnest care to her school-work.

The desired evening for the "Band meeting" came, and the young people all went duly to the lecture-room; though Maria reminded her sisters that they did not belong there. Letitia and Anne chose to go in spite of that fact. The room, though not full, was filled towards the upper end; so the party were divided, and it happened that Matilda placed herself apart from her sisters, in the front, at the end of a seat near to Mr. Richmond. He was there already, standing by the little desk.

After the prayer and singing, Mr. Richmond declared that they were come together for a talk; and he meant to make it a talk. He should ask questions when he chose, and everybody else might exercise the same liberty.

"We are going to try to understand things," he said; "and by that somewhat vague expression I mean things connected with our covenant that we have made, and the work we have undertaken. Our covenant begins with the words, 'We are the servants of Christ.' Let us know exactly what we mean. What is it to be a servant of Christ? What is a servant, in the first place?"

There was hesitation; then an answer from somewhere, – "He is somebody who does what he is told."

"That would be a good servant," said Mr. Richmond, smiling; "but it will do. He is one who acts under the will of another, doing the work of another. A servant of Christ – what does he do? – and how does he do it?"

There was no answer this time.

"Let us look," said Mr. Richmond. "In the first verse of the first chapter of his Epistle to the Romans, Paul calls himself a servant of Jesus Christ; and in the ninth verse he says that he serves 'with his spirit.' Here is a mark. The service of Christ, you see, is in the first instance, not outward but inward. Not hand work, nor lip work, nor money giving; but service in the spirit. What is that?

"It is having your will the same with God's will.

"So now look and see. We all pledged ourselves the other night to do a great many sorts of outward service; good in themselves, and right and needful to do. But the first question is, Are we ourselves the servants of Christ? Do we in heart love and obey and agree to His will? If we are not doing that, or trying to do it, our other service is no service at all. It is a lie, and no service at all. Or it is service of ourselves."

Mr. Richmond paused a little.

"I have no reason to think that any of you did not mean true service, when the pledge was given the other night. So now let us see how this true service shows itself.

"Jesus said, you remember, 'If any man serve me, let him follow me.' All we have to ask is, How did the Lord himself walk, that we should follow Him? I recommend you to study the story of His life very carefully and very constantly, and be continually getting new lessons from it. But now let us look just at one or two points.

"Jesus said, 'As long as I am in the world, I am the Light of the world.' Has he commanded us to be anything like that?"

One of the boys answered, "Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven."

"How can our light shine?"

"Doing good," another boy answered.

"Being good," said one of the girls.

"Very well; but what is there in doing and being good which has any resemblance to light? What does light do?"

"It shows things," a boy said.

"There's no darkness where the light comes," said a little girl.

"Quite true; but how does our doing good and being good, 'show things'? What does it show?"

After a little hesitation a voice replied, "It shows what is right."

"It shows what people ought to do," a boy said.

"It shows what is the will of God about us," said Mr. Richmond; "and the more exactly we are obedient to that will and conformed to it, the more brightly do we give light. And do you see? our light-giving depends on what we are. We give no light, except just so far as we are ourselves what God wills us to be. And then it shines out in all sorts of ways. I knew a little girl whose eyes were like two pure lamps, always; they were so loving and clear and true. I have known several people whose voices gave light as much as harmony; they were so sweet with the tones of a glad heart and a conscience at peace. I have seen faces that shone, almost like angel faces, with the love of God and the joy of heaven and the love of their fellow-men. Now this is the first thing the Lord calls us to be in His service – His light-bearers. The light comes from Him; we must get it from Him; and then we must shine! And of course our actions give light too, if they are obedient to the will of God. A boy who keeps the Sabbath holy is almost as good as a sermon to a boy who doesn't. One who refuses to touch the offered glass of wine, shows the light to another who drinks it. A loving answer shames a harsh spirit; and a child faithful to her duties at school is a beacon of truth to her fellows.

"There is one thing more; and then I will talk to you no longer this evening. Jesus said, 'The Son of man is come to seek and to save that which is lost.' His servants must follow Him. Now, how much are you willing to do, – how far are you willing to go, – to accomplish what He came, and lived, and died for? and how will you set about it?"

There was a long silence here; until Mr. Richmond urged that an answer should be given. Then at last somebody suggested —

"Bringing new scholars to school?"

"That is one thing to be done, certainly; and a very good thing. What else can we attempt? Remember, – it is to seek and to save the lost!"

"We might carry tracts," another suggested.

"You might; and if they are good tracts, and given with a kind word, and followed with a loving prayer, they will not be carried in vain. But to whom will you take them, Frank?"

"Might take them to the boys in the school," Frank thought.

"Where else?"

"Might drop 'era around the corner," Mrs. Rice said.

"Don't drop them anywhere, where it is possible to give them," Mr. Richmond replied. "Do not ever be, or seem, ashamed of your wares. Give lovingly to almost anybody, and the gift will not be refused, if you choose the time and place wisely. Take people when they are alone, as much as you can. But the lost, remember. Who are the lost?"

Silence; then a voice spoke —

"People who don't come to church."

"It is a bad sign when people do not come to church," said Mr. Richmond. "Still we may not make that an absolute test. Some people are sick and unable to come; some are deaf and unable to hear if they did come; some are so poor they have not decent clothes. Some live where there are no churches. Who are the lost?"

"People who are not going to heaven," one little girl answered.

"People who are not good," another said.

"People who swear," said a boy.

"Those people who do not love Jesus Christ," was the answer of the fourth.

"That sums it all up," said Mr. Richmond. "Those who do not know the Lord Jesus. They are out of the way to heaven; they have never trusted in His blood for forgiveness; they are not good, for they have not got His help to make them good; and if they do not swear and do other dreadful things, it is only because the temptation is wanting. They are the lost. Now, does not every one of you know some friend or acquaintance who is a lost one? some brother or sister perhaps; or mother or father, or cousin or neighbour, who does not love Jesus the Lord? Those are the very first people for us to seek. Then, outside of those nearest ones, there is a whole world lost. Let us go after all, but especially those who have few to look after them."

"It is harder to speak to those you know, than to those you don't know," Mrs. Trembleton said.

"No matter. Jesus said, 'He that taketh not his cross and followeth after me, cannot be my disciple.' Let us go to the hardest cases."

"Are not tracts best to use with them?" Mrs. Swan asked.

"Use tracts or not, according to circumstances. Your own voice is often better than a tract, if it has the right ring to it. When

''Tis joy, not duty,To speak His beauty.'

Speak that as often and wherever you can. And 'whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.' Now I have done asking questions, and you may ask me whatever you like. It is your turn."

Mr. Richmond sat down.

But the silence was unbroken.

"I am here to answer questions, remember. Has no one anything to ask? Has no one found any difficulty to be met, and he does not know just how to meet it? Has no one found something to be done, and he does not know just who is to do it? Speak, and tell everything. Now is the time."

Silence again, and then a little boy said —

"I have found a feller that would like, I guess, to come to Sunday-School; but his toes is out o' his shoes."

"Cannot he get another pair?" Mr. Richmond asked gravely.

"I guess not, sir."

"Then it is a case for the 'Aid and Comfort' committee," said Mr. Richmond. "Who is the head of your department? Who is chief of those who are looking up new scholars?"

"John Depeyster."

"Very well. Tell John Depeyster all about your little boy and his toes, and John will go to the head of the relief committee – that is, Miss Forshew – and she will see about it. Very well, Everett; you have made a good beginning. Who is next?"

"I would like to know," said Miss Forshew, in a small voice, "where the relief committee are to get supplies from? If new shoes are to be bought, there must be funds."

"That is the very thing the relief committee undertook, I thought," said Mr. Richmond. "Must there be some scheme to relieve them first? Your business abilities can manage that, Miss Forshew, or I am mistaken in them. But, dear friends, we are not going to serve Christ with that which costs us nothing – are we?"

"Mr. Richmond," said Ailie Swan, "may temperance people drink cider?"

The laughter was universal now.

"Because," said Ailie, unabashed, "I was talking to a boy about drinking it; and he said cider was nothing."

"I have seen some cider which was more than negative in its effects," said Mr. Richmond. "I think you were right Ailie. Cider is only the juice of apples, to be sure; but it gets so unlike itself once in a while, that it is quite safe to have nothing to do with it."

"Mr. Richmond," said another girl, "what are you to do if people are rude?"

"The Bible says, 'A soft answer turneth away wrath,' Mary."

"But suppose they will not listen to you?"

"Be patient. People did not always listen to the Master, you remember."

"But would you try again?"

"If I had the least chance. We must not be afraid of 'taking the wind on our face,' as an old writer says. I would try again; and I would pray more for them. Did you try that, Mary?"

"No, sir."

"Don't ever hope to do anything without prayer. Indeed, we must look to God to do all. We are nothing. If anything is to be accomplished for the service of Christ by our hands, it must be by God's grace working through us and with us; no other way. The power is His, always. So whatever you do, pray, and hope in God, not in yourself."

"Mr. Richmond," said Frances Barth, "I do not understand about 'carrying the message.' What does it mean?"

"You know what the message is? We are commanded to preach the gospel to every creature."

"But how can we do it? – people who are not ministers?"

"It is not necessary to get up into a pulpit to preach the gospel."

"No, sir; but – any way, how is one to 'carry the message'?"

"First, I would say, be sure that you have a message to carry."

"I thought you just said, Mr. Richmond, that the gospel is the message?" said Mrs. Trembleton.

"It is the material of the message; but you know it must be very differently presented to different people."

"I know; but how can you tell?"

"As I said, be sure that you have a message to carry. Let your heart be full of some thought, or some truth, which you long to tell to another person, or long that another person should know. Then ask the Lord to give you the right word for that person; and ask Him to let His power go along with it."

"Then one's own heart must be full first," said another lady, Mrs. Barth, thoughtfully.

"It should be. And it may be."

"One has so little time to give to these things," said Mrs. Trembleton.

"Shall we serve the Lord with that which costs us nothing?" again said Mr. Richmond. But he did not prolong the conversation after that. He gave out a hymn and dismissed the assembly.

Matilda being quite in the front, was some distance behind her sisters in coming out. As she passed slowly down the aisle, she came near two of her little acquaintances in one of the seats, who were busily talking.

"It would be so nice!" she heard the one say to the other.

"Where shall we do it?"

"There's no place at our house."

"No more there isn't at mine. There are so many people about all over. Where can we go?"

"I'll tell you. Mr. Ulshoeffer has this place nice and warm long before Sunday-School time, on Sundays; let us come here. We could come awhile before the time, you know; and it would be so nice. Nobody would interrupt us. Oh, there's Matilda Englefield – Matilda, won't you come too? Oh, I forgot; you are not one of the Band."

"Yes, I am," said Matilda.

"Why, you didn't rise the other night when we all rose. I looked over at you to see."

"I gave Mr. Richmond my name afterwards."

"Oh, did you! oh, that's good. Now, Matilda, wouldn't you like to come with Mary and me?"

"What are you going to do?"

"Why, Mary said she would like to begin and read the Life of Jesus, you know, to see how He did live; if we are to follow Him, you know; and I said I would like it too; and we're going to do it together. And we're coming here Sundays, before time for Sunday-School, to have a good quiet place where nobody can trouble us. Don't you want to come too, Matilda?"

"Yes. But other people will find it out and come too."

"We'll lock the door; till it is time for the people to come to Sunday-School, you know."

"But I don't believe we can get in, Ailie," said Mary Edwards. "I guess Mr. Ulshoeffer keeps the door locked himself."

"I know he does; but I know Regina Ulshoeffer, and she'll get leave for us and get the key. I know she will. Then we'll come, won't we? Good-night! Bring your Testament, Tilly!"

The little group scattered at the lecture-room door, and Matilda ran after her party. They were far ahead; and when she caught up with them they were deep in eager talk, which was almost altercation. Matilda fell behind and kept out of it and out of hearing of it, till they got home.

"Well!" said Mrs. Candy, as they entered the parlour, "what now? You do not look harmonious, considering. What have you had to-night?"

"An impossible sort of enthusiasm, mamma," said Clarissa, as she drew off her handsome furs.

"Impossible enthusiasm!" repeated Mrs. Candy.

"What has Mr. Richmond been talking about?" asked Mrs. Englefield.

"Why, mamma," said Letitia, "we are all to spend our lives in feeding sick people, and clothing lazy people, and running after the society of wicked people, as far as I can make out; and our money of course goes on the same plan. I advise you to look after Maria and Matilda, for they are just wise enough to think it's all right; and they will be carrying it into practice before you know where you are."

"It is not so at all!" began Maria, indignantly. "It is nothing like that, mamma. You know Mr. Richmond better."

"I think I know you better, too. Look where your study books were thrown down to-day when you came from school. Take them away, before you do anything else or say anything more."

Maria obeyed with a gloomy face.

"Do you approve of Mr. Richmond, Aunt Marianne?" Clarissa asked. "If so, I will say no more; but I was astonished to-night. I thought he was a man of sense."

"He is a man of sense," said Mrs. Englefield; "but I always thought he carried his notions rather far."

"Why, aunt, he would make missionaries and colporteurs and sisters of charity of us all. Sisters of charity are a magnificent institution, of course; but what would become of the world if we were all sisters of charity? And the idea! that everybody is to spend his whole time and all his means in looking up vagrants and nursing fever cases! I never heard anything like it in my life. That, and doing the work of travelling Methodists!"