II
The saving of Nellie Sherman became an intense and passionate purpose in Sara Wharton’s life. Day by day, hour by hour, she watched and fought and prayed. She invented (according to the most approved charity methods) work for the vain and shiftless child; she had her taught to sew; she was careful to provide plenty of bright and wholesome amusement for her; by and by Nellie felt yearnings to be a bookkeeper, and Sara Wharton sent her to a commercial school. “You can pay me back when you get work,” she said, as cheerfully as though she believed that Nellie was capable of feeling a money obligation. She entered Nellie’s name at her Girls’ Club; she took her to concerts, and sent her books, and planned and thought and hoped; and always, always prayed. Furthermore, she loved the girl. That is to say, she called it love; and perhaps it was, in its way; at least it was that greater love that is content to give and not receive. Sara gave her very self—her power, her charm, her sweet and generous enthusiasms—fully and freely into the little, mean hands that were held out to take all they could get. “Because,” she said to herself, again, “the only way to reach her is to love her. Love is the greatest thing in the world! I’ve no doubt I would have been just as bad as Nellie if I hadn’t had so much love.” This thought made the girl rise, and go and push her mother’s sewing aside, and kiss her, with a little half laughing break in her voice, and her eyes suddenly wet with tears.
“What is it? What is it?” Mrs. Wharton said breathlessly, adjusting her spectacles, which the impetuous embrace had disturbed; “is anything the matter, Sara?”
“No,” her daughter answered, with a laugh, winking away the tears, “I was just thinking how lucky I was to have you for a mother, you darling! If I’d had some cross old mother I should have been—I should have been a fiend! I haven’t a doubt of it. I’d have been just as wicked as poor Nellie Sherman.”
“Nothing of the sort!” retorted Mrs. Wharton, much ruffled; “please remember what kind of people your grand-parents on both sides were, and don’t say such unladylike things, Sara. Dear, dear, I don’t know what girls are coming to in these days. When I was young, young ladies didn’t know that such improper persons existed as your Nellie Sherman. I wish you would have nothing to do with her.”
Sara, on her knees beside the little, rosy, kindly lady, pulled her cap straight, and scolded her for making her forefinger rough with so much sewing.
“You are always making petticoats for poor people,” she said severely, “instead of talking to me about my winter clothes. I want a new dinner dress, ma’am, and you’ve got to buy it. I’ve used up all my allowance, and borrowed from father on the next quarter; so please help the deserving poor of your own household. Charity begins at home, let me tell you! Who is to have this petticoat?—while your own poor child is in want of a satin gown!”
“Well,” Mrs. Wharton said, with some confusion, “the fact is, Nellie looks so sickly I am afraid she is not warmly enough clad”—
Sara shrieked with laughter. “Consistency, thy name is Mother,” she cried; and began to pour out her plans for Nellie, which Mrs. Wharton amended several times, objecting to Sara’s assertion that Nellie should repay the money expended for her tuition at the commercial college.
“The poor thing will have so little money, anyhow,” she entreated. But Sara held to her theory.
“We’ll make it up in other ways,—petticoats, and things, but she must feel it a loan,” she said.
However, Miss Wharton’s theories were far too fine for the material with which she worked. When the three terms at the commercial college were over, Nellie was languidly grateful, but she doubted whether she should like bookkeeping; she was, however, willing to “give it a trial;” so Sara found a place in a shop for her, and, as the proprietor (another friend and dependent) could not pay the full wages, made up the sum herself. But it never occurred to Nellie to begin to pay her debt; and Sara, fearful of antagonizing the child, cast her theory to the winds, and did not suggest it.
So the first year passed. The anxious, courageous, artificial fight never flagged; and Nellie, for twelve months, was “straight.” There had been great expenditure of time and strength and money to save the little creature; and in a purely negative way the effort had been successful. Nellie was “straight.”
Yet Sara Wharton was sometimes dreadfully discouraged; she could not see a single large or noble trait in the girl, although it was her sweet and loving theory to believe in what she did not see.
“Goodness is there, somewhere!” she used to say to herself, with a beautiful and courageous belief which was part of her own character; and then she fell back on what she had called “the greatest thing in the world:” “Goodness is there, and I’ve got to love it out!” She took Nellie’s latent goodness for granted, especially in her effort to overcome the child’s enveloping selfishness. She was constantly trying to make her realize the happiness of sacrifice.
“Nellie,” she said once, “now that you’ve got your place as bookkeeper, and are earning some money, of course you want to pay me; but I think, even before that, you must want to pay for your board at your aunt’s. She has been so good to you, you know; and I’m sure you’ll be glad to help her along a little?”
“Oh, certainly!” Nellie replied, with a blank look.
“How much do you think you can pay?” Sara suggested cheerfully.
“Well, just now,” Nellie demurred, “I really have to have a new dress; perhaps, later, I can give her a little something.”
Sara looked at her wistfully. “Don’t you want to, Nellie? I should think your very first thought would be to do something for her. Just think what she has done for you!”
“Of course, I mean to,” Nellie said, tossing her head, “but I’ve got to have a dress—and things.”
“If only,” Sara reflected, “she could once understand how awfully nice it is to give!” and then she planned that every Saturday Nellie might come to the greenhouse and get some roses from the gardener,—“and take them to the hospital. It is delightful to do that!” she said. And Nellie smiled faintly, and said, “Oh, certainly;” but only came once for the flowers.
Nevertheless, Nellie Sherman had been “rescued.” Almost the same sort of rescue would have been achieved if Sara had fastened her into a strait-jacket and locked her into a room. But with Miss Wharton on one side, and her aunt on the other, day and night, the strange, boneless, unmoral little nature “kept straight;” and in a glimmering way the girl even began to see that there were certain views which were thought admirable, and once in a while she tried them on, as it were, and regarded herself in the mirror of Miss Wharton’s warm and joyous approbation.
“I was so sorry not to see you at the club last night, Nellie,” Sara said to her one day, dropping in to buy a pair of gloves at the shop where Nellie kept the books.
“My aunt wasn’t well,” said Nellie, “and I stayed at home to take care of her.” Such a light came into Sara Wharton’s sweet face, such tenderness and triumph and quick hope, that Nellie looked at her curiously.
“That was right, Nellie, dear,” she said; “I’m so glad you did it. I’m so glad,” she repeated, and went away, her eyes misty and her heart lifted up. She could not help going in to see Mrs. Sherman, making the excuse of bringing her some fruit because she was ill, but really to share her exultation.
“Sick?” said Mrs. Sherman, “why, no, ma’am, I’m not sick, no more than I always am with worry about that there Nellie. She didn’t come home from the club last night until after eleven, and I was scared to death for fear she’d gone off with them Caligan girls—they’re fast girls, that’s what they are; and she’s struck up a great friendship with ’em. My, she’ll worry me into my grave, Nellie will. But she said you’d kept her late to help you putting away the club books,—and of course that was all right.”