A HERO, OR A HEROINE?
CHAPTER VIII.
THE LION'S DEN.
Dr. James invited Margaret to visit "the shop," and one day, after returning a few calls in Sealing, she stopped, with her aunt, on their way home, at a plain brown house in the one street of Shellbeach. There were two square pieces of green, one on each side of the front door, shut in with a brown fence; the small door seemed quite covered up, for, besides a large shining knocker in the middle, there was above it a brass plate, on which was inscribed "Dr. James," in large letters. There also appeared a small bell on one side, and another opposite labelled "night-bell." Which of these advantages to improve, was at first rather a puzzle to Margaret; but her aunt settled the question by giving a smart pull to the right-hand bell, whence she concluded that the knocker, on which she had meditated an attack, was intended solely for unprofitable ornament.
A tall and thin young man, who had the appearance of having outgrown all his clothes, opened the door with a promptness which seemed to imply that he had been lying in wait for the favorable moment to pounce upon them, and which was a little startling to the ladies. He surveyed them both with interest, explained that the doctor was not at home, but was expected in, and proposed that they should walk into the parlor and wait. Having ushered them into that apartment, the youth discreetly withdrew.
"My dear aunt, what a forlorn room! And do you see the dust?"
Miss Spelman shook her head in a mournful manner, and proceeded to establish herself on a black horsehair couch, (having first gently flapped it with her handkerchief,) while Margaret walked about from one thing to another, commenting and criticising.
"This is where he sits to write, I suppose. And if here isn't a family of three little kittens curled up in his arm-chair! I hope he won't mistake them for a cushion, that's all! What piles of books! Medicine, medicine, medicine! Oh! here is something of a different kind; poetry! who would have imagined it? Shelley, Longfellow, Tennyson. How many nice things! This bookcase is filled with treasures. The dust can't get in there, that's a comfort! And this is a family portrait, I suppose; a lady with one, two, three, six children. How funny and old-fashioned it is! Here are his pipe and smoking-cap; oh! do see these funny skin slippers;" and she balanced one on each hand. "How I would like to rummage here! Oh! there are sleigh-bells." And Margaret established herself, prim and proper, in one of the hard, straight-backed chairs just as Dr. James entered. He gave them a pleasant welcome, and conducted them at once into "the shop."
"It's a good time to look about here," he observed, "while John is gone with the mare. The shop is his especial sanctum, and I think he regards visitors as interlopers."
There was no dust to be seen in that room; every thing was scrubbed and brushed till it shone, and absolute neatness reigned.
"This does not look to me like a shop," said Margaret.
"I can't say I deal in 'slippery-ellum,' 'stick-licorish,' and 'gum-arrabac-drops,'" replied the doctor; "if you want the real name, this is a dispensary on a small scale. You see, I have no faith in Mr. Creamer, in Sealing, further than for simple doses. You might buy essence of peppermint or tincture of rhubarb of him, to great advantage; but as for compounding pills and powders, I prefer to attend to those myself. Then it is a convenience to some of my patients, who can make a visit to the doctor and obtain their remedies at one and the same time."
At these words, Miss Spelman gave her niece a little nudge, as they stood side by side, and looked, as the saying is, volumes; but Margaret did not understand, and wondered what her aunt could mean.
"And who is John?" she asked.
"Oh! John is my factotum; as much a part of myself as the shop is. You see he stays here when I am away, and goes on errands; he keeps every thing nice, and can be trusted with simple prescriptions; in return for which, I impart to him a little medical knowledge; so we stand both amicably in each other's debt, which leads to an excellent understanding between us."
Again Margaret felt herself gently poked; but being as completely in the dark as ever, she was forced to wait for an explanation till a future time. They admired all the arrangements, till John's return, when the doctor led them back into the parlor, where, the fire having been stirred up and the curtains drawn so as to admit the sun, the aspect of things was more cheerful. Margaret once more admired the kittens and books, and accepted the doctor's offer to lend from the latter, by borrowing Miss Procter's poems, in blue and gold, which she espied on a high shelf.
On their drive homeward, Margaret said,
"Why did you punch me, Aunt Selina? Was I misbehaving?"
"No, indeed! I only wanted you to notice what the doctor was saying. What was it?"
"The first time was when he said his patients could visit him and get their remedies at the same time."
"Yes, just his benevolence. Those are his poor patients, you see, for whom he has set up that dispensary; he gives them advice and medicine free."
"But then he must have money."
"So he has, a little; but he uses up every cent and more; for he sends some to his mother and sister, and takes ever so much care of the poor for miles around."
"But he must have fees from his rich patients; you told me he was as popular at Sealing as here."
"Certainly they pay him; but he does not encourage a large practice in Sealing, for there is a very good doctor living there, with a wife and family. So though Dr. James visits a few patients in Sealing, they are almost all people who used to live here, and are now not willing to give him up. But his fees could not begin to enable him to do all he does, if he had not something of his own."
"The second time you admonished me was when he spoke of his boy."
Miss Spelman laughed contemptuously.
"It was exactly like him to speak as if that matter was a give-and-take affair! The fact is, the boy's mother, a widow, took it into her head, like all mothers, that her son was something remarkable, and ought to be sent to college; of course without a penny to do it with. She disclosed her mind to Dr. James, and the end of it was, that he has taken him clean off her hands, gives him a nice little salary for the work he does in the dispensary, and is educating him, besides, to be a first-rate physician; and I suppose when the doctor goes away from this town, young Richards will just step into his place and have it all his own way. I know all this, you see, because I know the mother. The doctor never breathed a word of it, you may be sure; but she told me all about it. And this is what Dr. James calls a mutual-benefit society, or something of the sort."
Margaret laughed; but she was not disposed to praise or admire the doctor, chiefly because she was aware that her aunt expected and wished her to do so. She listened attentively, however, to this, and as much more information as Miss Spelman chose to volunteer about her favorite, now and then putting in a doubtful question, or slightly depreciatory remark, which only elicited fresh praises; until sometimes the little lady would dimly perceive the game her niece was playing, and retire into silence and dignity.
CHAPTER IX.
STUDY OF HUMAN NATURE.
A month had gone, Margaret was astonished to find how quickly. She was contented and happy; interested, too, in her various occupations, and, except for missing Jessie's sympathy and companionship, feeling no regret for her former life. Such a state of things would have been impossible, had she not been utterly wearied with the whirl of gayety and the accumulation of engagements which seemed to her unavoidable while she remained in New York. But the complete change was reviving to her, and, as she said, she had taken up the study of human nature, which really meant that she had become interested in one person, and that person was Dr. James. She saw him a good deal; for he came freely to Miss Spelman's house, he had taken her sleigh-riding, accompanied her on expeditions in search of coasting or skating, played chess with her, and lent her books.
Since that occasion, on their first drive to Sealing, when "the mistress of a poor man's household" had been alluded to, that ideal person was frequently spoken of with considerable enjoyment of the joke by both parties, and once Margaret had asked him outright, what he would consider necessary accomplishments in such a person.
"I don't know that a poor doctor's wife would differ from the wife of any other poor man," he had answered her. "I have in my mind a woman not afraid of work, not requiring amusement nor excitement, able to do her own work; you see I say able—not that I would object to her having a servant, or perhaps two; but she should understand and be able to explain and direct all the domestic arrangements of the house. She should wait on herself; therefore her dress should be plain and simple. Especially should she know how to cook and sew, to market well, and to be considerate and cheerful to her servants. Then, as concerns my professional business, I should think a slight acquaintance with simple medicines and remedies, and where they are kept in the shop, in case of emergency, would be useful; fortitude to bear the sight of, and even to suffer, pain and sickness, so as to set a good example; and, to sum up, a cool head, a steady hand, and presence of mind."
When Dr. James had ended this minute description, he was struck by the extent of his requirements; and as Margaret's eye met his, they both laughed heartily, and though at the time she made no comment on his ideal poor man's wife, she often alluded to her virtues afterward, before other people, who, of course, could not understand what she meant, while the doctor, she was delighted to see, was slightly embarrassed and at a loss for a reply.
Margaret had seen a little of the Sealing society at a few tea-parties, which aimed at being so genteel that they were insufferably stiff and drowsy. Margaret longed to do something to wake up the young men, who, dressed in their best, with the stiffest of collars and the most surprising cravats, sat with folded hands and feet placed close together, helplessly, just where they happened to be put, without daring to do more than assent in as few words as possible to the stream of conversation kept up by the ladies, who seemed to consider it the business of the evening to entertain them. She very nearly proposed "blind-man's buff" on one occasion, but her courage failed her at the last moment; she thought it would be a hopeless undertaking to attempt to infuse life and activity into such frozen figures. At last, one young woman, named Mary Searle, gave a small party, and had the independence to propose playing games; and when Margaret warmly seconded the movement, and set the example by suggesting "fox and geese," she was astonished to behold every body become at once natural and merry. The young men were metamorphosed, forgot their feet and hands, and performed wonders of agility. It dawned upon Margaret that all this restraint must have been occasioned wholly by her presence, and she did her best to dispel all respect for "city ways" by showing that she could romp with the merriest. The evening ended with a Virginia-reel, and from that time the ice was broken, and Margaret saw the people in their pleasantest light—without affectation, simple, kindly, and cheerful. But of "society" she saw little; the Sealing young ladies complained that she was not "sociable," though when they were with her they got on very well; she said she was "too busy" to visit much, and so managed to keep a good deal to herself.
Of Martha Burney, however, she saw a good deal, and before long made an arrangement to drive her every morning to her school. The Marchioness had come, and Margaret had hired a little sleigh for her own use and pleasure.
"You see I have to get up early now, for my drive with Miss Burney," she explained to the doctor; for she was anxious that he should not think she was trying to please him. After leaving her companion, who returned in the afternoon by the cars, she sometimes stopped for her organ lesson, and sometimes came directly home, where she practised, or shut herself up to study Latin. This latter, however, was a secret. The day she visited Dr. James's dispensary, she had noticed Latin names on his jars and vials, and had then and there decided in her own mind that some acquaintance with Latin would be indispensable to "a poor doctor's wife." So she had bought a dictionary, grammar, and one or two Latin books, and now worked laboriously in private, every day, while in the afternoons she walked, drove, or read with her aunt.
CHAPTER X.
AN AWAKENING.
One Sunday evening, Dr. James was sitting in Miss Spelman's pleasant parlor; she was dozing in her chair by the fire, and Margaret sat on a little sofa near her. There had come a long pause, such as very often came on Sunday evenings, and on this occasion the doctor had been more abstracted and inattentive than usual. He sat by the table in an arm-chair, studying the fire with a troubled face, and Margaret watched him and wondered what was wrong. At last he started and said, as their eyes met,
"Miss Lester, pardon me. I believe I am very rude; I have a good deal on my mind, and when you stop speaking, my thoughts go off to something I cannot forget."
He paused a moment, and then, before she could answer him, went on. "They talk about a doctor's becoming callous, and indifferent to pain and suffering; I wish it were more true! Of course there are certain things which, when we have seen them borne well and bravely by some, we expect others to meet in the same way, and so seem unfeeling and unsympathizing when folks make a great fuss about them.
"When, however, I see people really suffering and in want, it makes me sick at heart, and I cannot forget it. There is a family a couple of miles out of the east end of this town who are in great trouble, and I don't see what can help them out of it." He stopped abruptly and stared at the fire again.
"Dr. James, do you suppose I am not interested? Go on quickly, and tell me the rest; for perhaps I can help these poor people."
He looked at her earnestly and continued,
"The husband is a shoemaker; a good fellow, though thriftless. It is the old story; want of work, a sick wife, a large family, rent due, and the wolf at the door. I have been to several people; but money seems very scarce just now, and more is needed than I can raise for them. My own funds are very low, and some kind people suggest the poor-house at Sealing for them; but that would break their spirit; so I can't bear to think of it."
"Why, Dr. James! of course I can help them. Why did you not come to me before? Cannot we go to-night and pay the rent, and take them what they need?"
"To-morrow will do for them; if you like, however, I can take the rent to Mr. Brown to-night. Perhaps you will sleep better for it; I know I shall. To-morrow you can drive there, and do what you think best for them."
Margaret's sympathy seemed very consoling to the doctor, and he talked to her freely of the state of the poor people with whom he came in contact. He said he had to see so much misery he could not possibly relieve, that it was a constant weight on his mind; it haunted him like a ghost; and even when warm and comfortable himself, he could not forget those wants which he so desired to relieve but could not. Then the people in the neighborhood rendered him but little assistance; for they either did not realize, or else were indifferent to the destitution of their neighbors.
Dr. James had never before opened his mind to Margaret as he did that evening. He spoke of his intense sympathy with the poor, simply and as a matter of course; and every word conveyed to her a reproach, for it made her conscious of her own selfishness and hardness of heart. Though she had always given freely, when asked, to fairs and subscriptions, and to charity collectors, she had done so, as she now saw, out of her abundance, and with a cold heart. How much thought had she ever given to the sufferings of the poor? What had she ever done to relieve them? Yet here was a man whose whole life was devoted to helping and healing his fellow-creatures, and who reproached himself for enjoying the simplest comforts so long as others were without them. A whole mine of new thoughts seemed opened in her mind; she longed to be alone; and when Dr. James had left her, after warmly grasping the hand that had given him the rent for his poor family, she said good-night to her aunt as early as possible, and going to her own room, she thought long and regretfully of the past, and formed a firm resolution to live more nobly for the future.
CHAPTER XI.
UNEXPECTED ADVICE.
The next morning, after driving Martha Burney to Sealing as usual, Margaret filled her sleigh with good things at the grocery and provision stores and then made her way, by the directions Dr. James had given her, to the house of John McNally, the poor man of whom he had spoken. She found the distress quite as great as she had expected, and would not have known what to do first, had she not found there a woman from the neighborhood who was endeavoring to assist the sick wife. This woman at once made gruel and tea, and put away the provisions in their proper places, while Margaret collected around her the children, who were half starving, and distributed among them a plentiful supply of bread and butter, to which she afterward added a dessert of oranges and candy.
Poor John looked on as though it were all a dream, and watched Margaret's every movement as he would those of a good fairy, till, she turning to him, said kindly,
"Will you not sit down and have some breakfast? Perhaps this friend of yours will cook some steak for you."
Then he mechanically sat down on a chair near the table, and covering his face with his hands, strove to hide tears of joy that trickled down his cheeks. Margaret went into the chamber and sat by the wife, who was sitting up in bed drinking her gruel, while Susan, the friend, went to cook the steak, the savory smell of which soon filled the little house. Margaret left them with a promise to return the next day; but before she went, she put into John's hand a twenty-dollar bill, bidding him get every thing that his wife and family needed.
What a happy day that was for Margaret! She felt so light-hearted and joyous that she could hardly attend to her usual duties; but she endeavored to study and practise the regular number of hours, saying to herself, "If I am going to do good every day, I must not let it interfere with every thing else." In the afternoon she would not go out; she was sure the doctor would come, and she could not afford to miss his call. So Miss Selina took one of her friends to drive, and Margaret sat at home waiting. Tea-time came and her aunt returned, and still the visitor she expected had not appeared; at length, as they left the table, sleigh-bells were heard, and the doctor opened the hall door.
"There is a lovely moon, Miss Lester; can you not wrap yourself up and take a short drive with me?"
She hastened to get her hood, muff, and shawl, and in a few moments was flying over the frozen ground, in and out of the white moonlight and the dark shadows, the sleigh-bells ringing gayly, and her own heart beating fast with joy.
Dr. James was the first to speak.
"You can't think what a pleasure it has been to me all day, to think of those poor people relieved from their trouble and wretchedness; I am sure it has been a happiness to you also. The poor things consider your help as a direct interposition of providence, and I must say they seem full of gratitude rather to God than to you. They appear to consider you as merely a secondary cause of their relief."
"That is right enough, Dr. James; I owe a great deal more to them than they to me; I was never so happy before in my life."
"I can well believe it. But I must tell you something, Miss Lester, that may diminish your satisfaction a little; which I would not mention, however, if I did not think it would be useful in the future. What you did for the family was, in the main, excellent; but you remember I told you McNally was thriftless! Well, the sum of money you put into his hands was too large; when he went to Sealing for medicine and things for his wife, some idle fellows got hold of him, and the consequence was, I found him reeling about the street this afternoon, with a small bottle of medicine in his pocket, and all his money gone. I took him home, and administered the medicine to his wife myself; it was useless to speak to him then, but to-morrow I am going there to talk to him as he deserves, for he has not been drunk before for months."
"Why, I have done more harm than good."
"Not so bad as that, I am sure; you were injudicious, and a great deal too lavish in your bounty."
"Dr. James, it seemed to me very little to leave, when so much was needed; I quite congratulated myself on my prudence."
"It was a great deal of money for a poor man to have in his pocket. In almost all such cases the wife is the one to intrust with the money; she knows for what it is most needed, and makes it go as far as it can; but the best way of all, I think, is to find out, by interesting yourself, what are the wants of the poor, and supply them by your personal care. When you have time, you might go and talk with Rose—that is the wife—and, if you like, give her what she needs."
"I am glad you told me this, Dr. James; it will teach me to be wiser next time. You see I am wholly inexperienced, for I never did any thing of the kind before in my life. Now I am determined to try again. Can't you tell me of another case of distress among your patients?"
"Not at present, I believe, though, for that matter, I believe there is no want of poor people at any time. Miss Lester, excuse my asking you; do you want to do good systematically, and practically, and perseveringly, or is this only a passing enthusiasm, which will vanish when the novelty ceases?"
"Dr. James, if I do good perseveringly, as you say, I suppose the excitement will wear off, and it will become a very matter-of-fact, unromantic business, perhaps even tedious and inconvenient; still, I have thought about it all to-day, and I have made up my mind to help as many people as I can. So long as I remain here, it shall be one of my occupations."
"Very well, then; and for the direction of practical, systematic good works, I advise you to go to the Catholic priest."
"What! to that fat man with the red face, who laughs so loud?"
"Ah Miss Lester! if you had a little more medical knowledge, you would be aware that natural temperament is in itself enough to account for the corpulence of some people, to say nothing of the sedentary life a priest generally leads; and in finding fault with that laugh, you touch on a tender point; for it is, in my eyes, one of Father Barry's shining virtues. It is the 'being jolly' under all circumstances, and in spite of every thing adverse and difficult, which makes this obscure country priest a great man. Think of his life! What can be more laborious, more self-sacrificing, more ill-paid, thankless and disheartening? And look at his face! My dear Miss Lester, he is an educated man, and yet his intercourse is entirely with the rude and ignorant poor of this most bigoted of places. He is cut off from all those who profess to be people of education here, and who look down on him with contempt and suspicion, because they cannot even conceive what a life of devotion and self-sacrifice means. What could have induced him to choose such a life, liable to be condemned to such a place and such a people, I do not understand."
"Think of your own life, Dr. James."
"Ay, there it is; I often think of the two lives, and naturally compare them. Now, see the difference: I choose this place for myself, and shall stay here as long or as short a time as I see fit; he, as I understand it, is placed here by his bishop, for a year or for his lifetime, he knows not which. Then, I work among these people because it makes me contented, and because I cannot bear to see misery and not relieve it. But he, strange to say, is not moved by a spirit of active benevolence only, or even chiefly, so far as I can judge; for he believes human suffering to be the penalty of sin; a penalty which must be paid—therefore, better paid in this life than in the life to come; and when I say to him, 'Then why do you do good to every one within your reach?' he answers, 'For the love of God.'"
"Strange!" Margaret answered, feeling that he expected her to say something, but with her mind occupied, it must be confessed, rather with her companion's character than with that of the priest.
"Yes, you see he is as far removed from mere philanthropy as he can be, and yet I know of no life so useful as his; mine grows dim beside it. Then, again, when I compare our lives, he has none of that self-approval, or rather self-complacency, which is the staff and support of mine."
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I say. Of course I know that my work is a good and useful one, and that I do it well. I know, moreover, that there are not many men of my age and abilities who would consent to live such a life as mine. Hence I feel at times a self-satisfaction which is to me inspiration, and strength, and refreshment. On the contrary, Father Barry, though his life appears to me crowded with good works, seems to fear that if he should die now his hands would be found empty. His life differs from mine in its motive: he acts from religious principle, while I help the poor only because it makes me wretched to see suffering without trying to relieve it. You see I talk to him freely; I meet him a good deal among my patients, and we have done some good turns for each other. I go to see him, and when he is not busy, often sit with him of an evening; and he is the best company I know. But I have been so engrossed by my own reflections that I forgot I was giving you advice; by all means if you want to bestow relief where it is most needed, ask his assistance.
"Why not the minister here, or at Sealing?"
"Dr. Thorndike here is, as you know, an old man, too old and infirm to visit much; he could not help you; and Mr. Sparks, at Sealing, has a large family, a wife who is always delicate, and a small salary. Poor fellow! he means to do his duty; but his only servant is a little girl, and after a wakeful night, walking up and down with the baby, he has to see to the furnace fire, split the wood, and do 'chores' generally. Then he has his sermons to write, his parishioners to visit, and little tea-drinkings to grace with his presence; of all of which duties I admit he acquits himself irreproachably. He is, in fact, quite a model parson, and so, I assure you, he is considered at Sealing; but, as you may imagine, he has little time for miscellaneous visiting among the poor. Indeed, he is only too glad to have Father Barry assume almost the whole of that hard work, and is on the best of terms with him in private, though he rails against popery and the priesthood from the pulpit in the most popular manner. No; I don't advise you to be guided either by our Congregationalist brother here, or our Methodist brother at Sealing. Father Barry knows every poor family for twenty miles around, and he can give you as much and more work than you can attend to." By this time they were nearing home and the doctor said,
"I am glad you are not discouraged by this little accident, at the outset of your benevolent works; it is brave of you, and deserves better success next time. You have done well for the beginning, and have reason to feel happy. I will go over to McNally's to-morrow, and frighten him a little, and in the afternoon, or the next day, you can go to see his wife again."
Dr. James declined to come in; he shook hands warmly with Margaret, and drove away. Miss Spelman was very curious to know what had taken place on the drive.
"Was he agreeable, my dear? Did he tell you about himself?"
"Rather about his friend the priest; how strange that he should think so much of him."
Miss Spelman shook her head, "I don't approve of that intercourse; these priests are very sly, and who knows that he may not be a Jesuit in disguise? I have warned the doctor about it, but he is very self-willed. Would you believe it, my dear? The only place he ever goes on Sundays is to the Catholic mass, either at Sealing or here, where they have it in the hall once a month; on which occasion Father Barry always dines with him. I do not mean to say that Dr. James goes to the mass every Sunday, for he often sleeps late on that day; but he never goes to church anywhere else."
"I don't blame him," said Margaret, "for not enjoying Dr. Thorndike's sermons; they always put me to sleep; or Mr. Sparks's either, for that matter, they are so intensely commonplace! I am sure I could write a great deal better ones, without having been to college or studied divinity, either."
CHAPTER XII.
PROGRESS.
Margaret did not see the doctor till the next evening; she had been very busy all day, and so had he; but as she was playing cribbage with Miss Spelman, after tea, he made his appearance, and, declaring that he had plenty of time, and that they must finish their game, he sat down before the fire and waited till Miss Spelman triumphantly announced:
"A double sequence, eight; pairs royal, fourteen; that takes me out, my dear."
"It is a rubber, too," Margaret observed, rising and approaching the fire. "Now, Doctor James, I have some business to talk over with you, and you must come with me into the dining-room; or I will put on my cloak, and we will go out on the piazza."
"It is moonlight out there," remarked Miss Spelman, "if you only dress warm enough."
"And will the moon retire behind a cloud, if I should insist on catching cold, aunty? But you need not be afraid; my cloak is very warm; I will put the hood over my head, and we will walk fast up and down all the time. Shall we not, Doctor James?"
They proceeded to the piazza, and began their promenade, while Miss Spelman, taking occasion to go into the dining-room, stood there in the dark, smiling as she watched their figures pass back and forth before the window. "It is all going just right," she thought; "how much they always have to say to each other!"
Meanwhile, as soon as they had stepped out of the window, Margaret began, "Well, Doctor James, where do you suppose I have been to-day?"
"To the McNallys', this afternoon, I suppose."
"Very wisely guessed; but where have I been this morning?"
"Really, Miss Lester, you tax my curiosity too far; I am not good at guessing."
"I have been to see Father Barry."
"Really!" he exclaimed, now surprised indeed, for he had not imagined she would act so promptly on their talk of the previous evening. He did not yet understand the energy of her character, her activity and earnestness, which made a resolve and its fulfilment almost simultaneous.
"Why are you surprised? Listen, and I will tell you all about it. I had such a remarkable adventure! You see Miss Burney and I drove to Sealing this morning, as usual. I did not tell her a word of what I was going to do; I only worked on her sensibilities a little about the McNallys; not that I wanted her to do any thing for them, but merely because I felt like harrowing somebody's feelings. After I had left her, I took my lesson, shopped a little, paid a visit to those silly Gleeson girls—putting off the evil day, you see—and then went straight to Father Barry's house. As I approached, I saw a woman coming out of the gate, holding in her hand two plates—one turned upside down —evidently containing something good. She was talking to herself and saying, 'O God bless him! God bless him!' and did not seem to see me or any thing else. My curiosity was roused, and I stopped her by asking, 'God bless whom? And what have you got in those plates?' She stared at me for a moment, and then exclaimed, 'Oh! but he is a darling man!' 'God bless and reward him!' and so on. At last I extorted from her that his reverence had given her 'a bit of lovely steak,' for her sick daughter at home. I was interested, and hurried past her, up the steps, where I found the door ajar, left so probably by the woman, in coming out. I was a little curious, I acknowledge, and hence did not stop to ring. After entering, I paused to consider what I should do next. There were two closed doors on one side of the entry, and one half open, on the other. I approached the one that was partly open, and stood on the threshold of—what do you suppose? actually the dining-room, with Father Barry seated at the table, eating bread and butter, with a dish of potatoes on the table, and before him a saucer containing two boiled eggs. I understood how things were, at a glance; he had sent his own dinner away with that woman, and was dining on eggs instead. Why are you laughing?" Margaret exclaimed, suddenly breaking off.
"The whole thing is so amusing, and I would say so characteristic. Your stopping the woman, entering the house as if it belonged to you, seeing all that poor Father Barry was eating for his dinner, and then making so complete a story out of the whole affair. Forgive me for laughing; you can't think how interested I am. Will you not go on?"
Margaret, who had been perfectly serious herself, after a moment's pause continued, "I was taken aback, you may be sure, and begged pardon in a very confused manner; but Father Barry rose, and, with the utmost politeness, asked me if there was any thing he could offer me. I thought to myself that there was not much left to offer any one. So I asked permission to wait till he had finished, and he showed me into a sort of parlor, where something, which must have been a confessional, made part of the furniture; and there I sat and stared at large maps of the county and of Ireland, and pictures of a pope and of the Virgin, for about ten minutes, when he came and asked me to excuse him for keeping me waiting. He knew me before I told him my name, and seemed surprised when I explained what I had come for. He said he wished he could give me Sunday-school work to do, but as I was not a Catholic, that was impossible. However, there was quite enough of other work to be done. He was very kind, and we soon came to a good understanding. The first family he spoke of were the McNallys, and he proposed—only think how sensible!—that I should give John some work to do. He said shoes were very much needed among his Sunday-school children, this winter; so he proposed that I should order a number of pairs of different sizes, and bring them by instalments, for him to distribute among his children. Altogether, I was very glad I went, and I see that his advice will be most useful. I am going again on Friday."
"I am sure you have been quite successful. Still, don't undertake more than you can perform."
"No. Father Barry said the same; I will take care not to overdo things in the beginning, because I mean to keep it up."
"I found John McNally," said the doctor, "quite overcome by shame and remorse; he was sure the lady would never trust him again. I told him he did not deserve that she should. I was very harsh at first, and only allowed myself to be softened by degrees. At last I told him that his rent was paid, and that I would try to get him work."
"And I found Rose sitting up, this afternoon," said Margaret. "She would like to do a little plain sewing when she is better, and I said I would get her some. She says they could get along very well, if John could only have steady work to do; but it is so much easier to buy shoes in Sealing, that people forget him. Now, Dr. James, I have a plan of moving them to Sealing, and getting a little shoe-shop for John, and then they would be sure to prosper, for he is a good workman, I hear."
"Let me caution you against beginning too impulsively in favor of this one family. Remember that there are others in want, and you cannot do so much for all. Besides, I have known a sudden stroke of good luck to prove the ruin of poor and honest people like these. I think we can get John more work, and I will take care that other people do not forget him."
Margaret was reluctantly persuaded to give up the plan of a removal to Sealing, and only comforted herself by ordering of McNally fifty pairs of shoes for Father Barry's Sunday-school children.
CHAPTER XIII.
A PROOF OF FRIENDSHIP.
There is no need of describing more fully the three winter months that Margaret passed at Shellbeach. The time went faster than ever, after she had offered her services to Father Barry. Under his direction, she did great good; more indeed than any one knew of, for she had obtained a promise from the good priest that he would not speak of her charities. So when Dr. James once or twice tried to lead his friend to speak about the matter, Father Barry, desirous that she should not lose the reward of the "Father who seeth in secret," only smiled and said, "She knows all about it, you must go to her." As for the McNallys, Margaret still considered them as her protégés, and cherished in private the project for improving their condition.
Then she had done something else, a thing of which she was very proud, and of which she often afterward boasted—she had taught a roomful of children in the public school at Sealing! Old Mr. Burney was growing more and more infirm, and seemed threatened with the entire loss of his mind. It became every day more difficult to leave him; and one morning, Margaret, on calling as usual for her friend, found that her father had had a shock of paralysis, and could not be left. Martha had planned to send an excuse by Margaret for her absence; but she could think of no person to supply her place, and she was completely surprised by Margaret's announcing her intention to try her hand at managing the children! All remonstrance was in vain, and having received a few brief directions, Margaret drove rapidly away to Sealing. How her fashionable friends in New York would have opened their eyes, had they been favored with a sight of Miss Lester hearing two or three dozen children recite the multiplication-table!
She returned in the afternoon, radiant, and, as she herself said, "hungry as a bear." She gave glowing accounts to Martha of her success, and begged to be allowed to try the experiment again on the morrow. Some of the boys, she remarked, evidently "took her measure;" but after trying a little impertinence, they gave it up as a bad job, and every thing went as well as Martha could have desired. For three days, Margaret kept this up, and gained the hearts of even the most obdurate of her scholars. How delighted she was with her success! At the end of that period, as old Mr. Burney had grown better, Margaret's school duties came to a close.
CHAPTER XIV.
MARGARET'S COURAGE.
It was early spring. The buds were swelling, the birds beginning to sing, and a week of mild weather had filled every one's heart with a longing for out-of-door life, when an excursion was planned by a few of the Sealing young people, to a wild and beautiful spot called the Glen, a few miles inland, a favorite resort for picnic parties. There were a dozen in all, and they were to go in a large open wagon with four seats, and take their provisions with them. It was the custom of the place for the young men to have the nominal getting-up of these excursions; that is, they incurred the expense of the "team" and the trouble of invitations, while the girls prepared the eatables. There was always to be an equal number of ladies and gentlemen; the couples were arranged beforehand, and each youth was in duty bound to devote himself to his companion unremittingly, during the drive and at the place of the picnic.
Dr. James had agreed to join this party, an almost unheard-of thing for him to do, and the committee of arrangements had assigned him to Margaret, as her escort. This was disinterested on the part of the other ladies; for although they were not supposed to have a voice in the distribution of the gentlemen, their influence was certainly felt, as one or two of the committee very conveniently had sisters, who gave their advice at home, and communicated to their intimate friends the results of their important deliberations. It was disinterested in them, then, to allow Miss Lester to have as her escort the doctor, who was a great favorite, and by far the most desirable man, in the towns of Sealing and Shellbeach combined, for an escort, a partner, a husband, or what not. Added to this, it was quite an honor to have him devote so much of his precious time to their picnic; he was, in fact, the lion of the party, and perhaps no one else could have been selected for his companion without exciting disapprobation, to say the least, in the minds of many of the others. So it seemed to be a wise as well as a magnanimous plan which gave to Margaret the privilege of the exclusive attention of Dr. James for one whole afternoon.
A perception of the state of the case dawned upon her, as the great wagon stopped at Miss Spelman's door, and she inwardly smiled when, after seeing her contribution to the feast safely packed away, she took her place between the doctor and a young man, who was usually accounted for as being "in the bank," though what office he held in that important institution was left rather uncertain.
She resolved to repay the politeness of the rest of the party by making herself generally agreeable, and monopolizing her escort as little as possible. In this she succeeded admirably, and the whole company were in high spirits and enjoying themselves to the utmost when they reached the Glen, and began to walk through pastures and over rough and broken ground, before reaching the bed of the brook, where the picnic proper was to be held. All the provisions were set down on the high, flat rock which answered for a table, and then the party broke up into couples, as the girls expressed their inclinations, some to sit down on the rocks and others to explore the woods or follow up the stream to its source.
Margaret, to whom every thing was new and interesting, wished to go through the Glen, and proposed that they should climb the wooded bank above them, follow the stream through the woods, and return by the rocks. Dr. James was very willing, and they set out on their scramble up the bank, and then along the edge, catching at branches or roots of trees for support, and slipping frequently on the wet last year's leaves and damp earth. It was all fun to Margaret; she laughed with an almost childish delight at every difficulty, refused all assistance, and kept generally ahead of her companion, who seemed inclined to take the rough climbing more leisurely, and was not enraptured when the treacherous leaves landed him in a hole, or a seemingly firm bough which he grasped gave way in his hand, and almost made him lose his balance and fall.
At last the head of the Glen was reached; a turn had hidden the rest of the party from them, and their voices sounded faint and distant.
"Now we will go down to those lovely green meadows," said Margaret. "But, O Dr. James! what is that?"
"Only a bridge across, made of a great pine log. You see the top has been smoothed."
"A bridge! Then it is meant to be crossed. Come, let us cross it."
"Certainly, if you wish. I have been foolish enough to cross it before, and am willing to do so again."
"Why was it foolish?"
"Because it is dangerous. It is only a few steps across, I acknowledge. But look down; how would you like to fall among those rocks?"
At this moment three or four of the party came round a huge rock which had hidden them from sight, and evidently noticed the two standing by the bridge.
"You need not try to frighten me, Dr. James; my nerves are not easily shaken. Come, shall I go first?"
"If you please. Your stick may be a sort of balance-pole; imagine yourself on the tight-rope, and look steadily at that little tree before you; don't look down. I am in earnest, Miss Lester."
Margaret looked at him, laughed, and stepped on the little bridge. The people who were looking at them were frightened, and the girls turned away their faces. Margaret made three steady steps, then paused.
"Do you see what a lovely green that water is, just below us?"
Two steps more and her stick dropped, she staggered, and put her hands to her head.
"I am falling!"
But she felt a strong hand on each of her shoulders, and a voice of command said,
"Fix your eyes on that tree, and walk straight on." She obeyed, and three more steps brought her to firm ground. Instantly, almost before her feet touched the bank, the doctor withdrew his hands, and without a word, with a displeased and gloomy face, preceded her down the bank. He was saying to himself,
"Now we shall have a scene, and she will say she owes her life to me, and call me her preserver, or some such nonsense."
Margaret leaned for a moment against the little tree she had been told to look at so steadfastly, and then followed her companion through the woods. He walked so fast that she was soon out of breath trying to overtake him. When she had done so, she said in a low voice,
"I am vain and contemptible. I despise myself more than I can express. Forgive me for giving you so much trouble."
Dr. James turned; his face was clear, and he smiled upon her with a smile that was sunshine itself; he did not reply, but walked slowly by her side, then stooped, and holding something out to her, said,
"See, here are the first flowers; the little hepatica ventures out before all the rest. Will you take it? How pretty it is! how delicate the colors are; and the stem is covered with fur. Notice the green and brown leaves, too; they add to its beauty and singularity. It is my favorite flower."
The deep flush in Margaret's face had died away, and her voice had resumed its usual tone when they joined the rest of the party, and sat down to the feast; but her gayety was gone, and it seemed as if nothing could recall it. She was abstracted and serious, and not in accordance with the merriment around her. At last she arose, and went to a rock, on which she leaned, and watched the little minnows darting about in a green pool of water, when she was startled by the doctor's voice close beside her. He held toward her a small silver tumbler, filled with iced claret and water, and said in an undertone,
"Miss Lester, how can you let a trifle weigh so on your mind, and cloud all your enjoyment?" He was smiling in a friendly way; but she looked at him reproachfully, and said,
"How can you call it a trifle? It might have cost me my life."
"You are right," he replied gravely; "nothing ought to be called a trifle whose consequences might be serious; though attendant circumstances make us look at the same thing in such different lights at different times. On the bridge, and when I felt angry with you afterward, your conduct seemed to me a most weighty matter; now I can with difficulty recall any thing except the honesty and courage of your apology. Having seen and humbly acknowledged your fault, will you not now confer a favor on the whole party by forgetting what is past?"
Margaret smiled, and saying, "I will, at least, forget myself," accompanied him back to the party.
She did her part very well, and, owing in a great measure to her efforts, the rest of the picnic and the moonlight drive home were quite as pleasant as the setting out had been.
"She is a brave woman," the doctor said to himself that night in his study; but Margaret was quite unconscious that his opinion of her had been raised instead of lowered, by the occurrences of the picnic party at the Glen.
CHAPTER XV.
A CHANGE.
This little mortification—and it really was one to Margaret's high spirit, owing to her anxiety to stand well in Dr. James's opinion—should have been a lesson to her to give up contradicting him, and opposing her own will to his, and for a time it was so; and yet that very wish to please, of which she was conscious and ashamed, made her often dispute with and appear to oppose him, when she would have liked to agree and do as he advised.
She began to realize something else, too, that had the effect of making her surround herself, as it were, with an armor of prickles and thorns; so that her intercourse with the doctor was far from peaceful or pleasant. She felt that the work she was doing among the poor was wholly with and for Father Barry; she was helping him, not Dr. James; and this, she felt, was the doing of the latter, and not without a reason. At first, when he had recommended her to take the priest as her adviser, she had felt a cooling of enthusiasm; still, having said she meant to persevere, she would not draw back.
It would have been sweet to her, she knew it now, to help the doctor; to be his friend, confidant, coadjutor; to feel that she was making his labor, which she revered and sympathized with, easier and pleasanter. But he had made that impossible; he had directed her to go to some one else for help, for counsel, for support, while he stood alone as before, and had never again applied to her for assistance for his patients, though she had once or twice asked if she could not relieve them. She understood the pride which prevented him from accepting her money, or placing himself under obligations to her. "He does not like me well enough to let me help him," she said to herself; and she soon abandoned all those efforts to make herself agreeable to him, which at first came so naturally to her.
The picnic lesson, therefore, though by no means forgotten, had ceased to influence her actions; and when the real spring-time came, with mild air, and young, fresh green, as May drew to its close and June was at hand, Margaret had managed to quarrel with Dr. James several times, and had made herself unhappy and him far from comfortable. He began to come less often to his old friend, Miss Spelman's, and to hear less of Margaret's plans and doings.
Miss Selina was much puzzled at the turn things were taking, and yet, when they disputed, she was half the time uncertain whether they were in fun or in earnest; and it did no good to remonstrate with Margaret; for the incomprehensible girl agreed with all she said, and acknowledged the doctor to be perfectly right.
The friendship with Martha Burney continued, however, and at her house Margaret always appeared to the best advantage, even before Dr. James. She seemed to stand somewhat in awe of her older friend, and was desirous to please; and besides, she had made a kind of agreement with herself that when she met the doctor there, she might allow herself to be as pleasant and conciliatory as her inclinations led her to be. She was in a peculiar frame of mind, and this curious compromise can be better described than explained.
In the mean time, old Mr. Burney gradually became more and more feeble; soon he lost his mind to such a degree as not to be able even to recognize his faithful daughter; and at last, early in May, he died. Margaret could not understand how Martha could grieve as she did at his loss; knowing his character and former misdoings, and seeing him a broken-down, witless old man, the daughter's sorrow seemed to her unreasonable; but when Martha talked of him as he was once, when his wife was living, handsome and brave and generous, the idol of those two fond women, it made her think of her own dear and noble father, lying alone in his quiet resting-place in the little Swiss graveyard, and she found she could give the sympathy and comfort which before were impossible.
His death made little apparent difference. Martha, after the funeral, went quietly on with her school duties, till she "could think of something more useful to do," she said; and her little household was as quiet and homely as usual, only, as it seemed to other people, much pleasanter. But Martha said,
"Oh! it was such a difference; she could not work with half the spirit now that it was only for herself; she had always had some one to live for, and now she could not feel any interest in what she did."
Margaret often went for her in her phaeton and brought her back to her aunt's to tea, and there grew up between them a sympathy and affection that was destined to last for life.