Susan knew her proper place too well to reply to this observation of her young mistress; the maid thought, however, to herself that her former ladies had found real friends and dear friends too amongst the poor, and that to form a tie of sympathy between the higher and lower classes did do good, even if there were no direct religious teaching. Susan remembered also that she had heard the most pious of her young ladies observe that she had herself learned more from the poor than she had ever been able to teach them. The district visitor should recognize the possibility of mutual benefit when she goes on her charity rounds.
“Did your ladies never talk to the people about their souls?” inquired Emmie. “Was nothing said about religion in these visits which they paid to the poor?”
“Oh yes, miss,” answered Susan, “but it came so natural-like. A blind woman would like to be read to; then the visitor read from the Bible, and afterwards the two talked over what had been read. Or a mother, may be, had lost a baby; and then the lady would speak of Him who carries the lambs in His arms. The poor liked to open their hearts to the ladies and tell them their troubles, because, you see, miss, they felt that the ladies cared. I’m sure when little Amy Fisher died, Miss Mary cried for her as much as her own mother did. Mrs. Fisher had been a hard sort of woman,—I think she was given to drink,—but after her little one’s death Miss Mary got her quite round. But all that came quite natural-like,” added Susan, again using her favourite phrase, by which Emmie understood that there had been no forced talk on religious subjects, no hard dogmatical teaching.
“I wish that I could acquire this art of comforting and helping and sympathizing,” thought Emmie; “but I feel sure that I never shall do so.”
Emmie and her maid had now reached the entrance gate. The young lady was relieved not to see at it the figure of Harper, whom she regarded with almost a superstitious dread. She passed his hovel, a mere tenement of mud, with a thatched roof, green with moss and stained with yellow lichen. The door was shut, and no smoke rose from the single chimney of the dilapidated dwelling.
Picking her way along the muddy road, Emmie, with a beating heart, proceeded towards the next cottage, which, though it was far from being neat and clean in its appearance, had at least glass in its windows, and was able to stand upright. Her conversation with Susan had been rather encouraging on the whole to the inexperienced lady visitor. A faint hope sprang up in the breast of Emmie that after a while district work might come “natural-like” to her as it had done to other ladies. The fair girl could not but be conscious that she possessed a more than common power of pleasing, such a power as might smooth down some of her difficulties in winning her way to the hearts of the poor.
Emmie went up to the door of the cottage, hesitated a moment, murmured to herself, “Now for an effort!” and gently tapped with the end of her parasol. No brief silent prayer was darted up from her heart,—that prayer which is as the child’s upward glance at the parent who holds his hand to support and guide him. When first entering on what she regarded as work for God, Emmie’s thoughts were not rising to God.
There was a slight stir audible within the cottage after the lady had knocked, followed by the click of the latch, and a woman threw open the door. A scent of bacon, greens, and porter pervaded the cottage, and Emmie saw that the family were seated at dinner. A burly-looking man in shirt-sleeves, whose back had been towards the door, turned round his unshaven, unwashed face to see who had tapped for admittance. Several dirty, untidy children stared open-mouthed at the unexpected appearance of a well-dressed lady. Emmie shrank back, for with intuitive delicacy she felt that to enter a cottage at meal-time was an intrusion.
“Won’t you step in, miss?” said the woman who had opened the door, with that civility which is generally met with in the cottage homes of England.
“Oh—not now—I did not know—I never meant—” stammered forth poor Emmie, as nervously polite as if she had by mistake intruded herself at the repast of a duchess. The gruff looks of the man, who did not rise from his chair, took from the timid girl all self-possession. Emmie expected him to growl out, “What brings you here?” And as the only apology which occurred to her mind for calling at all, she nervously thrust her half-crown into the hand of the astonished woman, and with a muttered “I thought you might want it,” made her retreat from the door. Emmie in her confusion dropped her papers; they were picked up and returned to her by Susan.