Day after day, week after week thus passed, till even months had elapsed, and, despite her unwavering faith, Sarah’s weary spirit flagged.
“But why should it be?” she asked one day, as she sat by the rude bed to which poor old Esther was confined, and in answer to her observation, it was only what she had feared; “but why should it be? there must be some reason for our being so shunned. Those of the stranger faith, of course, could not employ us; but our own?—how much better and happier we might be if they would take us into their families, and unite us by kindness on the one hand, and obedience and faithfulness on the other.”
“It certainly would make us happier, but we must be better fitted for it, Sarah, dear, before it can be accomplished,” replied the old woman. “You don’t know anything of the majority of us here; how many of us hate the very idea of going into service. What a dreadful deal of pride is amongst us, and such false pride; we very often throw away those that would be our friends, and repay sometimes with abuse any kindness. Then, again, we want to be taught our proper duties. It is not enough to read our Bibles and prayer-books, because a great many are blinded to what they tell us. We want some one to explain them, and tell us plainly what we ought to do, and may do, without breaking our religion. Because you see, dear, when we were in Jerusalem, some things must have been different to what they can be now; and, as servants, we might be called upon to do some things which we think we ought not. Then, it is all very true about being lazy and sometimes insolent. We must set about doing all we can to be kinder to ourselves, before we can expect anybody to be kinder to us. I see that now quite clearly, though I did not once; but for you, darling, you are good enough for anybody to find a treasure in you. I wish I could help you; there is one good, kind, charitable lady that I would send you to, but a sister of mine behaved so ungratefully to her, that I do not like intruding on her again. She nearly clothed my sister’s little girl, and, would you believe it, Becky went to her house and abused her. What right, forsooth, had she to know that her child wanted clothes.”
Sarah uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“Indeed, and yes, dear; and so you see, though I had nothing to do with it, I don’t much like to go to Miss Leon again; but you might, though. I am sure she would do what she could for you.”
Sarah eagerly inquired who this Miss Leon was.
“None of your very rich carriage people, dear; indeed I don’t know how she contrives to do all the good she does, for she is not half as rich as many who think themselves poor. She finds out those who want help; she employs all she possibly can; she gets us work from others; makes our interests hers; teaches our girls all sorts of useful knowledge; gives many a poor family the meal on which they break their fast, and all such good acts; comes amongst us, and, somehow or other, always does us good. I don’t know how many people she cured of rheumatism last winter, by supplying them with some doctor’s stuff and warm clothing. Then, as for the girl’s schools, I don’t know what would become of them without her; she gets them work, cuts out all they want, and teaches them often herself. She is a good creature, God bless her! I lost a kind friend by Becky’s behaving as she did, for I never had the face to go to her again, and I would not have her come to this low place; but that she would not mind, as she does not care for the world in doing good.”
Sarah listened eagerly; had she indeed found a friend? yet she checked her rising hopes. Miss Leon might do her service, but might not have the power. Before she could make up her mind to seek her, she received, as was her custom every month at least, a long letter from the dear home she had left; she had stated her many disappointments to her aunt, and that beloved relative entreated her to return.
“Tell your father,” she wrote, “two-thirds you earn shall be honestly sent to him; and you can better, much better, support him here than in London. Entreat him to let you return to us—all our happiness is damped when we think of your heavy trials. Come to us, my love; it can scarcely be your duty to remain any longer where you are.”
Sarah read this letter to her father, hoping more than she dared acknowledge to herself, that he would see how much better it would be for her to return. But for this he was far too selfish. Sarah had so rivetted all the affection which he was capable of feeling, that he would not let her leave him. He was jealous and angry that she should so love her absent friends, and swore that they should not take any more of her heart from him; he would rather remain as he was, than she should work for him at Liverpool; he did not want her labour, he wanted her love, and that she would not give him. Sarah submitted with a strange feeling of consolation amidst her sorrow—did he indeed want her love? Oh, if she could but believe it, she might have some influence over him yet.