After dinner, Sydney abruptly turned a conversation upon the growth of spiritual life, in which I was much interested, and told me a short story about one of the little children who had been rescued by Agnes, and taken to Somerville.
I had no idea at the time how important a link in his history lay hidden in this pathetic tale.
"I promised," he said, "that when next we met, you should see Vera as she is, and to-night you shall do so, but first of all I will give you an account of a scene that happened six years ago. You remember the home for orphan children that Vera and Agnes started. For a few years it continued under their joint care, but then, owing to a reason which I will explain later, the entire charge was thrown upon Agnes, and the home has been for the last seven years, and is now, under her sole management. Six years ago I went to see her, and told her of a case which seemed in every way worthy of relief. A young woman, who had been left a widow a few months previously, was dying. She had one child, a little girl about eighteen months old; this child would soon be totally unprovided for, as, though the mother had been well brought up, and was of gentle birth, her own and her husband's relations were dead. Anxiety on her baby's account was adding greatly to the poor woman's suffering. You may fancy that Agnes required no urging in such a case, and she went with me at once on this errand of mercy. We found the mother and her child in a small badly-furnished room in one of the poorest parts of Manchester. Since her husband's death she had done a little dressmaking, and so kept her child and herself from starvation. Notwithstanding the ravages of disease, she was still a beautiful woman; and as she told Agnes her story, the mystery of sorrow bravely borne, and apparently meaningless as far as this life was concerned, affected her listener deeply. Her parents had died when she was about seventeen; they had been fairly well off, having made a small fortune in Australia; her father, however, during the closing years of his life had speculated rashly, and when he died a few months after his wife, the estate had to be wound up in bankruptcy. His only daughter Ellen managed after some little difficulty to get a situation as nursery-governess to the children of a wealthy Australian, who was about to sail with his family for England. Ellen lived with these people for three years, and, from what she said, her life must have been far from happy. Those who have recently risen from an inferior social position are as a rule the most overbearing to any one whom they consider their subordinate; the value of wealth is so impressed upon them that they can hardly realize that the governess in their pay is their social equal, or may be, as in this case, their superior. The torment that such persons inflict on a young, and sensitive nature is indescribable. It is often bad enough to be ruled over by those we respect, but to be slighted, or still worse patronized, by those whose instincts and habits revolt us is torture. Such was this girl's life, until she met by accident her future husband; he was a young journalist, who through hard work and ability had made his way into a position which brought him in a precarious £300 a year. On the prospect of this doubtful income they married, and the first two years of their lives were passed happily. But soon after the birth of their child, Harry Stanford broke down in health. He had worked too hard. Then the bitter struggle began: piece by piece the furniture had to be sold to buy food, and when he died his wife found herself once more penniless, and debarred now from any chance of earning a living as she had formerly done, by reason of her new tie. Still, as long as her strength lasted she had struggled bravely against poverty and misfortune.
"'It is not,' she said, looking up at Agnes' face, 'that I fear to die. It would be so sweet to lie down and rest--to know that all trouble and pain were over, and that I could go to my husband! But he has left me this little one, the baby he loved so dearly and was so proud of. What will become of her when I go to him? What will he say--our child--our child! With no one to love or care for her--it is terrible!'
"And the poor woman broke into a paroxysm of weeping.
"'I cannot die,' she sobbed, 'I cannot! Oh God! I see her growing up without love--people are cruel to her, and day by day, as she gets older, she will miss more the care of a mother's watchfulness. If anything should happen--if she should sink down through despair into the depth of sin and misery! I cannot leave her!'
"'Do not distress yourself, dear,' Agnes said; 'I will try and take your place when you are gone--will try to be a mother to your little one. Give her to me--let me take her in my arms.' She took the little one from its mother, and the child came not unwillingly. 'There, you see,' she continued, 'the child trusts me--will you?'
"When the mother heard and understood, the drawn look of anxious pain passed from her face, and a radiant light of rest and peace took its place.
"'Do you mean it?' she cried. 'Will you indeed take charge of my love, my baby, when I am gone? Oh! you don't know, you cannot imagine what joy you have given me! Trust you! Yes, indeed, no one can look into your eyes and see you touch the child and not know that you can love; and you are sure to love her, the darling! But how can I thank you--it is too good to be true.'
"Though the child was getting near the age when children so often develop shyness, she nestled up and clung to Agnes as though she recognized her touch. The little thing looked up into the sweet face bending over her, and seemed to find there something familiar. It put its baby hands to her cheeks and stroked them, then crowed and laughed with pleasure.