University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
EDITH TELLS THE OLD, OLD STORY.

MRS. Allen seemed better the next day, and
Laura was able to watch while Edith slept.
After tea Mrs. Lacey appeared, with the same
subdued air of quiet self-respect and patient sorrow.
She seemed to have settled down into that mournful
calm which hopes little and fears little. She
seemed to expect nothing better than to go forward
with such endurance as she might, into the deeper
shadows of age, sickness, and death. She vaguely
hoped that God would have mercy upon her at last,
but how to love and trust Him she did not know.
She hardly knew that it was expected, or possible.
She associated religion with going to church, outward
profession, and doing much good. The neighbors
spoke of her and the family as “very irreligious,”
and she had about come to the conclusion
that they were right. She never thought of taking
credit to herself for her devotion to her children, and
patience with her husband. She loved the former,
especially her son, with an intensity that one could
hardly reconcile with her grave and silent ways. In
regard to her husband, she tried to remember her
first young girlish dream—the manly ideal of character
that her fond heart had associated with the

handsome young fellow who had singled her out
among the many envious maidens in her native
village.

“I will try to be true to what I thought he was,”
she said, with woman's pathetic constancy, “and be
patient with what he is.”

But the disappointment, as it slowly assumed
dread certainty, broke her heart.

Edith began to have a fellow-feeling for her.
“We both have not only our own burdens to carry,
but the heavier burden of another,” she thought.
“I wonder if she has ever gone to Him for the `rest.'
I fear not, or she would not look so sad and hopeless.”

Before they could go upstairs a hack from the
hotel stopped at the door, and Mrs. Groody bustled
cheerily in. Laura at the same time came down,
saying that Mrs. Allen was asleep.

“Hannibal,” said Edith, “you may sit on the
stairs, and if she wakes, or makes any sound, let me
know,” and she took a seat near the door in order
to hear.

“I've been worrying about you every minute
ever since I called, and you was too sick to see me,”
said Mrs. Groody, “but I've been so busy I couldn't
get away. It takes an awful lot of work to get such
a big house to rights, and the women cleaning, and
the servants are so aggravatin, that I am just run off
my legs lookin after them. I don't see why people
can't do what they're told, when they're told.”

“I wish I were able to help you,” said Edith.

“Your promise of work has kept me up wonderfully.
But before I half got my strength back
mother became very ill, and, had it not been for
Mrs. Lacey, I don't know what I would have done.
It did seem as if she were sent here yesterday, for I
could not have kept up another hour.”

“You poor child,” said Mrs. Groody, in a tone
and manner overflowing with motherly kindness.
“I just heard about it to-day from Arden, who was
bringing something up to the hotel, so I said, I'll
drop everything to-night, and run down for a while.
So here I am, and now what can I do for you?”
concluded the warm-hearted woman, whose invariable
instinct was to put her sympathy into deeds.

“I told you that night,” said Edith. “I think I
could do a little sewing or mending even now if I
had it here at home. But your kindness and
remembrance do me more good than any words
of mine can tell you. I thought no one would ever
speak to us again,” she continued in a low tone, and
with rising color, “and I have had kind, helpful
friends sent to me already.”

Wistful mother-love shone in Mrs. Lacey's large
blue eyes, but Mrs. Groody blew her nose like a
trumpet, and said;

“Not speak to you, poor child! Though I ain't
on very good terms with the Lord, I ain't a Pharisee,
and after what I saw of you that night, I am
proud to speak to you and do anything I can for
you. It does seem too bad that poor young things
like you two should be so burdened. I should think

you had enough before without your mother getting
sick. I don't understand the Lord, no how. Seems
to me He might scatter His afflictions as well as His
favors a little more evenly. I've thought a good
deal about what you said that night, `We're dealt
with in masses,' and poor bodies like you and me,
and Mrs. Lacey there, that is, `the human atoms,'
as you called 'em, are lost sight of.”

Tears sprang into Edith's eyes, and she said, earnestly,
“I am sorry I ever said those words. They
are not true. I should grieve very much if my rash,
desperate words did you harm after all your kindness
to me. I have learned better since I saw you,
Mrs. Groody. We are not lost sight of. It seems
to me the trouble is we lose sight of Him.”

“Well, well, child, I'm glad to hear you talk in
that way,” said Mrs. Groody, despondently. “I'm
dreadfully discouraged about it all. I know I fell
from grace, though, one awfully hot summer, when
everything went wrong, and I got on a regular
rampage, and that's the reason perhaps. A she-bear
that had lost her cubs, wasn't nothing to me. But
I straightened things out at the hotel, though I
came mighty near being sick, but I never could
get straight myself after it. I knowed I ought
to be more patient—I knowed it all the time. But
human natur is human natur, and woman natur is
worse yet sometimes. And when you've got on
one hand a score or two of drinking, quarrelsome,
thieving, and abominably lazy servants to manage,
and on the other two or three hundred fastidious

people to please, and elegantly dressed ladies who
can't manage their three or four servants at home,
dawdling up to you every hour in the day, saying
about the same as, Mrs. Groody, everything ain't
done in a minute—everything ain't just right. I'd
like to know where 'tis in this jumbled-up world—
not where they're housekeepers, I warrant you.”

“Well, as I was tellin you,” continued Mrs.
Groody, with a weary sigh, “that summer was too
much for me. I got to be a very dragon. I hadn't
time to read my Bible, or pray, or go to church, or
scarcely eat or sleep. I worked Sundays and weekdays
alike, and I got to be a sort of heathen, and
I've been one ever since,” and a gloom seemed to
gather on her naturally open, cheery face, as if she
feared she might never be anything else.

Mrs. Lacey gave a deep, responsive sigh, showing
that her heavy heart was akin to all other burdened
souls. But direct, practical Edith said simply and
gently;

“In other words you were laboring and heavy
laden.”

“Couldn't have been more so, and lived,” was
Mrs. Groody's emphatic answer.

“And the memory of it seems to have been a
heavy burden on your conscience ever since, though
I think you judge yourself harshly,” continued
Edith.

“Not a bit,” said Mrs. Groody, sturdily, “I
knowed better all the time.”

“Well, be that as it may, I feel that I know very

little about these things yet. I'm sure I want to be
guided rightly. But what did our Lord mean when
He said `Come unto Me all ye that labor and are
heavy laden and I will give you rest.'”

Mrs. Groody gave Edith a sort of surprised and
startled look. After a moment she said, “Bless you,
child, how plain you do put it. It's a very plain
text when you think of it, now, ain't it? I always
tho't it meant kinder good, as all the Bible
does.”

“No, but He said them,” urged Edith, earnestly.
“It is a distinct, plain invitation, and it must have
a distinct, plain meaning. I have learned to know
that when you or Mrs. Lacey say a thing, you mean
what you say, and so it is with all who are sincere
and true. Was He not sincere and true? If so,
these plain words must have a plain meaning. He
surely couldn't have meant them only for the few
people who heard His voice at that time.”

“Of course not,” said Mrs. Groody, musingly,
while poor Mrs. Lacey leaned forward with such an
eager, hungry look in her poor, worn face, that
Edith's heart yearned over her. Laura came and
sat on the floor by her sister's chair, and leaning
her elbow on Edith's knee, and her face on her
hand, looked up with the wistful, trustful, child-like
expression that had taken the place of her former
stateliness and subsequent apathy. Edith lost all
thought of herself in her eagerness to tell the others
of the Friend and Helper she had come to know.

“He must be God, or else He had no right to say

to a great, troubled, sinning world, `Come unto me.'
The idea of a million people going at once, with
their sorrows and burdens, to one mere man, or an
angel, or any finite creature! And just think how
many millions there are! If the Bible is for all, this
invitation is for all. He couldn't have changed since
then, could He? He can't be different in heaven
from what He was on earth?”

“No,” said Mrs. Groody, quickly, “for the Bible
says He is `the same yesterday, to-day, and forever.'”

“I never read in that place,” said Edith, simply.
“That makes it clearer and stronger than ever.
Please, don't think I am setting myself up as a religious
teacher. I know very little yet myself. I am
only seeking the light. But, one thing is settled in
my mind, and I like to have one thing settled before
I go on to anything else. This one thing seems the
foundation of everything else, and it appears as if I
could go on from it and learn all the rest. I am
satisfied that this Jesus is God, and that He said,
`Come unto me,' to poor, weak, overburdened Edith
Allen. I went to Him, just as people in trouble
used to, when He first spoke these words. And,
Oh, how He has helped me,” continued Edith, with
tears in her eyes, but with the glad light of a great
hope again shining through them. “The world can
never know all that He has done for us, and I can't
even think of Him without my heart quivering with
gratitude.”

Laura had now buried her face in her sister's lap,

and was trembling like a leaf. Edith's words had a
meaning to her that they could not have for the
others.

“And now,” concluded Edith, “I was led to Him
by these words, `Come unto me all ye that labor
and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' I
was in greater darkness than ever I had been before.
My heart ached as if it would burst. Difficulty
and danger seemed on every side, and I saw
no way out. I knew the world had only scorn for
us, and I was so bowed down with shame and
discouragement, that I almost lost all hope. I had
been to the village, and the people looked and
pointed at me, till I was ready to drop in the
street. But I went to Mr. McTrump's, and he and
his wife were so kind to me, and heartened me
up a little; and they spoke about the `Gude Book,'
as they call it, in such a way as made me think of it
in my deep distress and fear, as I sat alone watching
with mother. So I found my neglected Bible,
and, in some way, I seemed guided to these words,
`Come unto me;' and then, for two or three hours,
I continued to read eagerly about Him, till at last I
felt that I could venture to go to Him. So, I just
bowed my head, on His own invitation; indeed, it
seemed like a tender call to a child that had been lost
in the dark, and was afraid, and I said, `I am heavy
laden, help me.' And how wonderfully He did help
me. He has been so good, so near, ever since. My
weary, hopeless heartache is gone. I don't know
what is before us. I can't see the way out of our

troubles. I don't know what has become of our
absent one,” she said, in a low tone and with
bowed head, “but I can leave all to Him. He
is God; He loves, and He can, and will, take care
of us. So you see I know very little about religion
yet; just enough to trust and keep close to
Him; and I feel sure that in time He will teach
me, through the Bible, or in some way, all I ought
to know.”

“Bless the child, she's right, she's right,” sobbed
Mrs. Groody. “It was just so at first. He came right
among people, and called all sorts to Him, and they
came to Him just as they was, and stayed with Him,
and He cured, and helped, and taught 'em, till, from
being the worst, they became the best. That is the
way that distressed, swearin, old fisherman Peter
became one of the greatest and best men that ever
lived; though it took a mighty lot of grace and
patience to bring it about. Now I think of it, I
think he fell from grace worse than I did that awfully
hot summer. What an old fool I am. I've been
reading the Bible all my life, and never understood
it before.”

“I think that if you had gone to Him that time
when you were so troubled and overburdened, He
would have helped you,” said Edith, gently.

“Yes, but there it is, you see,” said Mrs. Groody,
wiping her eyes and shaking her head despondently,
“I didn't go.”

“But you are heavy laden now. I can see it.
You can go now,” said Edith, earnestly.

“I'm afraid I've put it off too long,” said Mrs.
Groody, settling back into something of her old
gloom. “I'm afraid I've sinned away my time.”

With a strange blending of pathos and reproach
in her tone, Edith answered,

“Oh, how can you, with your big, kind heart, that
yearned over a poor unknown girl that dreadful
night when you brought me home—how can you
think so poorly of your Saviour? Is your heart
warmer—are your sympathies larger than His?
Why, He died for us, and, when dying, prayed for
those who crucified Him. Could you turn away a
poor, sorrowing, burdened creature that came pleading
to you for help? You know you couldn't.
Learn from your own heart something of His.
Listen, I haven't told you all. It seems as if I
never could tell all about Him. But see how He
feels about poor lost Zell, when I, her own sister,
was almost hating her,” and, reaching her hand to
the table, she took her Bible and read Christ's
words to “a woman of the city, which was a
sinner.”

At this Mrs. Groody broke down completely, and
with clasped hands and streaming eyes, cried,

“I will go to Him; I will fear and doubt no
more.”

A trembling hand was now laid on Edith's
shoulder, and, looking up, she saw Mrs. Lacey standing
by her side with a face so white, so eager, so full
of unutterable longing, that it might have made a
Christian artist's ideal of a soul famishing for the

“Bread of Life.” In a low, timid, yet thrilling tone,
she asked,

“Miss Allen, do you think he would receive such
as me?”

“Yes, thus,” cried Edith, as with a divine impulse
and a great yearning pity she sprang up and
threw her arms around Mrs. Lacey.

Hope dawned in the poor worn face like the
morning. Belief in God's love and sympathy seemed
to flow into her sad heart from the other human
heart that was pressed against it. The spiritual
electric circle was completed—Edith, with her hand
of faith in God's, took the trembling, groping hand
of another and placed it there also.

Two great tears gathered in Mrs. Lacey's eyes,
and she bowed her head for a moment on Edith's
shoulder, and murmured, “I'll try—I think I may
venture to him.”

Hannibal now appeared at the door, saying,
rather huskily and brokenly, considering his message,

“Miss Edie, you'se mudder's awake, and like some
water.”

“That's what we all have been wanting, `water'
—`the water of life,'” said Mrs. Groody, wiping her
eyes, “and never was my parched old heart so refreshed
before. I don't care how hot this summer
is, or how aggravatin things are, I feel as if I'd be
helped through it. And, my dear, good-night. I
come here to try to do you good, and you've done
me more good than I ever thought could happen

again. I'm goin to kiss you—I can't help it. Good-bye,
and may the good Lord bless your sweet face;”
and Mrs. Groody, like one of old, climbed up into
her chariot, and “went on her way rejoicing.”

In their close good-night embrace, Laura whispered,
“I begin to understand it a little now, Edie,
but I think I see everything only through your eyes,
not my own.”

“As old Malcom said to me the other day, so
now I say to you, `Ye'll learn it a' soon.'”

Edith soon retired to rest also, and Mrs. Lacey
sat at Mrs. Allen's side, returning the sick woman's
slights and scorn, somewhat as the patient God
returns ours, by watching over her.

Her eyes, no longer cast down with the pathetic
discouragement of the past, seemed looking far
away upon some distant scene. She was following
in her thoughts the steps of the Magi from the East
to where, as yet far distant, the “Star of Bethlehem”
glimmered with promise and hope.