University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.
ROUGH HANDLING OF SORE NERVES.

THE same Sunday evening that Mary and her brother
Mike had devoted to the disciplinary processes
with Maggie, had been spent by Eva and her husband
at her father's house.

Mrs. Van Arsdel, to say the truth, had been somewhat
shaken and disturbed by Aunt Maria's suggestions;
and she took early occasion to draw Eva aside, and
make many doubtful inquiries and utter many admonitory
cautions with regard to the part she had taken for
Maggie.

“Of course, dear, it's very kind in you,” said Mrs.
Van Arsdel; “but your aunt thinks it isn't quite prudent;
and, come to think it over, Eva, I'm afraid it may
get you into trouble. Everything is going on so well in
your house, I don't want you to have anything disagreeable,
you know.”

“Well, after all, mother, how can I be a Christian, or
anything like a Christian, if I am never willing to take
any trouble? If you heard the preaching we do every
Sunday, you would feel so.”

“I don't doubt that Mr. St. John is a good preacher,”
said Mrs. Van Arsdel; “but then I never could go so
far, you know; and your aunt is almost crazy now because
the girls go up there and don't sit in our pew in
church. She was here yesterday, and talked very
strongly about your taking Maggie. She really made
me quite uncomfortable.”

“Well, I should like to know what concern it is of

Aunt Maria's!” said Eva. “It's a matter in which
Harry and I must follow our own judgment and conscience;
Harry thinks we are doing right, and I suspect
Harry knows what is best to do as well as Aunt Maria.”

“Well, certainly, Eva, I must say it's an unusual
sort of thing to do. I know your motives are all right
and lovely, and I stood up for you with your aunt. I
didn't give in to her a bit; and yet, all the while, I
couldn't help thinking that maybe she was right and that
maybe your good-heartedness would get you into difficulty.”

“Well, suppose it does; what then? Am I never to
have any trouble for the sake of helping anybody? I
am not one of the very good women with missions, like
Sibyl Selwyn, and can't do good that way; and I'm not
enterprising and courageous, like sister Ida, to make
new professions for women: but here is a case of a poor
woman right under my own roof who is perplexed and
suffering, and if I can help her carry her load, ought I
not to do it, even if it makes me a good deal of trouble?”

“Well, yes, I don't know but you ought,” said Mrs.
Van Arsdel, who was always convinced by the last
speaker.

“You see,” continued Eva, “the priest and the Levite
who passed by on the other side when a man lay wounded
were just of Aunt Maria's mind. They didn't want
trouble, and if they undertook to do anything for him
they would have a good deal; so they left him. And if I
turn my back on Mary and Maggie I shall be doing
pretty much the same thing.”

“Well, if you only are sure of succeeding. But girls
that have fallen into bad ways are such dangerous
creatures; perhaps you can't do her any good, and will
only get yourself into trouble.”

“Well, if I fail, why then I shall fail. But I think

it's better to try and fail in doing our part for others than
never to try at all.”

“Well, I suppose you are right, Eva; and after all
I'm sorry for poor Mary. She had a hard time with her
marriage all round; and I suppose it's no wonder Maggie
went astray. Mary couldn't control her; and handsome
girls in that walk of life are so tempted. How does she
get on?”

“Oh, nicely, for the most part. She seems to have a
sort of adoration for me. I can say or do anything with
her, and she really is very handy and skillful with her
needle; she has ripped up and made over an old dress
for me so you'd be quite astonished to see it, and seems
really pleased and interested to have something to do.
If only her mother will let her alone, and not keep nagging
her, and bringing up old offenses. Mary is so eager
to make her do right that she isn't judicious, she doesn't
realize how sensitive and sore people are that know they
have been wrong. Maggie is a proud girl.”

“Oh, well, she's no business to be proud,” said Mrs.
Van Arsdel. “I'm sure she ought to be humbled in the
very dust; that's the least one should expect.”

“And so ought we all,” said Eva, “but we are not,
and she isn't. She makes excuses for herself, and feels
as if she had been abused and hardly treated, just as
most of us do when we go wrong, and I tell Mary not to
talk to her about the past, but just quietly let her do better
in future; but it's very hard to get her to feel that
Maggie ought not to be willing to be lectured and
preached to from morning till night.”

“Your Aunt Maria, no doubt, will come up and free
her mind to you about this affair,” said Mrs. Van Arsdel.
“She has a scheme in her head of getting another girl
for you in Mary's place. The Willises are going abroad
for three years and have given their servants leave to

advertise from the house; and your aunt left me Saturday,
saying she was going up there to ascertain all about
them and get you the refusal of one of them, provided
you wished to get rid of Mary.”

“Get rid of Mary! I think I see myself turning
upon my good Mary that loves me as she does her life,
and scheming to get her out of my house because she's
in trouble. No, indeed; Mary has been true and faithful
to me, and I will be a true and faithful friend to her.
What could I do with one of the Willises' servants, with
their airs and their graces? Would they come to a little
house like mine, and take all departments in turn, and do
for me as if they were doing for themselves, as Mary
does?”

“Just so,” said Mrs. Van Arsdel. “That's just what
I told Maria. I told her that you never would consent.
But you know how it is with her when she gets an idea
in her head, there's no turning her. You might as well
talk to a steam engine. She walked off down stairs
straight as a ramrod, and took the omnibus for the
Willises, in spite of all I could say; and, sure as the
world, she'll be up to talk with you about it. She insisted
that it was my duty to interfere; and I told her you
had a right to manage your matters in your own way.
Then she said if I didn't do my duty by you, she
should.”

“Well, you have done your duty, Mamma dear,” said
Eva, kissing her mother. “I'll bear witness to that, and
it isn't your fault if I am not warned. But you, dear
little mother, have sense to let your children sail their
own boat their own way, without interfering.”

“Well, I think your ways generally turn out the best
ways, Eva,” said her mother. “And I think Aunt Maria
herself comes into them finally. She is proud as a peacock
of your receptions, and takes every occasion to tell

people what charming, delightful evenings you have;
and she praises your house and your housekeeping and
you to everybody, so you may put up with a little bother
now and then.”

“Oh, I'll manage Aunt Maria, never you fear,” said
Eva, as she rose confidently and took her husband from
a discussion with Mr. Van Arsdel.

“Come, Harry, it's nine o'clock, and we have a long
walk yet to get home.”

It was brisk, clear winter moonlight in the streets as
Harry and Eva took their way homeward—she the while
relieving her mind by reciting her mother's conversation.

“Don't it seem strange,” she said, “how the minute
one actually tries to do some real Christian work everything
goes against one?”

“Yes,” said Harry; “the world isn't made for the
unfortunate or unsuccessful. In general, the instinct of
society is the same among men as among animals—
anything sickly or maimed is to be fought off and got rid
of. If there is a sick bird, all the rest fly at it and peck
it to death. So in the world, when man or woman
doesn't keep step with respectable people, the first idea
is to get them out of the way. We can't exactly kill
them, but we can wash our hands of them. Saving souls
is no part of the world's work—it interferes with its
steady business; it takes unworldly people to do that.”

“And when one begins,” said Eva, “shrewd, sensible
folks, like Aunt Maria, blame us; and little, tender-hearted
folks, like mamma, think it's almost a pity we
should try, and that we had better leave it to somebody
else; and then the very people we are trying to do for
are really troublesome and hard to manage—like poor
Maggie. She is truly a very hard person to get along
with, and her mother is injudicious, and makes it harder;

but yet, it really does seem to be our work to help take
care of her. Now, isn't it?”

“Well, then, darling, you may comfort your heart with
one thought: when you are doing for pure Christian motives
a thing that makes you a great deal of trouble, and
gets you no applause, you are trying to live just that unworldly
life that the first Christians did. They were
called a peculiar people, and whoever acts in the same
spirit now-a-days will be called the same. I think it is
the very highest wisdom to do as you are doing; but it
isn't the wisdom of this world. It's the kind of thing
that Mr. St. John is sacrificing his whole life to; it is
what Sibyl Selwyn is doing all the time, and your little
neighbor Ruth is helping in. We can at least try to do
a little. We are inexperienced, it may be that we shall
not succeed, it may be that the girl is past saving; but
it's worth while to try, and try our very best.”

Harry was saying this just as he put his latch-key
into the door of his house.

It was suddenly opened from within, and Maggie
stood before them with her bonnet and shawl on, ready
to pass out. There was a hard, sharp, desperate expression
in her face as she pressed forward to pass them.

“Maggie, child,” said Eva, laying hold of her arm,
“where are you going?”

“Away—anywhere—I don't care where,” said Maggie,
fiercely, trying to pull away.

“But you mustn't,” said Eva, laying hold of her.

“Maggie,” said Harry, stepping up to her and speaking
in that calm, steady voice which controls passionate
people, “go into the house immediately with Mrs. Henderson;
she will talk with you.”

Maggie turned, and sullenly followed Eva into a little
sewing room adjoining the parlor, where she had often
sat at work.

“Now, Maggie,” said Eva, “take off your bonnet, for
I'm not going to have you go into the streets at this
hour of the night, and sit down quietly here and tell me
all about it. What has happened? What is the matter?
You don't want to distress your mother and break her
heart?”

“She hates me,” said Maggie. “She says I've disgraced
her and I disgrace you, and that it's a disgrace
to have me here. She and Uncle Mike both said so,
and I said I'd go off, then.”

“But where could you go?” said Eva.

“Oh, I know places enough! They're bad, to be
sure. I wanted to do better, so I came away; but I can
go back again.”

“No, Maggie, you must never go back. You must
do as I tell you. Have I not been a friend to you?”

“Oh, yes, yes, you have; but they say I disgrace
you.”

“Maggie, I don't think so. I never said so. There
is no need that you should disgrace anybody. I hope
you'll live to be a credit to your mother—a credit to us
all. You are young yet; you have a good many years
to live; and if you'll only go on and do the very best you
can from this time, you can be a comfort to your mother
and be a good woman. It's never too late to begin,
Maggie, and I'll help you now.”

Maggie sat still and gazed gloomily before her.

“Come, now, I'll sing you some little hymns,” said
Eva, going to her piano and touching a few chords.
“You've got your mind all disturbed, and I'll sing to
you till you are more quiet.”

Eva had a sweet voice, and a light, dreamy sort of
touch on the piano, and she played and sung with
feeling.

There were truths in religion, higher, holier, deeper

than she felt capable of uttering, which breathed themselves
in these hymns; and something within her gave
voice and pathos to them.

The influence of music over the disturbed nerves and
bewildered moral sense of those who have gone astray
from virtue, is something very remarkable. All modern
missions more or less recognize that it has a power which
goes beyond anything that spoken words can utter, and
touches springs of deeper feeling.

Eva sat playing a long time, going from one thing to
another; and then, rising, she found Maggie crying softly
by herself.

“Come, now, Maggie,” she said, “you are going to be
a good girl, I know. Go up and go to bed now, and
don't forget your prayers. That's a good girl.”

Maggie yielded passively, and went to her room.

Then Eva had another hour's talk, to persuade Mary
that she must not be too exacting with Maggie, and that
she must for the future avoid all such encounters with
her. Mary was, on the whole, glad to promise anything;
for she had been thoroughly alarmed at the altercation
into which their attempt at admonition had grown, and
was ready to admit to Eva that Mike had been too hard
on her. At all events, the family honor had been sufficiently
vindicated, and, if Maggie would only behave herself,
she was ready to promise that Mike should not be
allowed to interfere in future. And so, at last, Eva
succeeded in inducing Mary to go to her daughter's
room with a reconciling word before she went to bed,
and had the comfort of seeing the naughty girl crying in
her mother's arms, and the mother petting and fondling
her as a mother should.

Alas! it is only in the good old Book that the father
sees the prodigal a great way off, and runs and falls on
his neck and kisses him, before he has confessed his sin

or done any work of repentance. So far does God's
heavenly love outrun even the love of fathers and
mothers.

“Well, I believe I've got things straightened out at
last,” said Eva, as she came back to Harry; “and now,
if Mary will only let me manage Maggie, I think I can
make all go smooth.”