Part 14 (2/2)

”I wish that I knew how they made their way with the cottagers. Did they not find it very difficult at first?” asked Emmie.

”I do not know how they found it at first,” replied Susan; ”for when I entered the service of the vicar's lady, even her little ones were accustomed to go to the homes of the poor whom they knew, to make some good old creature happy with a jug of warm broth, or a bit of flannel, or, perhaps, a text in large letters, painted by themselves, to be hung up in a sick person's room.”

”But there is just the difficult point,” observed Emmie,--”how did the family come to know the poor so well? If one were once acquainted with the 'good old creature,' there might be some pleasure in taking the broth or the flannel.”

”My young ladies used to go on their regular rounds, miss, and exchange the books which they lent to the poor. I have often gone with the ladies to carry the books,” said Susan. ”The visitors were always asked to sit down in the cottages, the people were so much pleased to see them.”

”And when the ladies sat down, what happened next?” asked Emmie, who felt herself to be ignorant of the very alphabet of district visiting, and who was not too proud to learn from her maid. ”What did your ladies say? Did they begin directly to teach and to preach?”

”Oh dear, no, miss!” cried Susan, a little surprised at the question; ”I think that my ladies talked to the poor much as they would have talked to other people. They spoke to the cottagers about their health and the weather, and to the mothers about their children, and they gave any little bit of news, perhaps out of a missionary paper, that they thought would amuse the poor folk. The talking came all quite natural-like.”

”It would never come natural-like with me,” observed Emmie; ”nor, to own the truth, do I see that much good is gained by that kind of talk. One does not make the effort of going into the dirty homes of the poor just to gossip with them, as one might do with a friend, but to teach them their duty and make them better.”

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 cla.s.ses _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 superst.i.tious dread. She pa.s.sed 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 gla.s.s 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 G.o.d, Emmie's thoughts were not rising to G.o.d.

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 s.h.i.+rt-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 d.u.c.h.ess. 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.

”You might have left them by the door,” observed Emmie.

Susan thought, though too respectful to say what she thought, that her young ladies had never _dropped_ tracts in the mud for the poor to stoop to pick up; the vicar's daughters had always given such papers with the pleasant smile which had insured for them a welcome. In distributing religious literature, as in most other matters, success greatly depends on the manner in which a thing is done.

Emmie was not satisfied with this her first essay in cottage-visiting.

”I never thought of finding workmen at home,” she observed to Susan.

”I think, miss, that twelve is a common dinner-hour,” said Susan, ”and that then some of the men come home from their work.”

”Then a.s.suredly twelve is a bad visiting hour,” cried Emmie; ”we had better return home directly.” The young lady walked back to Myst Court at a much quicker pace than had been hers when she had started on her little expedition. She was glad to find herself within the gate and in the shrubbery again.

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