The Chautauqua Girls At Home Part 20

But she did not try it; and the evening pa.s.sed, as so many evenings had, without an attempt on her part to carry out any of the thoughts which troubled her. She looked forward to one bit of work which she expected to fall to her share, at least she liked to call it work.

That card-party to which she had been invited; she would be expected to attend in company with Mr. Wayne; she meant to decline, and her father would be surprised and a trifle annoyed, for it was at a place where, not liking the people well enough himself to be social, he desired his daughter to atone for his deficiency. But she would steadily refuse. She did not shrink from this effort as Flossy did; on the contrary, she half enjoyed the thought of being a calm and composed martyr.

But, quite to her discomfort, the martyrdom was not permitted; at least it took a different form. Mr. Wayne was obliged to be out of town, and sent profuse regrets, a.s.suming that, of course, it would be a sore disappointment to her.

Her father took sufficient notice of it to make one or two efforts to agreeably supply his place, and failing in that, a.s.sured his daughter that rather than have her disappointed, he would have planned to accompany her himself if he had known of Mr. Wayne's absence in time.

The actual cross that it would have been to explain to her father that she did not desire to go, and the reasons therefor, she did not take up; but the occurrence served to annoy her.

Two days afterward she was busy all the morning with her dressmaker, getting a special dress ready for a wedding among the upper circles. She had been hurried and worried, and was as nearly out of patience as her calmness ever allowed her to be. Still she remembered that it was the prayer-meeting evening, that she should see Dr. Dennis, and that he would be likely to ask her about the people on that list. She ought to go that afternoon, and try what she could do.

Once since her call on Dr. Dennis she had met him as he was going down Clinton Street, and he had turned and joined her for a few steps, while he said:

"I have been thinking about another friend of yours, that I should be very glad to see influenced in the right direction. His sister is trying, I presume; but other people's sisters some times have an influence. Young Mitch.e.l.l, the doctor's son, is a young man of real promise; he ought to be on the Lord's side."

"You are mistaken in supposing him to be a friend of mine," Ruth said, with promptness and emphasis. "We have the most distant speaking acquaintance only, and I have a dislike for him amounting to absolute aversion." There was that in Ruth Erskine's voice when she chose to let it appear that said, "My aversion is a very serious and disagreeable thing."

"Yes," the Doctor said, quietly, as one in no degree surprised or disturbed; "yet he has a soul to be saved, and the Lord Jesus Christ died to save him."

There was no denying this; and certainly it would not look well in her to say that she had no desire to have part in his salvation; so she kept silence. But there followed her a disagreeable remembrance of having negatived every proposition whereby the doctor had hoped to set her at work. She decided, disagreeable as it was, to make a vigorous a.s.sault on those families, thereby showing him what she could do.

To this end she arrayed herself in immaculate calling attire--with a rustle of silk and a softness of ruffle, and a daintiness of glove that none but the wealthy can a.s.sume, and, in short, with that unmistakable air about every thing pertaining to her that marks the lady of fashion.

These things were as much a part of Ruth Erskine as her hair and eyes were. Once ready, her dress, perhaps, gave her as little thought as her eyes or hair did. But she looked as though that must have been the sole object of thought and study in order to produce such perfect results.

Her preparation for her new and untried work had been none of the best.

As I said, the morning had been given to the cares of the dressmaker and the deceitfulness of tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs, so much so that her Bible reading even had been omitted, and only the briefest and most hurried of prayers, worthy of the days when prayer was nothing to her but a formal bowing of the head, on proper occasions, had marked her need of help from the Almighty Hand. These thoughts troubled her as she went down the Street.

She paused irresolutely before one of the princ.i.p.al bookstores.

"I ought to have some tracts," she said, doubtfully, to herself; "they always take tracts when they go district visiting; I know that from hearing Mrs. Whipple talk; what is this but a district visiting; only Dr. Dennis has put my district all over the city; I wonder if he could have scattered the streets more if he had tried; respectable streets, though, all of them; better than any Mrs. Whipple ever told about."

Then she tried to select her tracts; but when one has utter ignorance of such literature, and a few minutes at a crowded counter in which to make a selection, it is not likely to be very select. She finally gave up any attempt at choice, beyond a few whose t.i.tles seemed inviting, chose a package at random, and hastened on her way.

"Mrs. C. Y. Sullivan" was the first name on her list, and, following her directions, she came presently to the street and number. A neat brick house, with a modern air about it and its surroundings; a bird singing in a cage before the open window, and pots of flowers blooming behind tastefully looped white curtains; not at all the sort of a house that Ruth had imagined she would see.

It did not suit her ideas of district visiting, crude though those ideas were. However, she rang the bell. Having commenced the task she was not one to draw back, though she admitted to herself that she never felt more embarra.s.sed in her life. Nor did the embarra.s.sment lessen when she was shown into the pretty, tasteful parlor, where presently Mrs.

Sullivan joined her.

"I am Miss Erskine," Ruth said, rising as Mrs. Sullivan, a tall woman of some degree of dignity after a slight bow, waited as if she would know her errand. Unfortunately Ruth had no errand, save that she had come out to do her duty, and make the sort of call that Dr. Dennis expected her to make. Her embarra.s.sment was excessive! What _could_ she do or say next? Why did not Mrs. Sullivan take a chair, instead of standing there and looking at her like an idiot?

"Do you get out to church every Sabbath?" she asked, suddenly, feeling the need of saying something.

Mrs. Sullivan looked as though she thought she had suddenly come in contact with a lunatic.

"Do I get out to church?" she repeated. "That depends on whether I decide to go or not. May I ask why you are interested?"

What had become of Ruth's common sense? Why couldn't she have said, in as natural a way as she would have talked about going to a concert, that she was interested to know whether she enjoyed such a privilege? Why couldn't she have been herself in talking about these matters, as well as at any other time? Does anyone know why such a sense of horrible embarra.s.sment creeps over some people when their conversation takes the least tinge of religion--people who are wonderfully self-possessed on all other themes?

"Well," said Ruth, in haste and confusion, "I merely inquired; I mean no offence, certainly; will you have a tract?" And she hastily seized one from her package, which happened to be ent.i.tled, "Why are you not a Christian?"

"Thank you," Mrs. Sullivan said, drawing back, "I am not in special need of reading matter; we keep ourselves supplied with religious literature of a kind that suits our tastes. As to tracts, I always keep a package by me to distribute when I go among the poor. This one would not be particularly appropriate to me, as I trust I am a Christian."

Dear me! how stiff and proper they both were! And in their hearts how indignant they both felt. What about? Could either of them have told?

"I wonder what earthly good that call did?" Ruth asked herself, as with glowing cheeks and rapid steps, she made her way down the street. "What could have been Dr. Dennis' object in sending me there to call? I thought I was to call on the poor. He didn't say any thing about whether they were poor or not, now I think of it; but I supposed, of course, that was what he meant. Why need she have been so disagreeable, anyway?

I am sure I didn't insult her."

And I tell you truly that Miss Erskine did not know that she had seemed disagreeable in the extreme to Mrs. Sullivan, and that she was at that moment raging over it in her heart.

Extremely disgusted with her first attempt, and almost ready to declare that it should be the last, Ruth still decided to make one more venture--that inborn dislike which she had for giving up what had once been undertaken, coming to her aid in this matter.

Another pretty little house, white and green blinds, and plant in bloom; the name on the door and on her list was "Smith." That told her very little. She was ushered into what was evidently the family sitting-room, and a pretty enough room it was; occupied just now by three merry girls, who hushed their laugh as she entered, and by a matronly lady, whom one of them called "mother."

Ruth had never made calls before when she had the least tinge of embarra.s.sment. If she could have divested herself of the idea that she was a district visitor out distributing tracts, she would not have felt so now; but as it was, the feeling grew upon her every instant. Pretty little Miss Smith had decidedly the advantage of her, as she said, promptly:

"Good afternoon, Miss Erskine; mother, this is Judge Erskine's daughter;" and then proceeded to introduce her friends.

Now, if Ruth could have become unprofessional, all might have been well; but she had gone out with a sincere desire to do her duty; so she took the offered seat near Mrs. Smith, and said:

"I called this afternoon, at Dr. Dennis' request, to see if there was anything that I could do for you."

Mrs. Smith looked politely amazed.

"I don't think I quite understand," she said, slowly; while in the daughter's bright eyes there gleamed mirth and mischief.

"I do," she said, quickly. "Dr. Dennis is very kind. Miss Erskine, I am very anxious to have a blue silk dress, trimmed in white lace, to wear to the party next week; could you manage it for me, do you think?"

"Caroline!" spoke Mrs. Smith, in a surprised and reproving tone, while Ruth looked her indignant astonishment.

"Well, mother, she said she called to see if we wanted anything, and I certainly want that."

"There is some mistake," Mrs. Smith said, speaking kindly, and evidently pitying Ruth's dreadful embarra.s.sment. "You have mistaken the house, I presume; our name is such a common one. You are out on an errand of charity, I presume? We are glad to see you, of course, but we are not in need of anything but friends. I believe you attend the same church with ourselves; we ought to know each other, of course. So we shall profit by the mistake after all. My daughter is a wild little girl, and lets her sense of fun get the better of her politeness sometimes; I hope you will excuse her."

What was to be said? Why could not Ruth get rid of her horrible embarra.s.sment and rally to meet this kind and frank greeting? In vain she tried to command her tongue; to think of something to say that would be proper under these strange circ.u.mstances. How had she misunderstood Dr. Dennis! Why should these people be called on? Why should they feel that they were being neglected when they were in need of nothing?

It was all a mystery to her; and the world is full of people who do not understand a sense of loneliness, whose lives are so full of friendships, and engagements, and society, that they imagine all other people are like themselves except that cla.s.s known as the poor, who need old clothes, and cold pieces, and tracts!

That was all that Ruth Erskine knew. She could not recover from her astonishment and confusion; she made her stay very short, indeed, apologizing in what she was conscious was an awkward way for her intrusion, and then went directly toward home, resolving in great firmness that she had made her last calls on people selected from that horrible list.

She was more than embarra.s.sed; she was utterly dismayed and disheartened. Was there, then, nothing for her to do? It had been a real honest desire to be up and doing which had sent her to Dr. Dennis; it had been a real cross, and one keenly felt to take up this work about which she had started. What an utter failure! What could he have meant?

How was she expected to help those people? They needed nothing; they were Christian people; they were pleasantly circ.u.mstanced in every way.

She had not the least idea how to be of any help to them. There was nothing for her to do. She felt humbled and sad.

Yet that young lady was joined in a few minutes by Nellis Mitch.e.l.l, who cordially volunteered to shield her dainty summer toilet from certain drops of rain that began to fall, and so walked six entire blocks by her side, pleasant and genial as usual, and not a word said she to him about the great topic to which her life was consecrated. He even helped her by himself referring to the evening meeting, and saying that he should have to escort Eurie as far as the door if this rain continued, and she did not so much as think to ask him to come farther and enjoy the meeting with them. She did not like Nellis Mitch.e.l.l, you will remember.

Also that same evening she spent an hour after prayer-meeting in conversation with her friend, Mr. Wayne, and she said not a single word to him about this matter. She could not talk with him, she told herself; he did not understand her, and it did no good. Some time, when he was in a less complaisant mood, she could do something for him, but not now. She was not very companionable, however; her mind was dwelling on her afternoon disappointment.

"It was the most horrid time I ever had in my life!" she told Marion, after going over an account of the experience. "I shall not be caught in that way again."

And Marion, unsympathetic girl that she was, laughed much and long.