Catharine's Peril, or The Little Russian Girl Lost in a Forest Part 3

'Please, ma'am, would you give this to the poor woman whose house was burnt?' and, placing a small packet in my hands, she seemed inclined to run away.

'Wait a moment, Jane,' I said, 'and let us talk this matter over.' She followed me with apparent reluctance, and then, after I had made her sit down, I opened the little parcel she had given me, and found that it contained seven and sixpence. I knew that her mother, though a most respectable, hard-working woman, was very poor, as she had several children, and her husband was in bad health, and in consequence often out of work for weeks at a time. I was therefore surprised at what, under the circ.u.mstances, seemed to be really a munificent gift, and asked whether the money could really be spared; 'because you know, Jane,' I added, 'though it is true "the Lord loveth a cheerful giver,"

yet we are told also it is accepted according to that a man hath, and not according to that he hath not.'

'Oh, please, ma'am,' she answered eagerly, but blus.h.i.+ng deeply, 'I can spare it quite well, I can indeed; and mother gave me leave to come to you with it. She knows all about it.'

'But how do you happen to have so much money to spare?' I said, still feeling some reluctance in taking so large a sum from her.

'Well, you know, ma'am, I get half-a-crown a week from Mrs. Higgins, for going messages and carrying the baby out every day for a walk; and so mother, she said she would keep by sixpence a week to buy me a new cloak for the winter, as she thought my old one a bit shabby, and she's been putting it by all summer in a teapot; and yesterday the parson preached upon that text, how it's more blessed to give away than to get things given to you. I don't quite mind the words; but mother and me, we talked it all over when we come home, and tells father about it,--for he has got one of his bad turns, and can't go to the church,--and I tells them all about Mrs. Martin and the fire; and I says, "Mother, I don't think my old cloak is so very shabby after all, and maybe if you could iron it and bind it, it would do quite well another winter; and at any rate I'll be better off than Mrs. Martin's children, who haven't got no clothes at all;" and so mother, she says, "And that's too true, Jenny;" and father said, "G.o.d bless you, my la.s.s, and give you health to wear your old cloak,"--and oh, ma'am, I did feel so glad that I had something to give to the poor woman and her children!'

I was much touched with her earnest, simple way of putting what was in fact a very great sacrifice as if she really felt it to be none at all.

I remembered the old cloak she had worn the winter before, how thin and thread-bare it was; but I could not refuse the sweet pleading eyes, which were looking at me with such anxiety, lest I should reject her gift; so I said, 'Well, Jane, since your father and mother both approve, and you yourself are willing to give up your new cloak for the sake of these poor houseless ones, I can only say, G.o.d speed your gift, and make you to realize, in its fullest sense, the blessedness of giving!' Her face brightened with pleasure, and she thanked me warmly, as she made her curtsey and prepared to leave. 'No, I cannot let you go away,' I said; 'you must come with me, and take this money to Mrs. Martin yourself.'

'Oh, please, ma'am, I'd rather not,' she said, looking shy and timid again.

'But I want you to go, Jane, because I think this kindness and sympathy from one so young, and who is not much richer than herself, will do the poor woman as much good as the money itself. She is very much cast down; it troubles her to think that she is dependent upon others; and I think if you could say to her exactly what you have just said to me--if you told her the real pleasure you have in helping her, it might cheer and comfort her to think that the charity which is bestowed upon her in her heavy trouble is not flung at her as we might fling a bone to a dog, but is the offering of warm, kindly, and loving hearts.'

I am not quite sure if she understood all that I said to her, but she made no further opposition to going with me. I therefore got ready as soon as possible, and we went together to see Mrs. Martin. She was still with the same kind neighbour who had taken her in on the night of the fire, and still sat cowering over the fire in the very spot and att.i.tude that I had left her two days before.

'She sits that way the whole day,' the good woman whispered to me, 'and there's no rousing her; she seems gone stupid-like.'

I went up to her and told her my errand, saying that the money I put in her hand was from the little girl who came with me, and who was anxious to contribute something to help her in her sore need. She looked at me, at the girl, and then at the money, and muttered--

'Yes, yes, I must live on charity now, and then go to the workhouse.'

'Speak to her, Jane,' I said, while I left the two together, and began talking to the woman of the house, that they might not feel themselves observed. I heard Jane speaking at first in very low tones, timidly and softly; then there was the same sweet, earnest, pleading voice with which she had spoken to me. In the intervals of my own conversation, I overheard one or two sentences. I heard her telling of the sermon she had heard, which seemed to have made a great impression on her mind; and then I heard her say:

'I'm sure if it had been mother's house that had been burnt down, and you had heard how father and mother and me and my brothers and sisters had no house, nor furniture, nor clothes, you would have done what you could to help us; now, wouldn't you? And you know it's just the same thing, only it's you and your children instead of mother and us that's in trouble; and you needn't mind taking a little help when you would willingly have given it.'

'And that's true,' I heard the widow reply, in a tone of greater interest than I had yet known her speak.

Her hostess looked at me, and said low, 'Them's the first words she has spoken in her own natural voice since her trouble.'

Jane continued, not aware that we were listening to her now:

'I've often heard father say it's no disgrace to be ever so poor, and to get help from others, when it comes on us from G.o.d's hand, and not because we are idle and won't work. Many a time he says that, when he is ill and can't work, and mother gets downhearted, and thinks we'll have to come on the parish; and he says even going on the parish ain't no disgrace then, when it ain't one's own fault. But mother says she'd work her fingers to the bone sooner than she'd go on the parish; and with one thing and another, we've always got on somehow, and so will you, I'm sure.'

'Yes,' said the woman, with an energy that startled us all, while it delighted us,--'yes, I may get on too, with G.o.d's help; but not if I am to sit here with my hands folded, before the fire, thinking of my trouble instead of trying to mend it. G.o.d bless you, my la.s.s, for your money, which I'll take from you thankfully; and if I can't never repay you, may He do it. It will serve to get me some clothes, and then I can work; and who knows but I may have a home of my own again some day?'

Finding her able and willing now to listen to reason, I explained to her that some friends who had heard of her loss had placed three pounds at my disposal for her use, and that she must look upon the help she got quite as much as coming from G.o.d as Elijah did when the ravens fed him, because it was G.o.d who put it into people's hearts to give her money.

She took what I gave her gratefully, and entered warmly into all the plans which we suggested for her future. It was agreed that she should at once take a small furnished room, and go with her children to occupy it. She said she had for some time had regular work as a charwoman for three days in every week. This work she could still have; and I engaged to get her some needlework from a working society, which might help to occupy her spare time, and bring in a little money. The woman in whose house she was staying told us that a sister of hers would willingly take the eldest girl, who was eleven years old, as she wanted a girl to take care of her baby while she looked after a small shop. She engaged that for a year her sister should feed and clothe the girl, if she gave satisfaction; and said that if she behaved herself, she was sure her sister would keep her till she was old enough to get a better place.

It was pleasant to see how heartily Mrs. Martin entered into all these arrangements as they were severally proposed, and the eager gladness of Jane Hill's face as she listened to our plans, and, with the hopefulness and inexperience of youth, evidently believed that each one was to lead to competence, if not to actual wealth.

The fire did, indeed, in the end, prove to have been the greatest blessing to the Martins. Many people were led to interest themselves in the poor widow and her children, who would never have heard of them but for it. Mrs. Martin got more work to do than she could get through, and her children obtained situations as soon as they were old enough to work for themselves. She never forgot the debt of grat.i.tude she owed to Jane Hill. 'But for her,' she said, 'she believed she would have moped herself into her grave.'

The Christmas-day after the fire, I had the pleasure of taking to Jane a nice, warm, winter cloak. She began to say, in a deprecating way, 'Oh, ma'am, indeed it's far too kind! mine is quite good yet;' but I stopped her, saying, 'No, Jane, you must not keep all the pleasure of giving to yourself. Remember that to others, as well as to yourself, it is true that "It is more blessed to give than to receive."'