Part 9

Sara Wharton drove home with a very serious look on her face. She had induced Nellie to leave that dreadful house; indeed, the girl had yielded with that fatally facile willingness to do what she was told which should have forbade any of the joy that may be felt over the one sinner that repenteth. But in the glow of “saving” the poor child, it was not easy for Sara Wharton to realize that Nellie’s first experience of sin had only reached the stage of the young smoker’s disgust with his first cigar. The young lady, with her carriage and her satin cushions, had come at the right moment--the moment when the expediency of morality had forced itself upon the girl’s little, flimsy common-sense, and she was willing to go shuddering back to comfortable decency; but as for any spiritual perception of sin, and righteousness, and judgment, it did not exist.

Nellie had received her aunt’s forgiveness as though she were conferring a favor. Indeed, she sighed with some impatience when Mrs. Sherman wept over her; and she said again, fretfully, in response to Miss Wharton’s assertions that _now_ Nellie was going to be good,--“Why certainly, yes;” and looked about wearily, as if she wished the scene might come to an end.

“Nobody shan’t never know, my darling,” Mrs. Sherman told her, her voice breaking with tenderness; “I’ll say you’ve been away, visiting friends.”

“A’ right,” said Nellie. And neither the aunt nor the niece understood Miss Wharton’s quick protest against trying to hide one sin by another.

Sara, driving home, tired and saddened by the emotions of the afternoon, acknowledged to herself that the easy repentance was made of still less value by the easy forgiveness.

“But some day she will repent, really and truly,” she told herself; but she sighed, and dropped the window of the brougham, leaning forward to get the dash of wet, cold wind in her face. It seemed to her as though she still felt the lifeless air of those horrible halls and stairways, and the scent of musk, and tobacco smoke, and stale liquor.

“The only thing to do, the only way to save her is to love her,” Sara Wharton said to herself, “and I’m going to love her!”

When she reached home, and came in out of the cold dusk into the firelit hall, this divine intention of loving shone on her face with a beautiful solemnity. Her seriousness was so marked that her mother, who was just saying good evening to a departing caller, noticed it and said, with some anxiety:--

“My dear, there is nothing the matter, I hope?”

“No, mother darling,” the girl reassured her, with a glance at the tall fellow who stood with his hat and stick in his hand, waiting for Mrs. Wharton’s bow.

“Sara, my dear, this is Dr. Morse. My daughter, Dr. Morse.”

“I ventured to come and tell a sad story to your mother, Miss Wharton,” said the young man, “a dispensary story. I’ve just come on duty at the dispensary; but Mrs. Wharton’s kindness was so proverbial, that when I stumbled on a hard case, I came at once to tell her about it.”

“I’ve no doubt she was delighted to hear of it,” Sara said; “mother would really be dreadfully unhappy if everybody was prosperous; her occupation would be gone.”

“Why, Sara! Sara! you mustn’t say such things,” Mrs. Wharton reproved her, looking at her daughter over her gold spectacles, with the horrified protest of a simple and literal mind.

The other two laughed, feeling suddenly very well acquainted.

“So long as she lives in Mercer, Mrs. Wharton’s happiness is assured,” the doctor said; and went away, saying to himself, “What a girl! I don’t wonder people rave about her; she’s stunning! But I’m afraid she’s a professional philanthropist.”

“So that’s the new doctor?” Sara said, pulling off her gloves; “he has a nice face, rather. Did you like him, darling?”

“Yes,” her mother answered doubtfully, “only, Sara, my dear, he seems rather a stern young man. I wanted to give him a check for this poor woman he came to tell me about; but he said that I must let her clean windows, or something, to earn it. And you know, my dear child, that would interfere with James’s work. I’d much rather give the check than arrange for work.”

Sara kissed her, and cuddled her, for Mrs. Wharton was a little, roly-poly, comfortable sort of woman, and told her she was behind the times.

“Nowadays,” announced the young lady, “the ‘gave to him that asketh’ method is hopelessly unscientific; bless your dear old-fashioned heart!”

II

The saving of Nellie Sherman became an intense and passionate purpose in Sara Wharton’s life. Day by day, hour by hour, she watched and fought and prayed. She invented (according to the most approved charity methods) work for the vain and shiftless child; she had her taught to sew; she was careful to provide plenty of bright and wholesome amusement for her; by and by Nellie felt yearnings to be a bookkeeper, and Sara Wharton sent her to a commercial school. “You can pay me back when you get work,” she said, as cheerfully as though she believed that Nellie was capable of feeling a money obligation. She entered Nellie’s name at her Girls’ Club; she took her to concerts, and sent her books, and planned and thought and hoped; and always, always prayed. Furthermore, she loved the girl. That is to say, she called it love; and perhaps it was, in its way; at least it was that greater love that is content to give and not receive. Sara gave her very self--her power, her charm, her sweet and generous enthusiasms--fully and freely into the little, mean hands that were held out to take all they could get. “Because,” she said to herself, again, “the only way to reach her is to love her. Love is the greatest thing in the world! I’ve no doubt I would have been just as bad as Nellie if I hadn’t had so much love.” This thought made the girl rise, and go and push her mother’s sewing aside, and kiss her, with a little half laughing break in her voice, and her eyes suddenly wet with tears.

“What is it? What is it?” Mrs. Wharton said breathlessly, adjusting her spectacles, which the impetuous embrace had disturbed; “is anything the matter, Sara?”

“No,” her daughter answered, with a laugh, winking away the tears, “I was just thinking how lucky I was to have you for a mother, you darling! If I’d had some cross old mother I should have been--I should have been a fiend! I haven’t a doubt of it. I’d have been just as wicked as poor Nellie Sherman.”

“Nothing of the sort!” retorted Mrs. Wharton, much ruffled; “please remember what kind of people your grand-parents on both sides were, and don’t say such unladylike things, Sara. Dear, dear, I don’t know what girls are coming to in these days. When I was young, young ladies didn’t know that such improper persons existed as your Nellie Sherman. I wish you would have nothing to do with her.”

Sara, on her knees beside the little, rosy, kindly lady, pulled her cap straight, and scolded her for making her forefinger rough with so much sewing.

“You are always making petticoats for poor people,” she said severely, “instead of talking to me about my winter clothes. I want a new dinner dress, ma’am, and you’ve got to buy it. I’ve used up all my allowance, and borrowed from father on the next quarter; so please help the deserving poor of your own household. Charity begins at home, let me tell you! Who is to have this petticoat?--while your own poor child is in want of a satin gown!”

“Well,” Mrs. Wharton said, with some confusion, “the fact is, Nellie looks so sickly I am afraid she is not warmly enough clad”--

Sara shrieked with laughter. “Consistency, thy name is Mother,” she cried; and began to pour out her plans for Nellie, which Mrs. Wharton amended several times, objecting to Sara’s assertion that Nellie should repay the money expended for her tuition at the commercial college.

“The poor thing will have so little money, anyhow,” she entreated. But Sara held to her theory.

“We’ll make it up in other ways,--petticoats, and things, but she must feel it a loan,” she said.

However, Miss Wharton’s theories were far too fine for the material with which she worked. When the three terms at the commercial college were over, Nellie was languidly grateful, but she doubted whether she should like bookkeeping; she was, however, willing to “give it a trial;” so Sara found a place in a shop for her, and, as the proprietor (another friend and dependent) could not pay the full wages, made up the sum herself. But it never occurred to Nellie to begin to pay her debt; and Sara, fearful of antagonizing the child, cast her theory to the winds, and did not suggest it.

So the first year passed. The anxious, courageous, artificial fight never flagged; and Nellie, for twelve months, was “straight.” There had been great expenditure of time and strength and money to save the little creature; and in a purely negative way the effort had been successful. Nellie was “straight.”

Yet Sara Wharton was sometimes dreadfully discouraged; she could not see a single large or noble trait in the girl, although it was her sweet and loving theory to believe in what she did not see.

“Goodness is there, somewhere!” she used to say to herself, with a beautiful and courageous belief which was part of her own character; and then she fell back on what she had called “the greatest thing in the world:” “Goodness is there, and I’ve got to _love it out_!” She took Nellie’s latent goodness for granted, especially in her effort to overcome the child’s enveloping selfishness. She was constantly trying to make her realize the happiness of sacrifice.

“Nellie,” she said once, “now that you’ve got your place as bookkeeper, and are earning some money, of course you want to pay me; but I think, even before that, you must want to pay for your board at your aunt’s. She has been so good to you, you know; and I’m sure you’ll be glad to help her along a little?”

“Oh, certainly!” Nellie replied, with a blank look.

“How much do you think you can pay?” Sara suggested cheerfully.

“Well, just now,” Nellie demurred, “I really have to have a new dress; perhaps, later, I can give her a little something.”

Sara looked at her wistfully. “Don’t you _want_ to, Nellie? I should think your very first thought would be to do something for her. Just think what she has done for you!”

“Of course, I mean to,” Nellie said, tossing her head, “but I’ve got to have a dress--and things.”

“If only,” Sara reflected, “she could once understand how awfully nice it is to give!” and then she planned that every Saturday Nellie might come to the greenhouse and get some roses from the gardener,--“and take them to the hospital. It is delightful to do that!” she said. And Nellie smiled faintly, and said, “Oh, certainly;” but only came once for the flowers.

Nevertheless, Nellie Sherman had been “rescued.” Almost the same sort of rescue would have been achieved if Sara had fastened her into a strait-jacket and locked her into a room. But with Miss Wharton on one side, and her aunt on the other, day and night, the strange, boneless, unmoral little nature “kept straight;” and in a glimmering way the girl even began to see that there were certain views which were thought admirable, and once in a while she tried them on, as it were, and regarded herself in the mirror of Miss Wharton’s warm and joyous approbation.

“I was so sorry not to see you at the club last night, Nellie,” Sara said to her one day, dropping in to buy a pair of gloves at the shop where Nellie kept the books.

“My aunt wasn’t well,” said Nellie, “and I stayed at home to take care of her.” Such a light came into Sara Wharton’s sweet face, such tenderness and triumph and quick hope, that Nellie looked at her curiously.

“That was right, Nellie, dear,” she said; “I’m so glad you did it. I’m _so_ glad,” she repeated, and went away, her eyes misty and her heart lifted up. She could not help going in to see Mrs. Sherman, making the excuse of bringing her some fruit because she was ill, but really to share her exultation.

“Sick?” said Mrs. Sherman, “why, no, ma’am, I’m not sick, no more than I always am with worry about that there Nellie. She didn’t come home from the club last night until after eleven, and I was scared to death for fear she’d gone off with them Caligan girls--they’re fast girls, that’s what they are; and she’s struck up a great friendship with ’em. My, she’ll worry me into my grave, Nellie will. But she said you’d kept her late to help you putting away the club books,--and of course that was all right.”

III

“You owe something to your family, my child,” Mrs. Wharton said one day; “you make us all very anxious and worried by overworking so; it’s your duty to take a little rest.”

“Mother, darling,” Sara began to protest, “I really can’t go away now; the Girls’ Club and”--

“You needn’t begin the list, my dear,” her mother interrupted--“I know them all. Dear, dear! Sara, when I was a girl, young women owed some duties to their parents, as well as to all the shiftless, worthless, improper people in the world.”

“I trust I’m not a Borrioboola-Gha person,” murmured Sara.

“Don’t be foolish, my child,” Mrs. Wharton said, “and use long words when your poor old mother don’t know what they mean”--

“You darling!” said Sara, and hugged her so tightly that Mrs. Wharton remonstrated.

“It would be a great deal more to the point if, instead of kissing me, you would be an obedient child. You worry me almost to death, working so hard. I want you to come to Florida. I asked Dr. Morse if he didn’t think you were doing too much, and he said you took a great deal of unnecessary trouble; so you see he agrees with me.”

“Mother, dear, how you adore doctors! Dr. Morse doesn’t know what he’s talking about. But you might tell me what else he said?”

“Oh, some nonsense about--about your being of so much value to Mercer,” Mrs. Wharton admitted, with evident fear that one statement might lessen the effect of the other.

But whether it was Dr. Morse’s understanding of the value of her work, or whether it was her mother’s entreaties, Sara at last agreed to go away for a little while, though it was hard work to get things in running order for a three months’ absence of their head. Nellie was her greatest anxiety; three months without oversight and guidance--who could tell what might happen! So Sara made many plans; the girl was to be guarded on this side and on that: she was to have steady work, and she was to have frequent amusement; pleasure and profit were all arranged. And before she went, Sara had a little talk with her. She had sent for the girl, who came up into her bedroom, where, just before dinner, Miss Wharton was sitting in the firelight. The pretty room was full of dusky shadows; its faint scent of roses, its deep, soft chairs, the shimmer of silver on the toilet-table, all its delicate luxury, was evident enough to Nellie. The sullen upper lip swelled out as she looked enviously about her. She liked the touch of the silk cushions, the feeling of the soft white rug under her feet; the color of Miss Wharton’s crimson tea-gown fed her eyes with delight. She hardly heard what the young lady was saying.

“Nellie, dear, I want you to try your very best to be good while I’m away.”

“Oh, certainly,” said Nellie, with a sigh.

Sara clasped her hands together over her knees, and held her lip between her teeth, drawing in her breath; Nellie watched her rings wink and flash in the firelight.

“Nellie” (Sara was saying to herself, “Oh, I _hope_ I will say what is wise. I _hope_ I can touch her!”), “Nellie, you know how I have always believed in you, and hoped for you, and loved you; and just because I have, and because I am truly, truly your friend, I want to ask you to do two things for me while I’m away: first, promise me not to tell another lie; oh, Nellie, you don’t know how unhappy you made me when you told me that lie about the club.”

Nellie dropped her head upon her breast, and made no answer.

“And then,” Sara went on, “I want you to try not to be so selfish. I am so grieved to have you indifferent to Mrs. Sherman’s kindness to you. She told me that you had only given her one dollar and seventy-five cents since you went to work. And don’t you see, you have been receiving everything she could give you, of love and care, and yet you have given her nothing! You haven’t even been kind to her, Nellie.”

“_Oh!_” said Nellie, “well, I wish I was dead. Everybody’s always finding fault. I’m sure there’s lots of girls worse than me. But I’m always being picked at. I wish I was dead.”

Sara was nervous and overstrained; besides, she was conscious of a sort of physical disgust at this poor, repulsive little being; her self-reproach brought the tears to her eyes. “I didn’t mean to be hard on you, Nellie,” she said, “only I want you to try.”

“I _always_ try,” said Nellie.

“And,” Sara’s brave young voice went on, “I do want you to feel that--that Christ cares; that God cares, Nellie, that you shall be a good, true, dear girl. Will you just think of that, Nellie?”

“Why, of course,” Nellie answered resentfully, wiping her eyes. “I do always. My aunt makes me go to church every Sunday. Miss Sara, do you think you have any pieces of velvet in your rag-bag?”

Sara started. “Rag-bag?” she repeated vaguely, “velvet?”

“I thought I could trim my hat over,” Nellie explained. “You’ve got so many things,” she ended sullenly.

Sara was silent for a few minutes, reasoning with herself. After all, Nellie was young; it was natural for her to like pretty things.

“Yes, I can give you some velvet, I think,” she said cheerfully; “and, Nellie, I have a plan for you; what are you going to give your aunt for a Christmas gift?”

Nellie looked up blankly.

“I know you’ll want to give her something,” Sara went on, “and I was thinking of a nice chair. What do you think of that?”

“A chair!” repeated Nellie in astonishment. “Why, I wouldn’t buy a chair for myself!”

Sara sighed. “But you would like the fun of buying one for somebody else, wouldn’t you?”

“Well, I ain’t got any money,” the girl said uneasily; and then Miss Wharton unfolded her plan, which was that she should give Nellie five dollars, and Nellie would add what she could, and a present should be purchased.

“Add something, if it’s only a dollar,” Sara said pleadingly; “a good, comfortable chair can be bought for six dollars.”

“A’ right; I don’t mind,” Nellie agreed, in a wearied way. She did not understand all this talk; she saw no reason in Miss Sara’s giving Mrs. Sherman a chair, and saying it was Nellie’s gift; still, she didn’t mind.

“You’ll like to do that, won’t you, Nellie?” Sara said anxiously.

“Oh, certainly,” said Nellie, and then she rose, for Miss Wharton was silent, and that seemed a sign of dismissal.

Sara rose, too, and stood looking at her visitor for a moment; then, suddenly she put her arm around the little thin shoulders, and drew the girl to her, and kissed her. “Oh, Nellie,” she said, her voice passionate and trembling,--“Oh, Nellie, _dear_! I--I wish I knew what to say, to show you--to make you feel”--her voice broke; Nellie was greatly embarrassed;--“but just believe _I love you_, won’t you? and be good!”

“Why,” said Nellie, with a sigh of fatigue and reproach, “certainly!” Then she added, “Well, good-by; hope you’ll have a delightful time, I’m sure,” and closed Miss Sara’s door, with a sense of relief that was like the lifting of some harassing weight. She came slowly downstairs, pulling on her soiled gloves, and walking with a mincing step. Escaped from Miss Wharton’s room, she felt as if all the luxury of this great house--the color, the lights, the soft carpet under her feet, the sparkle of the firelight in the hall below--was hers, and so she assumed the gait and the manner which she conceived to belong to an owner. The inside-man was just lighting a lamp under a big rose-colored shade, and Nellie threw up her head with a haughty look, and drew down the corners of her mouth, sweeping past him toward the door. James, however, smiled with great politeness.

“Oh, g’d evening, Miss Sherman,” he said. “My! it does seem to get dark early these days, doesn’t it?”

Nellie’s lofty coldness melted instantly. She simpered and said, “Is that so?”

“It’s quite late for a young lady to be out alone,” James remarked with grave solicitude.

“Oh, that’s a’ right,” Nellie protested.

She was smiling, and holding her head coquettishly, and looking up at him with great archness. She dropped her handkerchief as she reached the front door and James picked it up, and handed it to her with an elaborate bow. He caught her fingers in his own as he did so, and they both giggled, and Nellie said, “Now, you stop that!”

They lowered their voices with an apprehensive look towards the staircase; James opened the door and stepped out on the porch with her. “Well, you oughtn’t to be severe, Miss Sherman; it’s such a little hand, a gentleman can’t help it; Miss Sara’s is twice as big.”

“Is that so?” said Nellie; and then they both looked up at the sky, and James observed that the weather was threatening, and it certainly _was_ too dark for a young lady, a beautiful young lady, to be out alone.

“Oh, that’s a’ right,” Nellie reassured him politely.

James in an absent-minded way put his arm round her, and said he thought ladies ought always to have gentlemen escorts.

“Is that so?” Nellie answered, simpering; and, with the same apparent absence of mind, sidling closer to him, which induced his easy caresses; “well, I must be going along,” she announced, giggling.

“Well, good-by, Miss Sherman,” said the chivalrous James, and gave her a hearty kiss, which made Nellie slap at him with one hand, and say, “Now you stop that!” and go off, still giggling, into the darkness.

* * * * *

Sara Wharton, upstairs by her fire, had dropped her face in her hands, and was saying to herself, “I must trust her more, and believe in her more! Oh, I am sure she tries--poor little Nellie.”

And certainly poor Nellie was not conscious of any lack of trying, so far as the episode with James was concerned. To her, as well as to him, it was very harmless, that kiss in the porch. And really to call such a thing “sin” is to lift it to a level where it does not belong.

But probably Sara Wharton was constitutionally unable to understand that.

The people who try to make silk purses out of inadequate materials rarely can understand it.

IV

The Whartons did not get back until April, and the improvement in Sara’s color, and the clear, glad look in her eyes, showed how much she had needed the change. She was all ready for her brave, happy work for other people. Her very first visit was to Nellie’s aunt. When she climbed up to the top tenement, stopping to open a window on a landing half way up, so that the sweet spring air might turn out the odors of the hall-sink, and of the dirt in the corners and on the stairs, she came into Mrs. Sherman’s room a little breathless, but with a soft rose-color on her cheek.

“Well!” she called out cheerfully, “here I am again, Mrs. Sherman; how are you; and how is Nellie?” and then she discovered Nellie sitting close to the stove, on which was a tin boiler full of steaming soapy linen, which Mrs. Sherman, bare armed and draggled, pushed down once in a while with a broom-handle.

“There!” said Mrs. Sherman, “well! my sakes, Miss Wharton, it do do me good to see you. Look at that there girl!”

Nellie sunk her head on her breast and began to cry. Sara was instantly serious. “Is anything wrong?” she said gravely.

“Wrong!” cried Mrs. Sherman shrilly. “Well, I guess! I told her I’d keep her till you come home, though she’s a shame to any decent woman. My! what I’ve put up with for that there child!” She put her apron over her head, sobbing and vociferating: “I told her I’d tell you. I ain’t let her out of that door since. I’ll keep her straight now, as long as _I_ live”--