Chapter IX: Sarah Southmayd

WHEN Eunice arrived at home and looked at the bundle of work she had taken from Ida, she was rather dismayed. But she was a capital seamstress, and the little sewing-machine was in the best of tempers, and showed itself to be the most amiable of assistants. Mrs. Riker lent a helping hand, and by Saturday night the garments were all finished.

"There they are," said Eunice, holding up the last elegant garment for her mother's inspection. "I will wash and do them up on Monday, and then they will be all ready to send."

"Ida Van Zandt will be glad," said Mrs. Riker.

"Poor Ida!" said Eunice, laughing. "I do believe she was rather glad she hurt her thumb, after all, so that she could get rid of finishing them."

"You have done your share of work for the box, after all," observed her mother. "Will your stockings be finished?"

"Oh yes; I have only the last to foot. See how nicely the yarn matches. I don't think any one could tell the difference. Now for my Sunday-school lesson."

The next day Mrs. Riker had a headache, and did not go to church. Eunice attended as usual. As she took her seat in the Sunday-school class, she saw Phebe Goodman lean over and whisper to a girl in front of her. They both glanced at Eunice, and the girl in front said something to her companion, who also glanced at Eunice with an ill-natured laugh.

"What does it mean?" thought Eunice. "I am sure I never did anything to Phebe Goodman or Minny Haynes."

At that moment Julia Hazleton entered the class. Eunice spoke to her as usual, but Julia turned away her head, and did not make even a show of returning the salutation.

"Where is Ida?" asked Miss Ackerman of Julia when the opening exercises were finished.

"She has hurt her hand very badly," answered Julia. "The doctor is afraid she will lose the end of her thumb."

"Oh, is it so bad as that?" asked Eunice. "I was there when the accident happened, and I thought she would have trouble with it."

Julia turned her back upon Eunice as far as the seat would allow, and continued speaking without taking any notice of the remark:

"The doctor thinks the bone is injured, and he says it will be a long time before she can use her hand again. She makes as much fuss about it as if she had broken her arm."

"She probably suffers a good deal more than she would if she had broken her arm," said Miss Ackermann. "I must go up and see her to-morrow."

Anita took her seat by Eunice, and spoke to her with her usual friendliness, making use of a Spanish phrase which she had taught her friend, and to which Eunice returned the appropriate answer, also in Spanish. Two or three of the girls exchanged glances of surprise, and Phebe immediately asked Eunice how her mother was. Minny Haynes looked at her companion and made a significant grimace.

Matilda was a little late, which was rather unusual, and as Eunice made room for her, Matilda took her hand and squeezed it warmly. Eunice was more and more puzzled.

What could it all mean?

At the close of the lesson, Miss Ackerman said, "I hope to see you all at our house on Tuesday afternoon, and I am requested by the young ladies' committee to say that all work for the missionary-box, whether finished or not, must be brought in at that time. Tuesday afternoon, remember—not Thursday—and all the work must be returned, whether finished or not."

This announcement was received with lively interest, and some of the girls looked a little dismayed. There was a little pause after school to talk over the matter.

"My work is all done," said Phebe.

"And mine," said Julia, "but Ida's isn't, and won't be. Just think! The work she took the first time is not half-finished!"

"You are mistaken, Julia," said Eunice, smiling. "Ida's work is finished to the last stitch, as I happen to know."

Julia drew herself up in what she imagined to be a very dignified manner.

"I was not speaking to you," she said. "When I do, it will be time for you to give your opinion."

The girls looked at each other—some with surprise, others with significant smiles.

Eunice stood amazed, for, though Julia's manner to her was apt to be haughty, she had never been downright insulting before.

"What do you mean, Julia?" she asked.

Julia did not reply, except by a look, but Fanny Gunderson answered for her:

"You know what she means well enough, Miss Riker. I must say, I think you would do better not to force yourself into company where you are not wanted. If Miss Ferarra fancies that she is going to walk over the whole class by patronizing you, I think she will find herself mistaken.—Come, Julia."

And the girls dispersed, leaving Eunice standing alone.

"What does it mean?" she said to herself. "What have I done to make them all so angry with me? No, I won't say all. Anita and Matilda and dear little Mary were just the same as ever, and I am sure Miss Ackerman did not make any difference. But I am sure something has happened. What can it be?"

What it was, Eunice was destined to learn before night. She said nothing to her mother, who was suffering severely with her head, but she committed her cause to Him who has promised those who trust him that he will bring forth their "righteousness as the light" and their "judgment as the noonday." She then tried to direct her mind from the subject by studying her lesson and reading. Just as she was setting the table for tea, there was a knock at the door, and old Sarah Southmayd opened it.

Sarah was an old mulatto woman—nobody knew how old, but there was a tradition among the school-children that she had lived in Rockdale when Columbus discovered America. She was very old, that was certain. Her wavy hair was as white as snow, and she was wrinkled and dried up beyond belief; but her tall person was still erect and stately, her step firm, and she was as capable as ever of doing a hard day's work. She was a superlative laundress, and Mary Maloney, who lived in the same house with her, declared that she must be a white witch at the least, and have the fairies to help her, or she never could get through so much work.

This opinion, which was shared by a good many of the more ignorant of her neighbors, was strengthened by the fact that Sarah never invited any one into her house, never went out except to evening church and to carry home her work, and had an inveterate habit of talking to herself. She regularly received a letter and went to the bank with it on the first of every month, whereby people concluded that she received a pension from some quarter, and now and then she got a parcel by express. It is certain that her contributions to religious and charitable objects were out of all proportion to any income she would have made by washing.

"How do you do, Sarah?" said Eunice, almost as much astonished as if her visitor had come through the air on a broomstick in true orthodox witch-fashion. "Won't you come in?"

Sarah accepted the invitation and the offered chair. "I heard your mother was sick with headache again," said she, "but I see she is able to be up."

"I feel better up than down," said Mrs. Riker, "my head throbs so."

"Yes, I know. You have caught that cold that's going about, I expect," said Sarah. "My folks sent me some extra green tea the other day, and I thought I would bring you a drawing or two of it. Green tea is good for nervous headache when you don't drink it every day."

"I am sure you are very kind," said Mrs. Riker.

"Oh, it's no such great favor," returned Sarah. "Besides, I wanted an excuse for coming in."

"You might have come without an excuse," remarked Eunice.

"Well, I suppose so, honey, but you know I am no great hand for visiting," said Sarah, smiling and showing a flash of brilliant white teeth which made her look more unearthly than ever.—"I want to tell you, Mrs. Riker, that it was none of my doing, getting Mrs. Murray's washing away from you."

"I never supposed it was," replied Mrs. Riker; "I don't believe you ever did such a mean thing in your life, Sarah."

"Well, I don't say I never did a mean thing," said Sarah; "I don't suppose any human being could say that. But I never interfered with any one's honest work—that I know."

"Did Mrs. Murray give you any reason for making the change?" asked Eunice.

Sarah hesitated.

"Do tell us if she did, Sarah," added Eunice. "I am sure there is something going on that we ought to know about."

"Well, she did, but it ain't worth minding," said Sarah. "I gave her my mind on it. She says that people have told her that you—now don't flare up, child, because a fool talks foolishly,—she says that she has heard from good authority that you are not honest."

"Not honest!" exclaimed Eunice and her mother together. "What does she mean?"

"That is just what I asked her.

"'What do you mean, Mrs. Murray, taking away folks' characters like that?' says I.

"'Well,' says she, 'I had it on good authority,' says she. 'That Miss Fay—Mrs. Ferarra's cousin—says that Eunice stole a gold thimble from Mrs. Ferarra, and that other things were missed, and they say she changed off some yarn Mrs. Ackerman gave her to knit for worsted for herself; and I never did think Mrs. Riker put all the linen I sent her into Harry's aprons,' says she.

"'Mrs. Murray,' says I, 'did you ever cut out a set of aprons in your life?'

"'No,' says she.

"'Then how do you know how much it takes?' says I.

"'Well, I have lost a great many little things,' says she; 'and, when I think of it, I dare say they were lost in the wash.'

"Says I, 'Mrs. Murray, if you don't count your things when they go into the wash and when they come out, I don't want to wash for you,' says I."

Sarah paused a minute, perhaps to recover her breath. Neither Mrs. Riker nor Eunice spoke a word.

"I debated a good deal in my own mind whether I should tell you this," continued Sarah; "but finally I decided that it was best; for, I tell you to begin with, I don't believe either Mrs. Ackerman or Mrs. Ferarra or the young ladies ever hinted such a thing. Miss Fay might: she is as great a goose as Mrs. Murray in her way, and I know she was intimate with those Gundersons; and so is Mrs. Murray. It must have been a great cross to the Murrays to have their son marry such a woman, for they are first-rate people and real quality; I used to know them well. But Mrs. Gunderson and Fanny would tell stories about their grandmother."

"I shouldn't wonder if you were right, Sarah," said Eunice. "I know Miss Fay took a great dislike to me. I see now it is this story which has made some of the girls treat me so, and it explains something Mrs. Henry Edgar said."

"What was that?" asked Mrs. Riker. "You said she was very kind the other day."

"So she was, extra kind; and she began to say something about 'not believing,' and then she caught herself up and turned it into something quite different. And Ida too did not seem like herself. Oh, mother, what shall we do?"

"I don't know," said Mrs. Riker; "I feel perfectly stunned."

"Well, I'll give you my advice, if you care about it," said Sarah, "for I have been thinking the matter over all day."

"Do," said Eunice.

"I needn't tell you to commit your way to the Lord," said Sarah, "for you are Christian women, so of course you will do that, anyway. You can't make any move to-night, Mrs. Riker, because it is Sunday, and you are sick besides. But to-morrow morning, do you and Eunice go up to Mrs. Ferarra the first thing, tell her the whole story, and ask her about it. She is a lady, and she will tell you the truth; but my own opinion is that you will find she doesn't know the first word about the matter. Then do the same by Mrs. Ackerman, and have them to right you. Never mind your washing; if you get behindhand, I'll help you."

"Thank you, Sarah; you are a true friend, and I am sure your advice is good," said Mrs. Riker. "We will go as soon as we can to-morrow morning."

"And now, Eunice, do you make the tea and give your mother some, for she is ready to drop," continued Sarah. "You'll find the tea as good as any you ever tasted, for my folks know what's good."

"Do stay and have some tea with us," said Eunice.

"Bless you, child! I haven't taken a meal out of my own house in twenty years. Don't you know the folks say I'm a witch and never eat at all?"

"Well, you needn't eat if you don't want to; only sit down with us," urged Eunice.

Sarah smiled, and suffered herself to be persuaded. She made herself so agreeable that Mrs. Riker and Eunice almost forgot their trouble, and it was not till she had gone that poor Mrs. Riker burst into a flood of hysterical tears.

"Don't, mother," said Eunice almost sharply—"don't cry. I can't stand it."

"I won't if I can help it," said her mother, trying hard to compose herself; "but oh, Eunice! What have we done that this trial should be allowed to fall upon us?"

"Perhaps we haven't done anything," replied Eunice. "It doesn't always follow that people have done wrong because they have to take medicine."

"But what can the story have grown out of? The Ferarras have never hinted such a thing to you?"

"No; and, as Sarah says, I have no idea that they know anything about it. As to the yarn-story, I think I do see a little daylight, but I may be mistaken, so I won't say anything at present. We will go to see Mrs. Ferarra the first thing in the morning. Come, mother, let us have prayers and go to bed, or you won't be fit to stir to-morrow."

"I am glad you take it so quietly and easily," said Mrs. Riker.

"Quietly?" repeated Eunice, who was decidedly the strong member of the firm. "The fact is, mother, I have got to take it quietly. If I should once let myself get excited, I don't know what I might say or do, and for both our sakes I must keep cool. Good-night, mother dear."

Eunice might talk about "keeping cool," but she had a storm raging in her own breast. She did not in the least mistrust either Anita or her mother. She could not believe that they could play such a treacherous part, and there was no reasonable motive for their doing so. But she did believe that the story about the yarn had originated with Julia Hazleton. Julia had been the only person in Mrs. Ray's shop when she left Mrs. Ackerman's yarn to be matched, and she remembered how Julia had watched her.

Eunice knew that she ought to forgive her enemy, for such she might well call her, but she did not feel as if such forgiveness was in her power. To play such a part toward a classmate—toward one who had never injured or tried to injure her—to one whose very bread, and that of her mother, was dependent on her good name! It seemed more than she could bear.

She walked up and down her little room, shedding bitter tears, for a long time. At last, however, she did what she ought to have done at first: she cast her burden on the Lord. She threw herself on her knees and begged to be made forgiving, as God for Christ's sake had forgiven her. She begged that, as she could not do the work, it might be done in and for her. Then she lay down, and was soon asleep.