CHAPTER VI.

ETHEL'S UNHAPPINESS.

"I DO think, brother, you are remarkable for one thing," said Ethel, as they were walking homeward, "and that is, the power you have of adapting yourself to all sorts of people."

"I don't think I quite understand you," said Mr. Dalton. "What do you mean by 'adapting' myself?"

"Why, when you were talking to Mrs. Fowler in the shop, it seemed as if you had known her all your life, and knew just what to say to her; and it was the same with Mrs. Trim and her son. Nobody would have known that you were not used to keeping just such company always. Some people never can get on with poor folks in that way. They are either condescending and gracious, like that man who addressed the Sunday-school last Sunday, or they are stiff and scared, and don't know what to say,—like myself," concluded Ethel.

"I suspect the difficulty is the same in both cases," remarked Mr. Dalton.

"And that difficulty is—"

"Self-consciousness,—not to be rude and very self-conceited," replied her brother, smiling. "But, Ethel, if I have that wonderful gift, I assure you I am not in the least aware of it. Why should I 'adapt' myself either to Mrs. Fowler or the Trims? We had a very favourable introduction in Mrs. Trim's kindness to you, and we had the same subjects of interest."

"Yes, I know," said Ethel; "and I noticed that you talked just as you do at home, or at Mrs. Verplank's, or any of the places where we visit."

"Well, why not? How would you have me talk?"

"To be sure, the people who talk of adapting themselves, always seem to me to make a great jumble of it," said Ethel, candidly. "There was that man I was speaking of who addressed the children last Sunday. He talked regular baby talk,—only not so funny and amusing as Mrs. Jones's baby talk; and I thought he never would have done. The infants were perfectly tired out, and as naughty as they could be; and, really, I did not so much blame them. But Mrs. Verplank thought it was beautiful: he adapted himself to the children's minds so prettily."

"Mrs. Verplank has no children of her own," said Mr. Dalton, dryly. "But as to this matter of adaptation, Ethel, there is something to be said on both sides. I should not think of talking to Mrs. Trim about the new translation of sacred books which I was discussing with Professor Van Alstine last night; but neither should I to Mrs. Verplank."

"After all, I suppose real good breeding and a real interest in the people one talks to, and the things one talks about, are the main things," said Ethel, thoughtfully. "I mean, of course, after the great thing of all,—loving one's neighbour as one's self."

"I quite agree with you, my love," replied Mr. Dalton; "I think you have gone to the root of the matter."

Ethel looked pleased. "But don't you think, brother, that good breeding is necessary, in order to do good in the best way?"

"Undoubtedly; and a great many good people's efforts suffer for the want of that very thing. They offend and disgust where they mean to help, and neutralize all the good they attempt by their manner of setting about it. And condescension—adaptation, if you like—is the very worst of all breeding."

"Brother, do you think I might take a class in your Sunday-school, if you do establish one," asked Ethel, after they had walked on in silence a little way.

"I don't know," replied Mr. Dalton, rather absently, as it seemed.

"Because, you know, I have had a good deal of experience in the infant-class for the last year; and I really am not needed there, and I might take the infant-class if you had one."

"I should like it of all things, little sister," said Mr. Dalton; "but I see grave difficulties in the way."

"What difficulties?" asked Ethel, surprised.

"Richard Trim's dog Lion for one, and widow Green's cow for another; and the many things which are always coming in your way. Suppose, for instance, your infant-class was in session, and a thunder-storm should come up, what would you do?"

Ethel coloured, and walked on in silence a little way. Then she said, in a deeply mortified tone:

"According to that, I need never think of doing anything,—any of the things I have set my heart on doing. It is very hard."

"It 'is' very hard," repeated her brother, sighing; "very hard for me, I assure you, Ethel. Nobody likes to have his castle in the air tumbled about his ears. I should like dearly to have you take the infant-class, supposing we have one; and I have notions in my head about sewing-schools and singing-classes; but I don't see how you are to help me about them, so long as you cannot pass a cow in the street, or hear a peal of thunder without going into hysterics. Fear is very irreligious, especially among children."

"I am sure I don't want to go, if you don't want me," said Ethel, in an offended tone. "I thought you would be glad of help at first, at any rate."

"But I do want you very much, my dear, for that and for other things. It is just the fact that I do want you which makes me so unhappy about this fault of yours."

"It is 'not' a fault," said Ethel, doggedly. "I can't help it."

"Well, then, this hinderance. But tell me, do you think such a scene as that to-day would be likely to increase your influence with your pupils or their parents?"

Ethel made no answer, and Mr. Dalton, after a little silence, began talking of something else.

Ethel did not again mention the subject of the mission-school; but during the week she was particularly active in inviting her own scholars in the infant-class, and took care to let Henry know that she was so.

"I will show him that I 'am' good for something, and can do some good in the world, if I am afraid of cows," said she to herself. "Mr. Maverick says there is more interest than usual in the Bible-class, and I have noticed that Anna Burgers has been very serious lately. I mean to take an opportunity to talk to her, and to some of the other girls. And I mean to study the Bible and pray more than I have done. I will take an hour in the middle of the day, and I will go regularly through some good books,—'Personal Religion,' or Mrs. More's 'Practical Piety.' As for being a missionary, why, if I really am not fit for it, that makes it plainly my duty to give it up cheerfully, and think no more about it. I had set my heart on it, but I must submit—that is all."

And so Ethel tried to content herself; but she was not satisfied or at peace. Her conscience told her that this was not honestly submitting to failure after having done her best to succeed. She had no right to give up, and say she was not fitted for the great work to which she had consecrated herself, till she had honestly and with all her might lived to make herself so.

She carried out her plans of proceeding with a great deal of zeal, but she was not happy in it. Her prayers were all unreal and cold, and seemed to go no deeper than her lips. It seemed as though she were under a close roof shut in away from God. She had a feeling as if her Lord were grieved with her and was turning his sorrowful face away,—as if she could not as it were catch his eyes. The promises of his word appeared as if they were nothing to her. She was wretchedly unhappy but she said to herself, that it was so at times with everybody,—that devotional feelings and religious experience were very dependent on bodily health, and she was not very well. The clouds would pass by-and-by, and she should feel better again. Meantime, she invited her pupils as she had promised herself, and sought for opportunities of religious conversation with her schoolmates, and tried hard to think that all was well with her.

"Oh, Ethel, will you come to-morrow, and spend the evening and stay all night with me," said Anna Burgers, one day, after the Italian class was dismissed. "Mamma and Aunt Sarah are going out, and we shall be quite by ourselves. We are in a new house, and so you need not be afraid of the roaches," she added, smiling.

Ethel smiled, but blushed a little. "I did not know you had moved," said she. "Was it not rather sudden?"

"Yes, quite so to mamma and all of us, except papa. It seems he meant to give us a surprise; and he has bought that pretty new house opposite Mrs. Bayard's old place. But will you come? It will be so nice."

Ethel considered. Here seemed to be just the opportunity she wished for serious conversation with Anna.

"I will come, to be sure, if Emily does not object; and I dare say she will not. How glad you must be to move out of that disagreeable home!"

"Yes, it is very nice," said Anna, simply. "Papa has been occupied in business matters so long, it is pleasant to feel a little easy again. I am so thankful on mamma's account, because now she can have Aunt Sarah with her once more. Then you think I may depend on your coming?"

"Oh, yes. I cannot imagine anything which should prevent me."

"Anna never loses a chance of telling everybody that they have grown rich," said Delia Wilkins, with her usual sneer, when Anna was gone. "If I did feel so grand about it, I would keep it to myself, I think."

"You ought not to say so, Delia," returned Ethel. "It isn't right. I don't think you ought to judge people in that way. You wouldn't like it yourself."

"And it isn't at all fair to Anna, either," said Ellen Davis. "She never thinks of boasting, I am sure. When they were poor, she never hesitated to say she could not afford this and that."

"Dear me! What have I said to bring down such a flood of reproof upon me, I wonder?" said Delia, affectedly. "You have taken to preaching lately, Ethel. I suppose you are practising for the mission you are going to undertake?"

Ethel coloured, but did not answer; and the party separated.

"Don't you mean to take the horse-car, Ethel," asked Ellen Davis, as they came near the station. "You have such a long walk."

"No; I believe not. I like the walk, and the exercise is good for me," replied Ethel.

"Well, good-by, then. I shall ride."

As Ethel walked along, carrying her heavy load of books, she was aware of an unpleasant weight on her conscience. She knew that the exercise was "not" good for her, and that Dr. Ray had expressly desired her never to walk both ways. She had told Ellen something very like a falsehood. She tried to turn her attention to something else, and began meditating what she should say to Anna when they should be alone together. She had crossed the bridge and was slowly creeping up the hill, when somebody drove up to the sidewalk and called to her. She started with an exclamation, as usual, and looking up, she saw Dr. Ray.

"Walking again, Ethel," said he. "How comes that?"

"The car was gone," said Ethel, taken by surprise, and having recourse to the first excuse she could think of to avert a lecture, or, what she dreaded still more, a laugh from her brother-in-law.

"You should have waited, then. But get in, and I will take you home: I am going that way."

"I am so near home now, that it does not matter," said Ethel, blushing; "and, besides, I have an errand to do on the way; but I should be glad if you would take my books."

"Tumble them in then, and mind you do not walk again. If the car is gone, wait for another. You will save time by it in the end."

When Ethel reached her own room, she sat down as usual, and took up her "Personal Religion," but somehow she found it very hard to fix her attention. That weight on her conscience, which had troubled her so much, was increased tenfold. She knew that she had lied both to Ellen Davis and her brother-in-law. She had sinned grievously, and yet she was unwilling to own that she had sinned; for she felt as if the confession of this one fault would involve a great deal more. She finished her allotted portion of reading, however, and went down-stairs to practise her music-lesson, feeling tired, irritable, and in anything but a pleasant state of mind or body. She made so many mistakes that Emily noticed them.

"What is the matter, Ethel?" she asked. "It is something wonderful for you to boggle so."

"I believe the mischief is in me or in the piano, I don't know which," said Ethel, fretfully. "I can't do anything with it."

"I wouldn't try," said Emily, kindly. "You are tired with your Italian lessons. I think, on the days that you go over to the other side, you would do better to practise directly after breakfast."

"I can't practise when Matthew is in the house," said Ethel. "He is always making fun of me."

"How many times does it take to make 'always?'" asked her sister.

"Well, he did so once; and he will do so again. I can't bear it."

"Ethel," said Emily, gravely, "do you know that you are growing very irritable and fretful?"

Ethel made no answer.

"I dare say it is partly because you do not feel very well," continued her sister; "but I think you should be careful how you give way to fretfulness. There is nothing which grows faster by indulgence, as I know by experience," she added, smiling. "I don't like to see it in you: your temper has always been so even and pleasant. I am afraid you are working too hard, and that these Italian lessons are too much for your strength. Don't you think you had better give them up for the present?"

"I don't like to do that," said Ethel. "I may never have so good a chance again."

"That is true; but, then, if it is going to make you sick—"

"But I am not sick, Emily: I am only tired just now. As to my being fretful, I am sure I did not know it, only everybody seems to think that all I do is to worry now-a-days. Henry,—"

But here Ethel's voice was lost in tears, and hearing her brother-in-law's voice, she made haste to escape to her own room, where she had a hearty crying-fit, and, by dint of dwelling on all the injuries she had received, as she thought, from her brother and sister, she contrived, in some degree, to forget the load on her conscience, and to get up a comforting feeling of martyrdom.

"But it is my duty to be cheerful," said Ethel, when she was thoroughly tired of crying. "Of course, it is very hard that I should be treated so unkindly, and especially by Henry, from whom I had expected so much—" here the tears came into play again—"but it is my duty to be brave and cheerful, and show that I am a true Christian. I am thankful for this opportunity of talking to Anna, and I mean to improve it. She is a dear, sweet girl, and she will make such a useful Christian. If I can't do the work I had set my heart upon, I must do what I can, that is all. It is very hard, to be sure, but then I hope I shall be able to bear it."

By this time, Ethel had argued herself into a very comfortable state of self-delusion, and was ready to bathe her eyes, dress her hair becomingly, and come down to dinner with a good appetite. She was so cheerful, and bore Dr. Ray's jokes so good-humouredly, that Emily was delighted, and congratulated herself on the effects of her little lecture.

"Well, Ethel, the first step toward the establishment of my mission service has been successfully taken," said Mr. Dalton. "I have hired the room Robert Trim told us of, and have given notice that I shall preach there next Sunday afternoon at three o'clock; and a Sunday-school will be organized immediately afterward."

"Humph!" said Dr. Ray. "I thought you were having a vacation. That is your notion of a rest from missionary labor, is it?"

"Why, not exactly," replied Mr. Dalton, smiling. "But I have not preached for four whole months, except once, since I came here; and I begin to find myself hungry for work again."

"Oh, well, I know by experience that there is no use in talking; so I shall not throw away my breath. You will need to have your wits about you. Those iron-workers are shrewd fellows, and will pick out the weak places in your arguments."

Ethel looked indignant, but Henry only smiled.

"They are the kind of hearers I like," said he. "Any amount of criticism, even of cavilling, is better than the sleepy indifference which treats everything with the same neglect, or the frivolity which laughs at everything alike."

"What will you do for teachers?" asked Emily.

"I shall take as many as possible from among the people themselves; and for the rest, I must look to the young people in our church. I suppose there is no use in asking Emily?"

"Not a bit," returned the doctor, decidedly. "Emily has no throat or lungs to spend on Sunday-school teaching; and, besides, I cannot spare her on Sunday afternoons. It is the only time I ever have to myself, and I want her to share it with me."

"How selfish Dr. Ray is!" thought Ethel. "He thinks of nothing but his own comfort."

"I must find a melodeon or harmonium somewhere, and somebody to play on it," said Mr. Dalton. "I don't exactly know how to go to work at that. Ethel, can you give me an idea?"

Ethel considered a little. "I don't know unless you take Juliet's."

"You might just as well have it as not," said Emily. "It stands there in the hall, and nobody even touches it once in three months. I suppose it would be perfectly safe up there."

"Perfectly safe, and all the better for being used now and then. What say you, Ethel? Will you come and play for us, and train our choir?"

Ethel was just preparing to be offended at not being asked to play, but when the request came, she shrank back as usual, and exclaimed:

"Oh, dear, no! I never could do it, I am sure. I should be frightened to death."

"Ah, well, we won't make a martyr of you," said Mr. Dalton. "I dare say somebody will turn up. There is your friend, Anna Burgers; doesn't she play?"

"I don't believe she would do it," replied Ethel. "She has so much to do in the other school."

"I don't think you ought to expect those who have classes in Sunday-school already to help you in your new school," said Emily. "It is too much for anybody to undertake."

"I know it is not fair; and yet, I generally, find that if I want a little extra work done, I am much safer in asking some one who is pretty busy already, than in appealing to a person who has nothing else to do. However, I don't mean to call upon those who are working in the other school, if I can help it. If worse comes to worst, I can play the melodeon myself."