JOE’S CHRISTMAS.
Christmas was at hand; Christmas with
its holidays, its greetings, its festive meetings,
its gifts, its bells, and its rejoicings. That
season when mothers prepare for the return of their
children from school, and are wont to listen amidst
storms of wind and snow for the carriage wheels; when
little brothers and sisters strain their eyes to catch
the first glimpse of the dear ones’ approach
along the snowy track; when the fire blazes within,
and lamps are lit up to welcome them home; and hope
and expectation and glad heart beatings are the lot
of so many of many, not of all. Christmas
was come, but it brought no hope, no gladness, no
mirth to poor White, either present or in prospect.
The music and the bells of Christmas, the skating,
the pony riding, the racing, the brisk walk, the home
endearments were not for Joe poor Joe.
No mother longed for his return, no brother or little
sister pressed to the hall door to get the first look
or the first word; no father welcomed Joe back to the
hearth-warmth of home sweet home. Poor orphan
boy!
Joe’s uncle and aunt wrote him
a kind letter, quite agreed in Mr. Parker’s
opinion that a journey into Lincolnshire was, in the
state of his back and general health, out of the question,
were fully satisfied that he was under the best care,
both medical and magisterial, (they had never seen
either doctor or master, and had only known of Mr.
Barton through an advertisement,) and sent him a handsome
present of pocket money, with the information that
they were going to the South of France for the winter.
Joe bore the news of their departure very coolly, and
carelessly pocketed the money, knowing as he did that
he had a handsome property in his uncle’s hands,
and no one would have supposed from any exhibition
of feeling that he manifested, that he had any feeling
or any care about the matter. Once, indeed, when
a fly came to the door to convey Harcourt to the railway,
and he saw from the window of his room the happy school-boy
jumping with glee into the vehicle, and heard him
say to Mr. Barton, “Oh yes, Sir, I shall be met!”
he turned to Fred who sate by him and said, “No
one is expecting me, no one in the whole world
is thinking of me now, Parker.”
Fred told his mother of this speech,
a speech so full of bitter truth that it made Mrs.
Parker, kind creature as she was, shed tears, and she
asked her husband if young White could not be removed
to pass the Christmas holidays with them. The
distance was not great, and they could borrow Mr.
Darford’s carriage, and perhaps it might do him
good. Mr. Parker agreed, and the removal was
effected.
For some days it seemed doubtful whether
the change would be either for poor White’s
mental happiness or bodily improvement. The exertion,
and the motion and excitement together, wrought powerfully
on his nervous frame, and he was more distressed,
and irritable than ever. He could not sleep,
he ate scarcely any thing, he rarely spoke, and more
than once Mrs. Parker regretted that the proposal
had been made. In vain Edith brought him plants
from the little greenhouse, fine camellias, pots of
snow-drops, and lovely anémones. They seemed
rather to awaken painful than pleasing remembrances
and associations, and once even when he had lain long
looking at a white camellia he burst into tears.
It is a great trial of temper, a great test of the
sincerity of our purpose, when the means we use to
please and gratify seem to have just the contrary
effect. In the sick room especially, where kind
acts, and gentle words, and patient forbearance are
so constantly demanded, it is difficult to refrain
from expressions of disappointment when all our endeavours
fail; when those we wish to please and comfort, obstinately
refuse to be pleased and comforted. Often did
Fred and Edith hold counsel as to what would give
Joe pleasure, but he was as reserved and gloomy as
ever, and his heart seemed inaccessible to kindness
and affection. Besides, there were continual
subjects of annoyance which they could scarcely prevent,
with all the forethought and care in the world.
The boys were very thoughtful, for
boys; Mrs. Parker had it is true warned them not to
talk of their out-of-door pleasures and amusements
to or before Joe, and they were generally careful;
but sometimes they would, in the gladness of their
young hearts, break out into praises of the fine walk
they had just had on the cliff, or the glorious skating
on the pond, of the beauty of the pony, and of undiscovered
walks and rides in the neighbourhood. Once, in
particular, Emilie, who was spending the afternoon
with the Parkers, was struck with the expression of
agony that arose to Joe’s face from a very trifling
circumstance. They were all talking with some
young companion of what they would be when they grew
up, and one of them appealing to Joe, he quickly said,
“oh, a sailor I care for nobody at
home and nobody cares for me, so I shall go to sea.”
“To sea!” the boy repeated in wonder.
“And why not?” said Joe, petulantly, “where’s
the great wonder of that?”
There was a silence all through the
little party; no one seemed willing to remind the
poor lad of that which he, for a moment, seemed to
forget his helpless crippled state.
It was only Emilie who noticed his look of hopelessness;
she sat near him and heard his stifled sigh, and oh,
how her heart ached for the poor lad!
This conversation and some remarks
that the boy made, led Mr. and Mrs. Parker seriously
to think that he entertained hopes of recovery, and
they were of opinion that it would be kinder to undeceive
him, than to allow him to hope for that which could
never he. Mr. Parker began to talk to him about
it one day, very kindly, after an examination of his
back, when White said, abruptly, “I don’t
doubt you are very skilful. Sir, and all that,
but I should like to see some other doctor. I
have money enough to pay his fee, and uncle said I
was to have no expense spared in getting me the best
advice. Sir J. comes here
at Christmas, I know, to see his father, and I should
like to see him and consult him, Sir, may I?”
Mr. Parker of course could make no objection, and a
day was fixed for the consultation. It was a
very unsatisfactory one and at once crushed all Joe’s
hopes. The result was communicated to him as gently
and kindly as possible.
Mrs. Parker was a mother, and her
sympathy for poor Joe was more lasting than that of
the younger branches of the family. She went to
him on the Sunday evening following the physician’s
visit to tell him the whole truth, and she often said
afterwards how she dreaded the task. Joe lay
on the sofa before the dining room window, watching
the blue sea sit a distance, and thinking with all
the ardour of youthful longing of the time when his
back should be well, and he should be a voyager in
one of those beautiful ships. He should have
no regrets, and no friends to regret him; then he
groaned at the pain and inconvenience and privation
of his present state, and panted for restoration.
Mrs. Parker entered and eat down by him.
“Is Sir J. C gone, Ma’am?”
“Yes, he has been gone some minutes.”
“What does he say?” asked
the lad earnestly. “He said very little
to me, nothing indeed, only all that fudge I am always
hearing ’rest, patience,’ and
so on.”
“He thinks it a very serious
case, my dear; he says that the recumbent posture
is very important.”
“But for how long, Ma’am?
I would lie twelve months patiently enough if I hoped
then to be allowed to walk about, and to be able to
do as other boys do.”
“Sir J. C
thinks, Joe, that you never will recover. I am
grieved to tell you so, but it is the truth, and we
think it best you should know it. Your spine
is so injured that it is impossible you should ever
recover; but you may have many enjoyments, though not
able to be active like other boys. You must keep
up your spirits; it is the will of God and you must
submit.”
Poor Mrs. Parker having disburdened
her mind of a great load, and performed her dreaded
task, left the room, telling her husband that the
boy bore it very well, indeed, he did not seem to feel
it much. The bell being already out for church,
she called the young people to accompany her thither,
leaving one maid-servant and the errand boy at home,
and poor Joe to meditate on his newly-acquired information
that he would be a cripple for life. Edith looked
in and asked softly, “shall I stay?” but
the “No” was so very decided, and so very
stern that she did not repeat the question, so they
all went off together, a cheerful family party.
The errand boy betook himself to a
chair in the kitchen, where he was soon sound asleep,
and the maid-servant to the back gate to gossip with
a sailor; so Joe was left alone with a hand-bell on
the table, plenty of books if he liked to read them,
and as far as outward comforts went with nothing to
complain of. “And here I am a cripple for
life,” ejaculated the poor fellow, when the
sound of their voices died away and the bell ceased;
“and, oh, may that life be a short one!
I wish, oh, I wish, I were dead! who would care to
hear this? no one I wish from my heart
I were dead;” and here the boy sobbed till his
poor weak frame was convulsed with agony, and he felt
as if his heart (for he had a heart) would break.
In his wretchedness he longed for
affection, he longed for some one who would really
care for him, “but no one cares for me,”
groaned the lad, “no one, and I wish I might
die to night.” Ah, Joe, may God change you
very much before he grants that wish! After
he had sobbed a while, he began to think more calmly,
but his thoughts were thoughts of revenge and hatred.
“John has been the cause of it all.”
Then he thought again, “they may well make all
this fuss over me, when their son caused all my misery;
let them do what they will they will never make it
up to me, but they only tolerate me I can see, I know
I am in the way; they don’t ask me here because
they care for me, not they, it’s only out of
pity;” and here, rolling his head from side to
side, sobbed and cried afresh. “What would
I give for some one to love me, for some one to wait
on me because they loved me! but here I am to lie all
my life, a helpless, hopeless, cripple; oh dear! oh
dear! my heart will break. Those horrid
bells! will they never have done?”
At the very moment when poor Joe was
thinking that no one on earth cared for him, that
not a heart was the sadder for his sorrow, a kind heart
not far off was feeling very much for him. “I
shall not go to church to-night, aunt Agnes,”
said Emilie Schomberg, “I shall go and hear what
Sir J.C.’s opinion of poor Joe White is.
I cannot get that poor fellow out of my mind.”
“No, poor boy, it is a sad case,”
said aunt Agnes, “but why it should keep you
from church, my dear, I don’t see. I shall
go.”
So they trotted off, Emilie promising
to leave aunt Agnes safe at the church door, where
she met the Parkers just about to enter. “Oh
Emilie,” said little Edith, “poor Joe!
we have had Sir J.C.’s opinion, and it is quite
as had if not worse than papa’s, there is so
much disease and such great injury done. He is
all alone, Emilie, do go and sit with him.”
“It is just what I wish to do,
dear, but do you think he will let me?”
“Yes, oh yes, try at least,” said Edith,
and they parted.
When Emilie rang at the bell Joe was
in the midst of his sorrow, but thinking it might
only be a summons for Mr. Parker, he did not take much
notice of it until the door opened and the preaching
German lady, as he called Emilie, entered the room.
When she saw his swollen eyes and flushed face, she
wished that she had not intruded, but she went frankly
up to him, and began talking as indifferently as possible,
to give him time to recover himself, said how very
cold it was, stirred the fire into a cheerful blaze,
and then relapsed into silence. The silence was
broken at times by heavy sighs, however they
were from poor Joe. Emilie now went to the piano,
and in her clear voice sang softly that beautiful
anthem, “I will arise and go to my Father.”
It was not the first time that Joe had shown something
like emotion at the sound of music; now it softened
and composed him. “I should like to hear
that again,” he said, in a voice so unlike his
own that Emilie was surprised.
She sang it and some others that she
thought he would like, and then said, “I hope
I have not tired you, but I am afraid you are in pain.”
“I am,” said Joe, in his
old gruff uncivil voice, “in great pain.”
“Can I do any thing for you?” asked Emilie,
modestly.
“No nothing, nothing
can be done! I shall have to lie on my back as
long as I live, and never walk or stand or do any thing
like other boys but I hope I shan’t
live long, that’s all.”
Emilie did not attempt to persuade
him that it would not be as bad as he thought that
he would adapt himself to his situation, and in time
grow reconciled to it. She knew that his mind
was in no state to receive such consolation, that
it rather needed full and entire sympathy, and this
she could and did most sincerely offer. “I
am very sorry for you,” she said quietly,
“very sorry,” and she approached
a little nearer to his couch, and looked at him so
compassionately that Joe believed her.
“Don’t you think that
fellow John ought to be ashamed of himself, and I
don’t believe he ever thinks of it,” said
Joe, recurring to his old feeling of revenge and hatred.
“Perhaps he thinks of it more
than you imagine,” said Emilie, “but don’t
fancy that no one cares about you, that is the way
to be very unhappy.”
“It is true,” said Joe, sadly.
“God cares for you,” however, replied
Emily softly.
“Oh, if I could think that,
it would be a comfort,” Miss Schomberg, “and
I do need comfort; I do, I do indeed, groaned the boy.”
Emilie’s tears fell fast.
No words of sympathy however touching, no advice however
wise and good, no act however kind could have melted
Joe as the tears of that true-hearted girl. He
felt confidence in their sincerity, but that any one
should feel for him, should shed tears for
him, was so new, so softening an idea, that he was
subdued. Not another word passed on the subject.
Emilie returned to the piano, and soon had the joy
of seeing Joe in a tranquil sleep; she shaded the lamp
that it might not awake him, covered his poor cold
feet with her warm tartan, and with a soft touch lifted
the thick hair from his burning forehead, and stood
looking at him with such intense interest, suck earnest
prayerful benevolence, that it might have been an angel
visit to that poor sufferer’s pillow, so soothing
was it in its influence. He half opened his eyes,
saw that look, felt that touch, and tears stole down
his cheeks; tears not of anger, nor discontent, but
of something like gratitude that after all one
person in the world cared for him. His sleep
was short, and when he awoke, he said abruptly to Emilie,
“I want to feel less angry against John,”
Miss Schomberg, “but I don’t know how.
It was such a cruel trick, such a cowardly trick, and
I cannot forgive him.”
“I don’t want to preach,”
said Emily, smiling, “but perhaps if you would
read a little in this book you would find help in the
very difficult duty of forgiving men their trespasses.”
“Ah, the Bible, but I find that
dull reading; it always makes me low spirited, I always
associate it with lectures from uncle and Mr. Barton.
When I did wrong I was plied up with texts.”
Emilie did not know what answer to
make to this speech. At last she said, “Do
you remember the account of the Saviour’s crucifixion,
how, when in agony worse than yours, he said, ‘Father
forgive them.’ May I read it to you?”
He did not object, and Emilie read
that history which has softened many hearts as hard
as Joe’s. He made but little remark as Emilie
closed the book, nor did she add to that which she
had been reading by any comment, but; bidding him
a kind good night, went to meet Aunt Agnes at the
church door, and conduct her safely home.
There is a turning point in most persons’
lives, either for good or evil. Joe White was
able long afterwards to recall that miserable Sunday
evening, with its storm of agitation and revenge, and
then its lull of peace and love. He who said,
“Peace, be still,” to the tempestuous
ocean, spoke those words to Joe’s troubled spirit,
and the boy was willing to listen and to learn.
Would a long lecture on the sinfulness and impropriety
of his revengeful and hardened state have had the same
effect on Joe, as Emilie’s hopeful, gentle, almost
silent sympathy? We think not. “I
would try and make him lovable,” so said and
so acted Emilie Schomberg, and for that effort had
the orphan cause to thank her through time and eternity.
Joe was not of an open communicative
turn, he was accustomed to keep his feelings and thoughts
very much to himself, and he therefore did not tell
either Fred or Edith of his conversation with Emilie,
but when they came to bid him good night, he spoke
softly to them, and when John came to his couch he
did not offer one finger and turn away his face, as
he had been in the habit of doing, but said, “Good
night,” freely, almost kindly.
The work went on slowly but surely,
still he held back forgiveness to John, and while
he did this, he could not be happy, he could not himself
feel that he was forgiven. “I do forgive
him, at least I wish him no ill, Miss Schomberg,”
he said in one of his conversations with Emilie.
“I don’t suppose I need be very fond of
him. Am I required to be that?”
“What does the Bible say, Joe?
’If thine enemy hunger feed him, if he thirst
give him drink.’ ‘I say unto you,’
Christ says, ’Love your enemies.’
He does not say don’t hate them, he means Love
them. Do you think you have more to forgive John
than Jesus had to forgive those who hung him on the
cross?”
“It seems to me, Miss Schomberg,
so different that example is far above me. I
cannot be like Him you know.”
“Yet Joe there have been instances
of persons who have followed his example in their
way and degree, and who have been taught by Him, and
helped by Him to forgive their fellow-creatures.”
“But it is not in human nature
to do it, I know, at least is not in mine.”
“But try and settle it in your
mind, Joe, that John did not mean to injure you, that
had he had the least idea that you would fall he would
never have tempted you to climb. If you look upon
it as accidental on your part, and thoughtlessness
on his, it will feel easier to forgive him perhaps,
and I am sure you may. You are quite wrong in
supposing that John does not think of it. He
told Edith only yesterday that he never could forgive
himself for tempting you to climb, and that he did
not wonder at your cold and distant way to him.
Poor fellow! it would make him much happier if you
would treat him as though you forgave him, which you
cannot do unless you from your heart forgive
him.”