Charity's birthday text — Themes and Context

CHARITY'S BIRTHDAY TEXT.

IT was little Charity Mitchel's tenth birthday. Poor Charity had no mother. Mrs. Mitchel had died many years before, and ever since then Charity had lived in London with her father and her only brother. Edwin—a timid, delicate little fellow—was two years and a half younger than herself; and he was very fond of Charity, who was a warm-hearted, unselfish sister. Their father was usually away all day at his business in the city, but they had a kind nurse to take care of them in his absence, and a governess for some hours every morning.

Charity's birthday was quite an event in the quiet household. And though some little girls might think her presents few in number, Charity was more than satisfied, and declared that they were the loveliest things she had ever seen in her life. There was a pretty little workbasket from her father, and a storybook from Edwin—the result of many weeks' saving, and a marker from nurse, besides something else which Charity did not at all expect. She was quite surprised when a fourth parcel was put into her hand, and her father said, with a smile—

"From Edwin and me together, my little Charity. I could not resist getting it for you."

Charity opened it almost trembling with impatience. When the paper was removed, there lay before her an illuminated card, framed and glazed. First there was a very handsome red and gold "Charity," at the top, and beneath it, "Suffereth long, and is kind," in dark letters, with a delicate blue scroll running around and about them.

"Oh, how lovely! How kind of you!" Charity exclaimed, clasping her hands. "Dear papa, how very, very pretty it is. I can't thank you enough. But, Edwin, you could not have painted this?"

Edwin nodded in silence.

"Yes, the colouring is his work," said Mr. Mitchel. "I saw the card in a shop the other day, and your name at the top drew my attention. Then I remembered how handy my little boy was with his paint-box, and it struck me that if he could manage to colour it nicely, you would like to have it."

"I've worked hard at it in the mornings, before breakfast," remarked Edwin. "Sometimes I was so frightened for fear I should spoil it."

"I could not have done it so well," said Charity. "But then I never can illuminate as you can. I believe I am not patient enough. Papa,—" and she paused a moment, looking earnestly at her new treasure—"did you choose it because you thought I wanted that text?"

"I was not aware that you wanted it," replied Mr. Mitchel, smiling. "However, I am glad you have it, if such was your wish."

"I don't mean that, papa, I mean did you give it me because you thought it would do me good?"

Mr. Mitchel patted her head, and rejoined gravely, "Well, dear, whether I thought so or not, it certainly is a text from which we may all learn something."

"I think it just like Charity," said Edwin. "She couldn't have a better name."

"Oh no, it isn't like me," said Charity, quickly. "But I was thinking—papa, I don't think it is a text that does suit me just now, because I really haven't anything at all to 'suffer;' everybody is so kind to me."

"But you have to be kind to people, and you are," said Edwin, eagerly. "You are always kind."

Mr. Mitchel drew Charity to him, and kissed her flushed cheek.

"God has given you a happy, loving spirit, my little girl," he said, "and you ought to be very thankful for it. You may, however, some day, be in a less peaceful home than now, and perhaps then you will find our little present more suitable than now—though in a measure it must be suitable to every one in whatever condition of life."

Ah, poor little Charity! How far was she from dreaming how soon the change would come. She smiled in reply, remarking, "I hope that won't be for a long, long time, papa. I think it would be very hard to bear unkindness."

"Very hard. But remember, darling, that nothing overcomes unkindness like charity—that is, 'love'—the love which can 'suffer long and be kind;' the love which can make us 'forgive even as we are forgiven.'"

There was a slight pause, and then he added, cheerfully—

"But we have no business to be talking of unkindness on your birthday, Charity. I hope you will have some merry games with Edwin. I intend to be back by five o'clock this evening, so that we can have an early tea all together, and a long merry evening afterwards."

Charity threw her arms round his neck with warm thanks, and Edwin looked no less pleased in his quiet way.

It was now time for Mr. Mitchel to leave the house, but the children were at no loss for occupation, although no governess was coming that morning. First there were the new presents to examine and re-examine, and the new book to read. But Charity felt too happy to settle down quietly to so sober an employment as reading, so she and Edwin ran out into the garden for a game of play.

It was bright weather in the end of May, very warm for the time of year, but the little garden was shady, so they did not find it too hot. It was only a square piece of ground, with a round bed in the centre of a grass plot, and high walls all round, and a clump of small trees at the farther end. But Charity had never known a better one, so she and Edwin were very fond of their "playground," as they called it.

The trees, indeed, formed a very favourite retreat at all times. And when the sunshine came creeping more and more into the garden, they went to the shady end, and sat down together on a low bench. Then Charity fetched her new book, and between talking and reading aloud the hours passed very pleasantly until dinner-time.

After dinner, nurse took them out for a long ramble into the country. They had a great many streets to pass through first, but at length they reached some nice shady lanes and green fields, where they enjoyed themselves greatly.

Charity, being the Birthday-Queen, was allowed to choose where she would go, and her choice fell on "cowslip-field," as they called a large meadow where cowslips were very abundant. Nurse feared they would all be over, but by dint of a long close search, they actually found enough to make a very nice little round yellow ball. Nurse had a piece of string in her pocket, and while Charity and Edwin held it stretched out, one at each end, she hung the pretty bright flowers upon it, then drew the string and tied it tight. When that was done, it was time to think about returning home.

Charity and Edwin agreed that the birthday had been a very happy one so far, and felt sure the evening with dear papa would be still happier.

But five o'clock came, and no papa made his appearance. It was perplexing, for the children had never before known him fail to keep his word. It was not often that he promised to return home early, but when he did, he always managed to come back punctually at the time mentioned. A cloud came over Charity's face as the minutes flew by—not a cloud of temper but of disappointment. For they must go to bed at eight o'clock, and every minute's delay would shorten the pleasant evening they had hoped for.

Edwin tried to comfort her by remarking:—

"I dare say he'll be here directly, Charity. It's only half-past five. And perhaps for once he'll let us sit up till half-past eight. I'm almost sure he will."

"I can't think what has kept him," said Charity, looking sadly out of the window. "Papa always comes home early when he says he will."

"But perhaps he couldn't," began Edwin.

"Of course he couldn't," said Charity with a sigh. "He would have come if he had been able. But that doesn't make it any the better."

"He'll be here soon," said Edwin, cheerfully. "There's somebody's footstep on the pavement,—no, it isn't papa. But I dare say they had some stoppages in the city, so the omnibus is late."

"I wonder if it has yet gone past the end of the road," said Charity. "Edwin, I wish you would ask nurse to come here. It will make the time go faster. Would you mind, dear?"

Edwin jumped up readily, but at this moment nurse came in.

"I'm afraid, Miss Charity, your papa wasn't able to come so soon as he expected," she said, kissing the little girl's anxious face. "It's very tiresome for you on your birthday. But I've seen two omnibuses go by, from the nursery window, and now there isn't another he can come by until his regular one at seven."

Tears rose in Charity's eyes, and Edwin came close to her.

"Come now, Miss Charity, you mustn't be sorrowful on your birthday," said nurse, smiling. "That will never do. Your papa would have come if he could, and as he wasn't able we must make the best of it. Come along and have tea with me, and by-and-by you shall look out for him again."

"It won't be the same—we shall hardly have any time with him," said Charity, mournfully, "at least, only our usual hour."

"I'll ask him to let you have another half-hour, Miss Charity. I'm going to tell you stories all tea-time, and seven o'clock will come before you know what you are about."

Charity felt ashamed of looking sorrowful any longer, when they were both so kind to her. With a great effort she shook off her dull, disappointed feeling, wiped away her tears, and taking Edwin's hand, ran into the dining-room, where tea was laid out. They had a merry meal all together, and when it was over they went out into the garden to water the flowers—nurse still telling stories—till Charity was quite startled to hear the clock strike seven.

But still no Mr. Mitchel came. The omnibus went by, and he was not in it. Even nurse began to look grave, though she still treated it lightly, and said he must have been detained by business. But poor little Charity's heart sank very low. She felt sure that no business of ordinary importance would keep him so late, especially when he had said he would be home early. It was no longer possible to keep up her spirits.

A quarter-past seven came—then half-past—then a quarter to eight—then eight—and still no Mr. Mitchel! The two children sat together in the window, gazing out into the street, Edwin holding his sister's hand, and Charity's tears dropping steadily. Nurse stood by them, watching no less anxiously. She had never known her master return so late before. What could be the reason?

"It is bed-time," she began, when the clock struck eight. "Miss Charity, don't you think you had better come upstairs, and I'll let you know the moment he is here?"

"Oh no, no! Not till I have seen him," said Charity, imploringly.

And for the first time little Edwin's eyes were full of tears.

"I never went to bed before without kissing him on my birthday. Please, please don't let us go till he comes."

Nurse did not mention the subject again for a while. She felt that it would be almost cruel. "What 'could' have kept him?" she asked herself again and again. But to find an answer was beyond her powers.

Neither of the children spoke, but they clung more closely together as the minutes crept by. Gradually the daylight faded away, and after a long silence they were startled by the sudden striking of the clock—nine distinct strokes. Nurse bent over Edwin, whose eyes were closing heavily.

"You mustn't sit up any longer, my dear," she said, gently. "Come, Master Edwin, something must have kept your papa in London. After all there's no reason why he shouldn't be sleeping there. Miss Charity, dear, I'll let you wait one more half-hour, and then you must go too."

Charity only shivered in answer. Edwin kissed her, and went away with nurse. Charity sat alone in the dim twilight, oppressed by a nameless dread.

"Oh, papa! Papa!" she murmured once or twice.

And then she tried to pray, but no words would come.

She felt dull and stupefied. And as the moments passed, and nurse did not return, she sank into a kind of heavy doze, with her head leaning against the window.

Suddenly she was roused to full consciousness by the opening of the hall-door, followed by confused sounds in the passage, a man's gruff voice, and a faint scream from nurse. Trembling, she raised herself, but did not move from her place. And after a few seconds of suspense there was the glare of a candle dazzling her eyes, and nurse standing by her side, looking, oh, so strange and pale!

Charity turned quite white herself, and tried to ask what was the matter, but the only word she could utter was, "Papa!"

"Miss Charity! Oh, my poor little darling!" And nurse clasped Charity tightly, in an agony of tears. "My poor, poor child!"

"Nurse, where's papa?" asked Charity, hoarsely.

But nurse only sobbed in answer, and Charity tried to disengage herself.

"Please let me go, nurse. I must see papa!"

"Not yet—not yet! Oh, how shall I tell you? Poor Miss Charity!—Poor Master Edwin! Who will take care of you now?"

"Nurse, is papa hurt?" asked Charity, quite steadily. "Please tell me."

Ah, poor nurse! No wonder she shrank from revealing the terrible truth—the sad, sad truth that Charity and Edwin were orphans. In crossing a crowded street Mr. Mitchel had been thrown down, the wheels of a heavy cart passing over him. And when he was taken up, life was almost gone. One murmured message of love for his little ones, and all was over.

Poor Charity! Poor Edwin! The stroke was indeed a fearful one. Charity was slow to understand what had happened, but nurse never forgot the wild cry of anguish with which the truth at length gained entrance to her mind.

CHARITY and Edwin had very few relatives. Their father had lost all his brothers and sisters in early life. There was only their mother's sister, who had for many years been married and settled in a distant part of England. She was written to at once about Mr. Mitchel's sad and unexpected death. And her husband, Mr. Hawke, at once travelled to London, to be present at the funeral, and to take his little niece and nephew home with him. Ill-health prevented Mrs. Hawke from coming with her husband.

Poor Charity! How she dreaded the first sight of her strange uncle! How she shrank from the first sound of his voice!

Nor was the first sight of him such as to cheer her. He was a tall, stout man, with a somewhat harsh face and sharp manner. He was not wanting in kindly feelings towards the little orphans, and he really wished to set them at their ease, but his quick loud voice terrified Edwin, and made Charity long for her father's gentle tones. Mr. Hawke had not intended to alarm them, but he did not know how to speak to shy, timid children. And they soon crept away from him to nurse, where they sobbed out their sorrows together.

"Oh, nurse, he isn't the very least like dear papa," said poor Charity.

"I wish, oh, I wish he had never come!"

"My dear, that isn't right," said nurse, tenderly. "He'll give you a home, and you ought to be very thankful for that. You'll be well taken care of—please God," she added, reverently.

"I don't like him—I can't go with him," said Edwin, clinging to her arm with fast-falling tears. "He speaks so loud;—oh, nursie, let us stay with you."

"So I would with all my heart, if I had a home to offer you," said nurse, fondly. "My poor little ones!" she added, sadly. "It's a bitter grief for you both. But there now, Miss Charity, don't you cry so. You'll be very happy in a little while with your cousins and your aunt. Why, she's your own mamma's sister."

"I shan't be happy—I can't without papa," sobbed Charity. "I shall never be happy again."

"That isn't what your dear papa would have liked you to say, Miss Charity. Don't you think he would wish you to be happy?" She stroked back the damp disordered hair from Charity's brow as she spoke. "I know it's very hard; I've gone through it all myself. But you mustn't forget that your dear papa is in heaven, with the Lord Jesus Christ. And you must try now to do the things that he would like, if he were still here."

Charity's head dropped sadly on nurse's knee.

"Ah, if I could!" she murmured. "But I will try—I will try."

"And may be, dear Miss Charity, you will find many things in your new home not like what we have here. Things won't go so smoothly, perhaps, and then you'll find it trying to the temper."

"My birthday text!" Charity interrupted with a sob. "Papa said I should want it more some day. Oh, I will try—I will try, nursie. But I do want papa so very, very much. Oh, if I had only known that morning that I should never see him again! Oh, papa—dear papa!" And throwing herself into nurse's arms, the poor child wept long and bitterly,—wept, till from very weariness her tears ceased to flow, and she fell asleep.

Two days after this the funeral took place, and the following day Mr. Hawke desired that speedy arrangements should be made for the return journey. Parting with nurse and leaving their old home was a great trial to both the children.

They paid a farewell visit to every spot in the garden, and every corner in the house. But Charity's pale cheeks, when it was over, made nurse doubt her own wisdom in allowing such a tour.

The last moment came, and patting kisses were somewhat roughly cut short by Mr. Hawke, who was in great fear of being late for the train, and also much dreaded tears. He did not take the best means to check them. Edwin looked only bewildered and distressed, but Charity sobbed all the way to the station, and long after she was seated in the quickly-moving train.

It was a melancholy journey to them both, of many hours' duration. Mr. Hawke spoke to them every now and then, and handed them plentiful supplies of buns and sandwiches, but otherwise he left them very much to themselves. At length the train stopped at a small country station, and Mr. Hawke started up, hurried them out on the platform, and secured their luggage. Then they went to the back of the station, where a small chaise was waiting. The two children were helped into the little back seat, Mr. Hawke took his place in front beside the driver, and in another moment they were trotting down a narrow green lane.

"How pretty!" Edwin whispered; and Charity nodded.

The fresh evening breeze, the bright rays of the setting sun, and the fair beauty of the country around, all combined to give her a feeling of quiet enjoyment, despite the weight of sorrow at her heart. Mr. Hawke looked back at them after awhile.

"So you like this, little ones?" he said in his blunt tones, which Charity was beginning to think less rough than she had at first imagined. "Worth a hundred of London streets!"

"It's prettier," said Charity, her throat swelling at any allusion to the old home.

"And you will like it better in every way before long, or I am much mistaken. Have you ever been in the country before?"

"Not country like this," said Edwin. "We've been often to the parks. And once we went to the sea-side."

"That's a different thing," said Mr. Hawke.

He turned away again as he spoke, and left them to themselves during the remainder of the drive.

Presently they drew near a small country house, and at the gate Charity could see a girl and two boys—the former seeming to be about her own age, and the latter, one older, one younger. They stood looking on as the chaise stopped, and the children were lifted down, till Mr. Hawke called out:—