Chapter IV: The Workhouse

"Oh! I am so glad, so thankful to have you with me!" cried Norah, as, after leaving the coach, she walked with Persis Meade up the road which led to the workhouse of B—. "It is not only that I should have been afraid, that I could not have come without a companion, but you know—" Norah dropped her voice, and spoke in a hesitating tone—"you know poor Sophy may want some one to give comfort to her, religious comfort I mean, and to tell her all the things that you used to tell me on Sunday before I went into service. I never could speak of religion to Sophy. I am often so grieved and ashamed when I think how much we were together, and there was never, never a word said that could help her to Heaven! All such foolish talk!" sighed Norah. "Once I had resolved to say something, it was after my Uncle Ned had shown me how dishonest it was for us to feast together in the kitchen at my mistress's expense. Oh how I had turned the matter over and over in my mind, and thought of reasons to give, and found texts! But as soon as I saw Sophy's laughing eyes, and heard her merry voice, all that I had prepared seemed at once to go out of my head, I could scarcely utter a word! I find it so dreadfully hard to speak about religion to those who don't feel as I do!"

"Yes, it is very hard indeed," said Persis.

"Do you think it so?" exclaimed Norah with surprise and something like pleasure; "I fancied that was only the case with stupid little cowards like me!"

"To speak of the Blessed Saviour to one of my own age and position, who is not likely to feel on such a subject like myself, is to me an effort which I dare never undertake without secret prayer. It is very different," continued Persis Meade, "from teaching a Bible-class on Sundays, where one sees one's self surrounded by dear little pupils. I have often, like you, dear Norah, bitterly reproached myself for silence, from the fear of man that bringeth a snare." *

* Prov. xxix. 25.

By this time Persis and Norah had reached the door of that great brick building, which to the younger, perhaps to both, appeared such a formidable place! Norah's heart beat faster as the stout porter gave them admittance, and she followed Persis into a paved courtyard, surrounded by buildings, in which, in their pauper dresses, several of the inmates were lounging about in the sunshine, talking to the friends who at that special time had permission to come and see them. Persis courteously addressed an old woman, and asked her if she happened to know where they could find Sophy Puller.

"Sophy Puller!" echoed the woman; "that's the girl as has cried herself blind! Why, she's of our ward, No. 5—you can see the number there on yon door;" and she pointed across the courtyard.

"Let's come to her quickly," said Norah, drawing on her companion with nervous haste. The little maid was relieved at having found her friend with so much less difficulty than she had expected, and was anxious to escape out of the yard, where there were too many strangers to let her feel at her ease, especially as some of them stared at her as she passed. Persis tapped softly at the dark green door on which was painted the No. 5, then lifted the latch and entered for the first time a ward in a workhouse.

The room was whitewashed, perfectly clean and neat, and a fire that burned brightly gave to it a certain look of comfort. There were six beds, perfectly alike, three on the right hand, three on the left, a deal-table between, with some medicine bottles upon it. There were but two inmates in the ward when the visitors entered; an old bed-ridden woman lying asleep in the farthest corner, and Sophy Puller, who, dressed in the workhouse garb of striped white and blue print, was seated on a bed near the door.

Norah Peele was shocked to see the change which a few months had wrought in her once gay young companion. Could this be she who used to walk down the street with so jaunty a step, and so flaunting an air, with pink roses in her bonnet, and flounces on her wide-spreading dress? Could this pale drooping girl, with her thin fingers clenched together, and her pinched features rigid with unutterable woe, be the gay giddy creature who had laughed at care, and only lived for pleasure? Could this blind, sickly pauper, be the same as the milliner's lively young girl, whose ambition was to be thought a lady, to attract notice, and win admiration?

"Oh, Sophy! my poor Sophy!" exclaimed Norah, bursting into tears, as she ran up to her unhappy friend, and threw her arms around her.

Sophy Puller shed no tear, though her bosom heaved with sob-like gasps as she returned Norah's embrace. The poor girl could not speak for several moments, and then she faultered forth in a broken voice, "It is so kind—so like you, Norah, to come and see me here!" Then suddenly drawing herself back from Norah, with a passionate gesture of anguish, the unhappy Sophy exclaimed, "Oh, if you but knew my misery—the darkness here—everywhere—no hope! no hope!" She threw herself down on her bed, and covered her face with her hands.

Norah could not reply, she was weeping; but soft and low sounded the voice of Persis, repeating one verse from the Psalm, "Why art thou cast down, Oh, my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? Hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise Him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God!" *

* Psalm xlii. 11.

"Who is that speaking?" asked Sophy, hastily, but without withdrawing her hands.

"My friend, Miss Meade—I have spoken to you of her—she was my Sunday-class teacher," replied Norah.

"She need not come here, speaking of hope to me; I've none—never will have!" cried Sophy, speaking rapidly, and in a tone of despair. "I know all she can say—I was at school once—I was confirmed—I cared nothing for that at the time; but I remember well enough now what was said to me then; such thoughts come, I can't keep them out, to make me more wretched in the darkness!" Sophy started up again to her former position, and her dimmed eyes seemed staring wildly into vacancy as she went on, rather as if muttering to herself than as if addressing her companions. "I was told of two paths, one narrow, and leading to Heaven, the other broad, and leading to destruction; I took the broad, and now 'tis too late to return! I chose mirth and folly, I chose selfishness and sin, I turned my back upon all that I knew to be right, I led others astray, I forgot my God, and now there's but one text in all the Bible that I can recall to mind, and it haunts me night and day;" and in a tone that thrilled through the listeners, Sophy repeated the Saviour's most solemn question—"What is a man profited if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul, or what shall a man gave in exchange for his soul?" *

* Matt. xvi. 26.

Persis saw that the miserable Sophy was at that moment in too excited a state to receive religious instruction; the gentle, sympathising woman could only silently pray for wisdom to be given to herself, that she might direct the sufferer to the one Hope provided for sinners, and that grace might be given to Sophy, so that her bitter remorse might be changed into true repentance. Norah was the first to break silence; seating herself on the bed close to Sophy, and taking her hand tenderly between both of her own, she said, "Tell me, if it will not make you more sad, something of what has happened since you and I last saw each other on that night in September."

The sudden turn in the conversation roused Sophy from her despair. Painful as were her recollections, it was a relief to her to pour out her sorrows into a sympathising ear, and even the past, sad, as it was, appeared less gloomy than the present, less terrible than the future! Persis quietly seated herself on the bed next to Sophy's and it is probable that the poor girl altogether forgot the presence of the stranger, as, leaning her head on Norah's shoulder, she began her tale of woe.