The first time I saw Amy was on a summer afternoon, when I went with my mother to pay a visit to some people who lived by the park. The house was pleasant and large and situated where there were shady woods of fine old oaks, and large ponds full of reeds and white water-lilies. As we were talking to the lady of the house a little girl came in, who had a round rosy face, and large grey eyes, that were both very dark and very bright. Her hair was cut short, like a boy's. She was dressed in a print frock, with a white pinafore. She seemed to be about six or seven years old. This was Amy. I often saw Amy after this, for her sister, who was ten years older, became a great friend of mine, and my little sister became a great friend of Amy's, and of her sister Fanny, who was a year or two older. Amy lived in the house with her sisters and mother but with no father. Amy had no father, and could never remember having a father.
But for some time I took little notice of Amy, because I was so much older than she was. At last I began to be very much interested in her. I don't know why one is more interested in the wild and mischievous children than in the steady ones. Perhaps you can find a reason for it. Amy's sister, Maria, used to call her the Wild Rose, and the tall, quiet, well-behaved Fanny, the White Lily. The Wild Rose would, in any other family, have been in constant scrapes, but Amy's mother liked her children to do as they pleased, and nobody asked Amy where she had been, or what she had been doing, when she drove the farm carts, or climbed on the roof of the gardener's cottage, and slid down into a haystack at the back. 'Did she do no lessons?' you say. Yes, sometimes, when she liked. And she did like some of her lessons, for she was very clever, and fond of reading, especially poetry. She was also very fond of arithmetic. So she managed to escape being altogether a dunce. But a time came, when Amy was about eight years old, that it was found needful to look after her a little more closely. My little sister was found one day taking a letter all alone to the post. The village in which we lived was about six miles distant from Amy's home, and the little girls often wrote to one another. My sister's letter was directed to Amy. It was, as far as I can remember, as follows:
'My dear Amy,
I will meet Fanny and the ponies in the road, as you told me, at four o'clock in the morning. It will be great fun to live in the wood.
I am, your affectionate
Carrie.'
What could this mean? Little Carrie thought it was best to tell the whole story.
Amy had long thought that to live in a house was far less pleasant than to live out of doors in a wood. She had, therefore, made up her mind to run away, and to live in the oak woods at the farther end of the large park. She considered that an unused boat, with a few wraps and cushions, would make a first-rate bed. As for food, Amy began, like a squirrel, to store up an ample provision. Every morning at breakfast she slipped one or two pieces of toast under her pinafore. She also managed, now and then, to stow away figs, raisins, almonds and biscuits. But the fun of living in the wood would be much greater if she had some friends to talk to. She, therefore, took Fanny, and her friend Carrie, into the secret; and they, too, had been for some time hoarding up toast and biscuits. As for drink, Amy assured them that she could climb in and out of the dairy window by night with the greatest ease, as she had practiced doing so; and she had provided herself with a large jug, which would hold milk enough for the whole party for a whole day.
All this being arranged, Amy had written to Carrie to say that she and Fanny would get the stable key, and harness the two little ponies in the middle of the night. Fanny would ride one and lead the other, and would arrive at a certain turn in the road in the village at four o'clock in the morning. There Carrie was to meet her, and return with her on the black pony to the oak wood, where Amy would be waiting to receive them, with the jug of milk and the store of toast. The ponies were to live with them in the wood. It was a great grief to Amy and to Carrie that this fine plan was knocked on the head. I rather think that it was a relief to Fanny to find that she was still to sleep in a comfortable bed, and have her pleasant schoolroom to live in, and her breakfast, dinner and tea at the right time and in the proper manner. After this Amy's mother kept an eye on her proceedings, but Amy was still allowed to do a great many things which other little girls would never dream of doing, or of wishing to do.
All this time I was only amused with Amy's antics, and I did not consider her very naughty. I remembered the time when I, too, would have liked to live in a wood and sleep in a boat. But a day came when I began to think that there was something worse about Amy than her wild ways, and doing things which she did not like her mother to know.
I ought to tell you that at that time I very seldom thought about the Lord Jesus Christ, for I grieve to say I had never believed in his great love to me, and therefore when I thought of him it was not with love but with fear, and of course one thinks as little as one can about anything which makes one afraid. So it did not make me unhappy to find that Amy knew nothing about the Lord Jesus, and never cared about him or wished to please him. But there was something that made me unhappy.
I was busy one summer's evening in my room, which was at the top of the tall house in which we lived. The window was shut at the bottom, but wide open at the top. Amy, who was then staying with us, and who very much wanted to be my friend, came into my room, but I was too busy to notice what she was about. At last, on looking round, I saw her standing on the narrow window-sill outside the window. She had climbed over the two sashes. As far as I can remember, I had enough sense left in my terrified mind not to speak, or to rush at her. I went very quietly and softly to the window, got on a chair, and before Amy was aware of it I had seized her firmly by the arms. I cannot tell you how I managed to drag her in, but I succeeded in doing so. Amy now flew at me in a fit of wild passion. She beat me, kicked me, and even bit me, and poured out a stream of bad names, and of such terrible bad language, as I had never heard before. Perhaps she had learnt it from the farm boys, with whom she drove in hay-carts.
I took her down into the garden, and at last sent her to have a run in the large paddock, that she might forget her anger. But I could not forget Amy's bad words, and the hatred, which she now seemed to feel for me, though I had perhaps saved her life.
It had been something quite new to her that anyone should interfere with her wishes, and she had been at the height of happiness when she stood on the window-sill, looking down on the tops of the trees in the garden below.
I found out other things, at this time, which convinced me that Amy was not merely wild, but a thoroughly naughty child. And yet there was still a charm about her. It was sad to think of the little Wild Rose as a wild bramble or a thistle.
Soon after this Amy's mother left England, and went to live in the beautiful valley of the Neckar, near Heidelberg, in Germany. So I saw no more of the Wild Rose, and heard no more of her for several long years.
During those years I began to find out something, which grieved and astonished me far more than Amy's naughtiness. I found out — or rather, God showed me — the wickedness of my own heart. I came to see that, though I had never said such bad words as Amy had said, I was still a bad, lost, helpless sinner. Was I as bad as Amy? Most likely I was much worse. I felt that I was too bad for God to love me and too helpless to make myself any better. I was, therefore, too unhappy to think much of anything else; for a time I forgot Amy, or, if I thought of her, I said to myself, 'I am worse than she is.'
I am thankful to tell you that God then showed me something more: something so wonderful, and so beautiful, and so sweet, that for a time I could scarcely think of anything else. He showed me that he loved me just as I was—bad and helpless! He showed me that the Lord Jesus had suffered on the cross the punishment of all my sins — of all, all my sins — so that nothing remained for which God would ever punish me. But the best part of this great message from God was not that there was no punishment for me; the best part was the reason why the Lord Jesus himself had been punished instead of me. Why had he died in agony upon the cross, with all my sins upon his head? It was because God the Father so loved me that he sent his Son to save me — me, wicked as I was. It was because God the Son so loved me that he delighted to do the will of God in dying for me. And God the Spirit brought this great message to my heart. I read it with my eyes in the Bible, but my heart saw it by the great power of the Spirit. He opens the blind eyes of the heart to see the love of God and the God of love. So now I became happy — I cannot tell you how happy. And then I thought again of the poor little Wild Rose, and I wondered whether she too would ever know the Lord Jesus and his wonderful love to sinners.
Soon after this, a friend who came from Germany, brought me some news of Amy. She was now thirteen years old. She had grown tall and slender, and had begun to study a great deal in her own way, chiefly languages and mathematics. She also liked to read anything about the ways and means for making poor people better off and happier.
Amy felt quite convinced, from all she read and from all she saw, that the misery and poverty of the poor was mostly caused by drink. Now I would not contradict anybody who, says that all kinds of misery and wretchedness are caused by drink. But we must think further: what is it that causes the drink? If you had a fever and lost your senses, and did harm to people, we ought to try to find out not only how the fever can be cured, but how the thing can be cured that causes the fever. Perhaps there is some well of bad, dirty water about the place which makes people have fevers?
It is true that there is something in you and in me, and in all men, women and children, which is like a well of bad water. To some people it gives the fever of drunkenness, to some of selfishness, to some of spite and bad temper. And if that well could be stopped, the drunkenness and spite and bad temper would be at an end. Do you know what I mean? Out of the evil heart come all the evil ways.
But Amy did not understand this. She was not concerned about the evil hearts of the poor drunkards around her, but she was very sorry for their rags and their misery, and for their ragged, starving wives and children. That was right, but it was only a small part of the matter.
Amy did not end, as most people do, in being sorry for drunkards. She determined that she at least would do something to cure them of drinking. She, therefore, made acquaintance with as many of the men and boys in the villages round Heidelberg as she could possibly get at. She talked to them in a friendly way, and did any little kindness for them that she was able to do. Everyone liked Amy, and these men and boys became devoted to her. Then Amy began little by little to talk to them about the drink, and to get them to promise not to go to the beer and wine shops.
Every day she would set off with a large dog, and walk through the villages within a few miles of her home. She would stop at every beershop and look in the door, or watch the people who came to drink at the little tables under the shady trees outside. If she saw any of the people that she knew, she would walk boldly up to them and say, 'Karl' or 'Fritz,' `you know quite well you have no business here: and I shall wait for you till you come home. But I am sure you will come home at once, to please me.' Then Karl or Fritz would get up and look rather silly and walk away. Once or twice boys who met her in her walks would try to be rude, but the great dog soon settled that matter, and sent them flying over the hedges and ditches, though Amy would never allow him to really hurt them. His great bark was enough.
When Amy was fourteen her mother came back to England; but it was not to their old home. It was in fact a long way off, so I did not see Amy for some time. Her new home was about a mile from Bath, on the beautiful hills near Avon. There were woods round the house, to which poachers used to come as soon as it was getting dark. Amy's brothers were not often at home, and her eldest sister had married in Germany, so now only Amy and Fanny were left. Amy considered herself the protector of her mother and sister. She was not one of those girls who liked to talk schoolboy slang, and behave like boys; but at the same time she had learnt to do most things that boys can do, in case it should be of use to her to know how to do them. She could harness a horse and load and fire a gun, but few people would have remarked that she was anything but a quiet, grave girl, fond of books and of her own company.
One evening, when everybody was out, she observed some men in the woods, and felt sure they were poachers. She followed them and found that she had not wrongly suspected them.
`You have no business here,' she said, 'and the sooner you are off the premises the better for you.'
The men were amazed, and one of them in fun pointed this gun at her.
'I can pull a trigger as well as you,' said Amy, coolly, 'and I strongly advise you to be off.'
The men thought it best to take her advice; and, having seen them safely over the park railings, she returned home.
Soon after this, she was sitting alone in her little study; her mother had given her a little room upstairs, where she might learn mathematics without being disturbed.
It was a hot summer's night, about ten o'clock, and the window, which looked out on a balcony over the garden, was wide open. It was Amy's habit to study all the evening, and she was always allowed to do just as she pleased about this and everything else. On this evening Amy was roused from her studies by the sound of two voices in the garden. One was a man's voice, loud and gruff; the other was a woman's voice, upset and crying. Amy went out on the balcony; nothing was to be seen but the black masses of the trees, for the night was very dark. The voices became louder. In a moment Amy had climbed the railing of the balcony, and, by the aid of the creepers, had let herself down into the garden below. She went across the lawn, in the direction of the voices. A white object was to be seen by the light of the stars near the little side gate, which led into the road. Amy went straight up to this white figure, which proved to be one of the maids in her light print gown; she was crying bitterly. A man, who was standing in the road, moved away as Amy came up, and went down the hill towards Bath.
'Who is that?' enquired Amy.
`It is my father, Miss,' said the maid; 'and oh, Miss, he's not fit to go home by himself, for he's been drinking, and he can't walk steady, and he'll have to go all along the narrow path by the side of the river. He lives in Avon Street, Miss, and he'll have a mite to go in the dark.'
`But you ought to go with him,' said Amy. 'Run after him as fast as you can and take him home, and come back tomorrow morning; I will tell my mother where you are gone.'
`Oh no, Miss,' said the maid; 'you don't know what father's like when he's had the drink! None of my family dares to go near him. He'd knock me down and half kill me. But oh! Father will be drowned! And what am I to do?'
`Will you go?' repeated Amy.
`No, Miss—I dare not. I couldn't go near him, Miss.' `Then I must go,' said Amy, and in a moment she had disappeared in the darkness down the hill.
She soon overtook the man, to whom she said, `John, I am going to walk home with you. So come on, and let me walk this side of you, next to the river. And now, John, walk as steadily as you can.'
John growled, but made no further objection. Several times he reeled half-over, but Amy managed to keep him on his legs, and in course of time they arrived at the door of his wretched house in Avon Street.
Till now the man had not spoken a word, but the sight of his wife and children through the open door seemed to suddenly rouse him into fury. He sprang into the room with a shout of rage. The poor woman, with the screaming children, fled into the farthest corner of the room, and cowered down on the floor in the darkness. The man seized a chair, the only one in the room, and hurled it after them. The chair struck the wall, and fell to the ground in splinters, but none of them were hurt.
`Go up to bed,' said Amy to the woman; 'take the children with you, and leave him to me.'
The woman obeyed, and speedily vanished up the ladder staircase.
Amy took the man by both hands and said, 'Sit down, John.' She looked round for a chair, but as there was none, she said, 'Sit on the table, and I will tell you something.'
The man sat down, looking dazed and helpless. Amy sat by him, still holding his hands.
'I will tell you a story,' she said.
The man listened, with a puzzled stare at Amy's face. Every now and then he sprang up. Then Amy said, `No, John, I have not done; sit down again.' And the man obeyed.
Somehow people felt they must obey Amy. She spoke so quietly and firmly, and she looked so kind and friendly all the time.
Two hours passed. The man now seemed quiet, and in possession of his senses.
‘Can I trust you to go up to bed?' said Amy.
'Yes, Miss.'
`Will you promise me to go up quietly, not to speak a word, and not to do anything to disturb your wife or your children?'
`Yes , Miss.'
'Now remember, you have promised me this, I think I may trust you. I will stay down here till you are safe in bed; then you may call out and I will go upstairs and wish you 'Good night,' and see that you are all right. Be as quick as you can.'
John went up the ladder. By-and-by he called out, 'All right, Miss.'
Amy went up to the bedroom door, and saw that all was quiet. 'Good night, John,' she said; 'go to sleep, and be kind to your wife and children tomorrow morning.'
At this moment two servants arrived. Amy had been missed and the maid had told them where she was. So her strange expedition had been discovered, and she was brought home safely.
I do not think that Amy is to be considered an example for other girls, either in the affair of the poachers, or in that of the tipsy man. But it proved to be well for her in later years that she had accustomed herself to have no fear of rough, wild people. God, who sees the end from the beginning, often allows us, whilst we are still far from him, to learn in all sorts of strange ways the things which will help us later on for the work he means us to do. And one day Amy would have to be with wild people, more dangerous than the poachers or the drunkards she was with in Germany and in England.
Soon after this, Amy came back to her old neighborhood, though not to the house with oak woods and the ponds of water-lilies. It was to a house near the old one, with a large, beautiful garden. And there, in the shady seats and arbors, she worked hard at her studies.
I then saw her again; she was still full of plans for making drunken people sober, and also for making dirty people clean. This last plan seemed to be her chief thought. If only, she thought, a number of rich people in the neighborhood would join together, to supply the poorest people with soap and sponges, brushes and combs, baths and towels, a great deal of illness would be prevented, and children would more often grow up strong and healthy. Amy asked me to come on certain days to talk over these plans. She also invited a poor woman, who know how things could be managed in small cottages, and who could tell how much of these great plans it would be at all possible to carry out. I do not think, however, much was done after all, except that Amy gave away great numbers of tracts about health and cleanliness.
I liked to show her that I was willing to help her in these plans for people's bodies; for I thought if I did, I might get her to listen to something about their souls and about her own. Amy did not hide from me that she had no belief in the Bible herself. She did not think it mattered at all what anybody believed. She had been brought up to think that everyone ought to be free to choose what religion they liked best, and that as different people believed different things, it was impossible to find out what was the right belief. Therefore, Amy thought, it is best not to trouble oneself at all about what people believe, but do all one can to make them happy and comfortable. This, she thought, was wise and sensible. We had long talks on these subjects, and it was then that I found out why Amy denied herself and wore very cheap clothes, and went to very few amusements.
`Suppose,' she said, 'I were starving, and had no blankets and no fire, do you think it would be sensible for me, if I got a little money, to spend it in ornaments or lace, or concert tickets? Ought I not to buy coals and food? Now, does it really matter more that I should have coals and food, than that other people should have them? Of course it does not. So now, if I have more money than I want for clothes and food, would it be sensible for me to buy finery, or concert tickets, when other people close by are starving and cold? Ought I not to buy clothes and food for them?'
I could not find fault with Amy's reasoning; but when I began to speak of their souls, and of the great eternity towards which all were travelling, she gave me to understand that she thought people very foolish who troubled themselves about those matters.
'God is very kind,' she said, 'and he is sure to make everyone happy at last.'
This seemed to be to her an excuse for forgetting him now, and for living as though he were only a fable. Amy had never known that God must be just as well as kind, and that sin can never be to him a matter of indifference. She reckoned that God thought lightly of sin as men do, even more so. It certainly did not trouble her that she was a sinner.
However, suddenly a great change came in Amy's way of thinking. All at once it seemed to dawn upon her mind that sin is to the soul a far greater evil than dirt is to the body. She had begun to read the Bible, which she found at first to be only a beautiful and interesting book. But the entrance of God's word giveth light—it giveth understanding to the simple. It was from reading the Bible that she began to feel the exceeding sinfulness of sin, and to see that if there is a God who is good and just, he must hate that which is evil.
So now, perhaps, you will think Amy began to care more for the sin of her neighbors than for their dirt and misery. But I think the truth was that when Amy's eyes were opened, it was not the sin of her neighbors but her own sin that filled her with fear and sorrow. She saw that while she had been pitying the drunkards and the selfish, she had been no better than they were in the eyes of God. She had been looking out, like the lawyer in the 10th chapter of Luke, for the neighbor to whom she could do good, and it had never struck her that what she needed was a neighbor who could do good to her. She had not known she was like the man who fell among thieves, who was helpless and penniless. The plain truth of the matter was she needed to be saved from her sins before she could do anything pleasing to God. But how was she to be saved? Would all her work for the poor save her? No. She saw that if a servant has done wrong to his master, no kindness to his fellow-servants will make up for that. It is his master who has to be satisfied about his conduct. Would her prayers save her? Perhaps they might, she thought. But how could she know that they would? And after all, why should God pass over her sin just because she wished him to do so? Would that be justice?
Amy said little about her great unhappiness, but she became more miserable each day. She was now very willing that we should read the Bible together. She seemed to listen for her life, but would seldom make any remark. It was difficult to know what to say to her, as at the time one could not know her thoughts and feelings.
One day she looked more than usually miserable. We had both been taken by a friend for a long drive. Amy, who had formerly been so bright and cheerful, scarcely spoke a word. The next morning I had a letter from her. It had been written in the evening after the drive. She told me that she was now, for the first time in her life, really and perfectly happy. She said that for weeks past she had been without hope and comfort. She had seen her whole past life to be but one great sin, for she had been living without God, and had seen no beauty in Christ that she should desire him. All her plans for the poor and drunkards had only been plans for trying to make them happy and comfortable without God. Each day she had seen more clearly that she was one of the chief of sinners.
`And today,' she said, 'I felt that I could do nothing but tell him how wicked, how hopeless I was, and confess my whole life to him as nothing but sin and foolishness. And then he showed me the door of hope; he showed me that Jesus had borne my sins in his own body on the cross and that they were all gone—gone for ever from the sight of God, and that I am whiter than snow, washed in his blood, and saved for evermore.'
These were, as far as I can remember them, the words of Amy's letter.